by Sara Alexi
'Is this your “real” music?' he asks with half a crooked smile.
'Ah, he is trying. Just earning a living with variations,' Sakis defends. But as he listens, the clarinettist’s skill becomes more apparent and he locks eyes with Jules.
'You see,' Jules says. 'He has just as much talent as you in his playing, but it was not he who won. It was you.'
Sakis frowns, not understanding the point.
'Maybe it is not the skill that makes people winner or famous. Maybe it is luck, or maybe,' and he smiles softly before he says this, 'it’s your looks and because you are likeable.'
Sakis feels flattered by these words but also insulted, as if his musical skill were not enough.
'You cannot exclude that it might have been you character that got you chosen to, how you say, play for your country.'
'The word is “represent,”’ Sakis says under his breath.
'Yes, it may be that you represent your country because you are thoughtful and kind and always on the alert to other peoples’ feelings. That is our default, you and I. To be on alert for other peoples’ feelings. That is what happens if a child is sent into the world on its own too young. It is a necessary skill to ensure its survival.'
Sakis tries to think of something to say, but nothing comes that he can use to change the path of the conversation.
'And it is important that someone kind and thoughtful won, because it is the people who win through history who write the history books. It is the people who are noticed that dictate the music that becomes “traditional.” In this light, we can see that the traditional music that you are so passionate about is, maybe, not the music of the people but the music of the successful.'
'Why are you saying this?'
'The receptionist says there was a call from Andreas.'
'Oh, okay. I will go and call him.' Sakis turns to go back the way he has come, but stops and turns again to Jules. 'But what has what you just said got to do with that?'
'Call him,' Jules says and begins an idle walk back to the beach bar, where the bartender is still leaning over towards the seat Jules left, as if waiting for him to return. Sakis goes inside.
The girl in reception speaks English without an accent. She says he can either use the phone at reception or the one in his room. When he points to the reception phone, the girl, whose name tag says she is called Ellie, not only offers him the phone but also pushes her wheeled chair around to the side of the counter so he can sit in comfort.
'Hi Andreas, how is it going?'
'Hey hey, how is the winner!' Andreas seems full of energy and life after Jules and the laid-back feeling of the village hotel. Sakis feels tired just hearing his voice.
'My throat is better but I still feel tired.' It is a relief to speak Greek after all the English he has been speaking with Jules. He hasn’t realised what hard work it is to think in English.
'That’s good that your throat is better. Now, there is good news and not-so-good news.'
'Tell me!' Sakis sits up straight.
'Well, the not-so-good news is just temporary. Difficult, but temporary.'
'Just tell me.'
'Okay. I went to get some of your older photograph albums from your apartment, to use in the press releases, and your landlord informs me that you are two months overdue with the rent. I did try to argue with him but I am afraid he was adamant and he has packed all your things and moved you out. He wants his rent.'
'Did you pay him?' Sweat runs down from his temple.
'Well, here’s the thing, Sakis. We have not actually made any money yet. I’ve been given bits and pieces for the videos of your interviews but that has gone on to re-editing some of your older interviews and various press material. Until you appear live somewhere, there’s not much cash to be had. I have managed to keep things going and you are still big news, but the sooner you are back in action, the better.'
A deep heat sweeps across Sakis' forehead and then he feels cold. His flat is gone. He own musical sanctuary is no longer his. Oh my God. He no longer has a place to call his own! And what about the cats?
'So listen, this is what I have done.’ Andreas talks quickly, not giving him time to speak. 'The boxes of your things that the landlord packed for you, I have put into my apothiki, where they can stay as long as it is necessary. But your cats were the problem. The cheapest solution I could find was to put them in their box and pop them on a train to go down to you in Saros. The hotel has agreed to pick them up for you. They should arrive later today.'
'I cannot have Harris and Eleftheria here in the hotel. Surely the hotel owner will forbid it. You cannot put them on a train; they will be terrified.' His throat is so dry now.
'I kind of knew that but I had no choice, Sakis. Where else would they go? Anyway, it’s done. They are already on the train.'
Sakis’ forehead feels clammy. Maybe he should have taken this call in his room after all, where at least he could lie down whilst speaking.
'The hotel owner has agreed to this?'
'Well, as I said, this is just a temporary problem. Once we get to America, we will be rolling in money. But meanwhile, you must have some relatives you can stay with down there.'
'Is there money to pay the hotel?'
'No, no, you are fine. Well, for tonight anyway. I called Stella, the hotel owner, and had a long chat with her. Such a nice lady, and I have paid half tonight’s tariff already, and she says the cats are fine for the one night. You must have someone down there that you can stay with. After all, your family is from there, right?'
The receptionist is looking at him and frowning. She hurries through the arch to the courtyard where he and Jules had their breakfast and returns quickly with a glass of water.
As the liquid rushes down his throat, he feels such gratitude.
'Thank you.' He looks her in the face.
'You are welcome.' Andreas sounds full of energy again down the phone.
'Not you, Andreas.' He almost swears down the phone. 'Where am I to sleep tomorrow night?'
'Didn't your yiayia leave you her house? I’m sure you said something like that once. So if all else fails, you can stay there, no?'
'Yiayia's house? It is a village-style cottage and it has stood empty for the last fifteen years. The roof will have fallen in by now. Good God Andreas, you are my manager. You are meant to manage things. What kind of management is this?' As his voice raises, the sourness in his throat returns.
'Look, just stay there another couple of days because now I tell you the good news! That music label that wants you over in America, well I am negotiating with them to pay our tickets to get over. They are almost in agreement. Brilliant, eh? This time next week? You'll be good by then, right? Because they are lining up interviews on American TV. But until I have the tickets in my hand, stay there where you can live rent free in your yiayia’s house. Because, and let’s be honest, I can hear by the rough edge in your voice you are not ready to come to Athens for round after round of back-to-back interviews, are you?'
'Look, if that is what I have to do, then that is what I will do.'
Andreas sighs.
'Sakis, my friend. If you come up to Athens and do the interviews, sure we will have a little cash, but if it pushes your recovery back and that makes the American deal fall through, then we will have lost the big time. You want to lose the big time? Do you want to just be a big fish in the little pond in Greece or do you want to hit the really big time? New York my friend, New York!'
Sakis’ eyes are closed. The throbbing in his head is fuzzing his thinking. What he needs is to lie down.
'Sakis, you still there?'
'Yes.' He sounds weary even to himself.
'Excuse me, are you Sakis in room 24?' A bellboy in an oversized suit piped in red approaches the reception desk.
'Yes.' Sakis needs all his strength just to speak now.
'I have a delivery for you. Sign here please.' A mewing sound can be heard as a board with an official paper is sho
ved under his nose, and he signs to take delivery of Harris and Eleftheria. The poor things are shaking, huddled together at the back of the cat box. They must be terrified.
'Sakis, Sakis you there?'
'Yes, Andreas, I am here. So are Harris and Eleftheria, both of whom are terrified.'
'Okay, well, stay there then and I will call you in a couple of days to tell you I have the ticket for New York City.' He can hear Andreas smiling as he says the American capital’s name.
Saying goodbye is not worth the effort so he hands the phone back to Ellie, who hangs up for him. He manages to stand by steadying himself on the reception counter and with sliding feet, he makes his way back to his hotel room and all but falls onto the bed. The bellboy puts the cat carrier beside the bed and closes the door on his way out.
He sleeps solidly and only wakes when Harris begins to cry piteously the following morning. She either needs to go to the toilet or she needs feeding. Slipping into his jeans, he definitely feels a little better today. Which is just as well, as he has to find somewhere to stay. There is a note under the door.
'Maybe this is useful.'
Out in the corridor is a cat litter tray and a tin of cat food and another note in Greek.
'Ask at reception if you need anything else. Stella.'
Well, that's a kind start to the day at least.
He takes everything inside and after shutting the door and checking the patio window, he lets the cats out. Jules is in his narrow bed by the small bathroom and is snoring gently. Harris is very happy to be free and she sniffs around the cat litter tray before making very aromatic use of it. Eleftheria goes straight to the cup of water he has put down.
'God almighty, what is that smell?' Jules murmurs as he turns over. He opens his eyes long enough to make out the cats and the tray and then closes them again and pulls the thin cover over his head and turns to face the wall.
'Man, that’s bad!' he groans.
After the cats have both eaten and drunk and used the tray, Sakis, sadly, puts them back in the tiny carrier. He has to open a window, the smell is so bad.
'Put it down the toilet, Sakis.' Jules turns back to face him again, throwing his covers off and stretching noisily.
Sakis lifts the tray. He cannot pour all the litter down the toilet; it will block. Perhaps if he fishes bits out with a wad of tissue.
'Oh man, that smells disgusting.'
'You know what, Jules? I don't need to hear this.'
Jules stops stretching and seems genuinely shocked. Then his high eyebrows relax and his face takes on a look of compassion.
'Ah, you spoke to Andreas last night.'
'How much did he say to you yesterday when I was sleeping?'
'Well, it was not what he said, really. More his tone of voice.'
'We need to find somewhere else to stay.' Sakis flushes the toilet and puts the tray by the window.
'You’re joking?'
'I wish. He suggested that we go and stay in my yiayia's house.'
'Okay.' Jules pulls on his t-shirt. His jeans are scrunched from being slept in.
'How much money do you have? We will still need to eat.'
'Nothing, my friend. You?'
Sakis checks a compartment in his bouzouki case. 'Eighty euros.' He stuffs his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans. 'And some change. So we can either stay here another night, or we can eat for maybe three or four days.'
'What about America?' Jules sits on his bed and pushes a finger through the cat carrier’s mesh to stroke Harris' nose.
'He says he will know in a day or two. I’m sorry, Jules. I know you were counting on Andrea and me to open doors for you. Right now, I would not be surprised if Andreas doesn't blow all our rides, as the Americans say.' His choice of cliché is meant to make them both smile, but neither of them does.
'Okay.' Jules wraps his finger around the cat’s ear and pulls gently, and she turns her head to one side in bliss. 'Right.' He stands with energy. 'Let’s go. We do not have to check out till eleven is it, or twelve, so leave the cats here and we can see if your grandmother’s house is still standing, right?'
The net curtains at the windows cannot hold back the sun and the day’s heat is already building in the room.
'Best put the cats in the bathroom. It will be coolest in there.' Jules picks up the basket.
The Village
The fluorescent pink shock of bougainvillea almost completely obscures the windows. In contrast, the tightly closed shutters sing out in blue peeling paint. In the surrounding walls of greying whitewash, brave plants struggle for footholds in the cracked surface, dried out in the full glare of the sun’s heat. Pushing aside vine leaves, Sakis curls his fingers around the heat-warped edge of one of the shutters, but it is soon clear that no amount of pulling is going to open them. The front door has boards nailed across, so he tries round the back. The old wood looks as if it had moulded into the frame. Grass grows out of the decomposing wooden doorstep, still green in the shade it has found.
Sakis wipes his handkerchief across his sweating brow. His embroidered initials pucker the silk and break up the smoothing feel, and somewhere deep within him, an edge of annoyance stirs. The affluent display of his monogram dilutes the practically of the article. For the price of this hanky, which Andreas bought him as a gift just before the competition, he could have stayed another night in the hotel. How quickly things change.
'Someone must have a key.' Jules has not moved from the gate.
'Hang on. There is a shutter that is only held closed by the stone on the windowsill here.' He does not want to ask around to see who has the key. How soon would that result in him being recognised as The Son of Costas the Crocodile Killer? Too soon, that’s for sure. No, if he can get in on his own terms, that would be best.
'The window will be shut, though.' Jules takes a cigarette from behind his ear and strikes a match on the gatepost.
Sakis lifts the stone off the sill and is not entirely surprised to find a key.
'There's a key,' he calls out but wishes he hadn't. It feels as if he has swallowed razor blades. His throat seems to have got worse again since talking to Andreas.
Jules folds his long arms across his stomach. Sakis thought he would have been enthusiastic about this sort of work. When he lived on the streets, he must have found his way into many a building for a good night’s sleep. If he helped, they would probably get inside within minutes. But he does not seem interested. He is looking down the street at something. Sakis follows his gaze and watches a black cat slowly crossing the deserted road to another single-storey whitewashed cottage. The houses vary: some are squat cottages that give the appearance that they have been settling into the soil forever, and others are two-storey concrete buildings with wide balconies festooned with colourful plants and arched with bougainvillaea. Then there are the occasional old stone houses, bereft of their plaster and whitewash finish, windows and doors hanging at odd angles or gone completely. Hollow, lifeless eyes and gaping mouths sing of past, simpler times. They sit in untended grounds where chickens scratch in the dust. In the shade of a dark doorway, a donkey shuffles gently, its neck bowed and eyes closed in the heat.
Jules leans against the gatepost, the elbow of one arm resting on the wrist of the other, and feeds himself nicotine. Sakis wonders why he doesn’t quit. He seems so practical and down to earth in so many ways, it is at odds with his character that he is conned by something so destructive
The key fits in the back door and turns easily. The door is stiff and resists Sakis’ shoving it. He will have to really put his shoulder to it. It moves only slightly, with a sound of splintering wood, and now his shoulder throbs.
'Yes? Can I help you?'
The voice comes from behind him. At first, he sees no one but then from around the back of the neighbouring house, hitching his trousers over narrow hips with one hand, saunters a man holding a watering can.
'I just wanted to go in and look.' Sakis brushes dust from his should
er.
'Ah, the curiosity of youth,' the man replies. 'But it's not for sale.' Sakis can feel the old man’s pale watery eyes take him in at a glance and then, with a quick sideways glance, he absorbs the portrait Jules cuts by the gate. Even through his own eyes, they look like city people rather than villagers. A smile teases at the crinkled corners of the old man’s mouth. 'Now if you want to buy something…' The old man steps to one side and raises his watering can to indicate the house he stands beside. There is no for sale sign and the place looks rather uncared for.
'Are you selling?' Sakis asks. It is more polite conversation than a real question.
The old man names an unreasonable figure and then chuckles. 'Everything is for sale at the right price, eh my friend?'
Turning back to the immovable back door, Sakis braces himself to give it one more really hard shove.
'I am going to have to stop you there, my friend.' The watering can is put down, the sleeves are pushed up. Jules grinds out his cigarette and exhales the last of the smoke, straightens himself, and looks ready to deal with any trouble.
'Perhaps it is no business of yours.' Sakis does not say it with any venom. It is just a flat statement.
'Now, now, friend. We do not come to Athens and try to break into your houses. You would consider that unreasonable.'
'To be honest, I would consider my neighbour’s business none of my own.' Again, no venom, pleasantly said, no antagonism. His eyes feel like they want to close; his throat is feeling sore again. He should stop talking.
'And that is the difference between city life and village life, perhaps. Here I keep an eye on it for the owner. Now lock the door and put the key back.'
It is not a request, it is a statement.
'He is the owner,' Jules says, stepping towards them.
Why did Jules have to say that? Sakis sees the rest of how he planned his days instantly evaporate, the chance of returning to the hotel and taking a nap gone. At least for the next few hours, the need to rest his voice will be given very little consideration. He blinks slowly as he seeks some inner strength for what is to come.