by Sara Alexi
The old man looks him over again and his shoulders drop in recognition. A smile splits his face and sets his eyes dancing. Sakis knows he will not be able to maintain his distance, he will be pulled in by the old man’s animation, by his happiness, and Sakis will respond by doing whatever it takes to keep the smiles from fading. He is always driven to please others, it seems. He tries to be selfish, think of his own needs, but once he has pleased someone else, it is like an internal urge to keep them pleased. It is his nature, and what he is good at. He is so good at it that it has, bizarrely, become his career. After all, was he not chosen over others to perform in the competition because he ingratiated himself to the committee? He flirted slightly with the ladies who responded quickly to his looks, and he took on the role of the alpha male, as they call it, with the men. His desire to please and be accepted is at the very core of his music. He sings of days gone by when the world was smaller and people took care of each other. He writes the jolly melodies that people love to sing along to. But once in a while, like now for instance, it would be really good to know how to be selfish. He needs to put the recovery of his voice first so he can fulfil his New York obligations at the end of the summer.
'Sakis? I thought you seemed familiar!' The old man steps up to the low wall that separates the two gardens and offers his hand. 'Ah, look at you all grown! I still think of you as this high, singing to the tortoises. Do you remember?' The pitch of his voice has risen. A white-haired lady in a housecoat appears behind him, wiping her hands on a tea towel.
'Who's this? Sakis?' the woman asks.
He nods. The smell of smoke tells him that Jules has lit up another cigarette and that he is now standing closer behind him.
'Ah my boy.' The old woman grabs Sakis over the wall and clinches him in a bear hug that has more strength than he expects.
'Lovely to meet you, but I’m afraid we really need to go,' Sakis says, but not very loudly, over the woman’s shoulder. The hug has not finished and now the old man is patting him on the back at the same time. A second, younger man, about his own age, comes out of the house.
'No! Sakis!' this newcomer shouts, and as his mama, or is it his yiayia, releases her grip, he pulls Sakis in for his own hug.
‘Anna!' the old woman calls across the street. 'Anna!' she calls again and in the house opposite, a front shutter opens, a flash of the sun’s rays reflecting off the window, orange and startling. 'It’s Sakis, Costas’ son.' The window is closed again and, in less than a minute, the neighbour is padding across the road in lime green fluffy slippers.
He has been here less than a minute and already he is named as his baba's son.
‘Katerina!' The woman in fluffy slippers squawks as she rolls towards them. The shutters in the house next to hers open, eyes flash, a nose catches a ray of sun, and then the window bangs closed again and a thin lady in a shabby housecoat hurries with quick birdlike movements towards them.
Everyone is talking at once, all trying to hug him, shake his hand, pat his back. Their warmth takes him by surprise but then again, it doesn't. His memories of living with his yiayia when he was a boy are full of feelings of being loved, cherished, and accepted. But most importantly of all, those first few years before his baba killed the crocodile, he was his own person, little Sakis, with nothing to prove and no pressure to impress. Blissful days.
The neighbour’s wife must have gone in the house, as she comes out again with glasses of water on a tray.
'Hold this, Thanasi,' she orders the man so she can wipe over the garden table before she arranges glasses and water jug on its sun-blistered surface. She invites everyone to sit down, pushing a cat off one of the padded seats, then scuttles inside to bring more chairs.
'He used to line the tortoises up and sing to them, do you remember, sister?' Thanasis is telling the group and addresses the woman as she returns with a folding chair. In the back of his mind, Sakis makes a mental note that they are siblings, not man and wife. In his mind’s eye, he recalls the memory of the tortoises that he had all but forgotten. Now it comes back as if it was yesterday. He had his favourite faded, red shorts on, no shoes, no shirt. It was the day after his yiayia had cut his hair and he was still finding snippets and strands in his ears. Yiayia was sitting on her wooden chair, shelling peas under the wisteria that smelt so sweet and hummed with bees as he tried to teach the tortoises to sing in harmony, turn them into a choir. He sang each part to them in turn in the thin strains of his four-year-old voice and encouraged them to copy, acting as choirmaster.
'Who would have thought, the son of Costas the crocodile killer, back here,' the old woman says. What was her name? Thanasis and… Thanasis, her brother who never married, didn't he breed donkeys? Yes, that’s right, and his sister, who also never married. Dora! Yes, sweet Dora. Who, if his memory serves him correctly, made those red shorts for him on her pedal-powered sewing machine. How that treadle fascinated him as a boy.
'Ah Costas, he was some man! You dive like your baba, Sakis?' the woman with green fluffy slippers asks. He has no idea what her name is and does not remember her at all.
'No, Anna, he sings. Have you not seen him?' the bird-like lady says. Sakis smiles. The bird woman, what had the lady in fluffy slippers called her? Katerina, was it? Well whatever her name is, she recognises him and he immediately likes her. He opens his mouth to tell Katerina of his career, his unexpected win, when a deep voice speaks out.
'Sakis, you are a man now, eh! Not as tall as your baba, but all man now, eh?' The face is vaguely familiar. Thanasis takes a glass of water and pours the content into a pot brimming over with flowering geraniums. He refills it from a bottle of ouzo that has appeared from nowhere.
'It’s good to see you.' Yorgos has broken away from chatting with Jules and he places a firm grip on Sakis’ shoulder. They used to play together as children. Yorgos was Dora's nephew or godson, or something like that. Yiayia would have them sit side by side at her kitchen table, a glass of milk each, her home-baked biscuits piled on a plate in front of them as she sewed. The fire would cough smoke back into the room in the winter. In the summer, the house would smell of the incense she burnt for her dead husband, another smell for her dead parents, one for the saints.
The number of people around him grows, the name Costas on everyone's lips. Once or twice, someone mentions that he sings, but mostly tales are told again of his baba's boat trip in crocodile country. The slashing of the crocodile’s neck becomes a split from throat to tail. The crocodile grows in size, the boat shrinks, the number of people saved increases, and hearty slaps on Sakis’ back reduce him into being Costa's son once more.
There are so many people and so much fuss is being made that Sakis does not see the barbecue being lit. Nor does he notice women running back and forth to their houses, bringing meat to grill and wine to drink. Yorgos is over by a hydrangea bush offering a cigarette to Jules, who takes two and puts one in his mouth and one behind his ear. Something Jules has said has amused him and he is laughing heartily as he offers a light. The women fuss over Sakis, bring their daughters who are too old to be at school and too young to be married to stand shyly around the congregation’s edge. More tales of his baba are told, some of which are new to him.
'Hey, you remember when he carried Theo's baba all the way back from Saros over his shoulder after a heavy drinking session?' Anna of the green fluffy slippers says and laughs as she holds out her glass to Thanasis for more ouzo.
'Ha, yes, and then there was the time he lifted a donkey for a bet and the donkey emptied its bowels,' Thanasis counters, and this is met with much laughter.
'What about the time he walked to Epidavros to see his sick uncle, what was his name, when his car was not working?' bird-like Katerina says. The response to this includes serious nods and murmurs and someone hands her a small glass of pale red wine. It seems there is no end to the tales, and each is accompanied by a slap on Sakis' back, as if he were the owner of the story. Each slap knocks a little more of the singer out o
f him. Jules is still talking and laughing with Yorgos, a glass of wine in his hand.
'Hey Yorgos, you were small but you remember Sakis' baba, right?'
Yorgos pauses his conversation with Jules.
'I remember him being a mountain! His big hands would take hold of mine and he would encourage me to walk up his legs, over his stomach, onto his chest, climb up him using my feet as he held my hand. Up and over his broad shoulders and sliding like a snake, down his back until I could reach his hand through his legs and I would tuck myself up tight and he would pull me through his legs. The game was not to touch the floor. Once round and then he would throw us up in the air like a ball. He did that to you too, eh Sakis?' He lifts his glass.
Sakis nods, raises his glass in return. He is doing his best to say as little as possible, save his throat.
'So, my boy.' Thanasis takes centre stage. The smell of roasting meat drifts amongst them, salads have been cut and put on the table along with piles of plates and forks. A woman is putting a tea towel over a big dish of feta to keep the flies off and a dog is sitting by a table leg, licking his lips, looking up hopefully. 'What brings you to breaking into your own house?'
A rumble heralds the school bus, noses press against the windows as the children inside spot the unexpected gathering of people. The bus drives past the house and stops in the village square further along. Within a minute, the schoolchildren begin to mix into the gathering. Hands reach for hunks of bread and slip under the tea towel for feta. A sea of black olives in a deep dish in the centre of the table drops a level and pits are thrown over the wall into Sakis' yiayia's overgrown garden. More glasses are brought and the water jug is refilled. Jugs of local wine cluster round an ouzo bottle on a separate table.
His neighbour is waiting for an answer. Why was he breaking into his own house?
It is a tricky question. If he tells them he has nowhere to live, he knows these people are so kind that he will get a dozen offers of a bed for the night. He would be grateful, of course, but somehow that would seal his role as the son of Costas the crocodile killer and, no matter how nice these people are, how kind and generous their natures, he is just not willing to do that. He has worked too hard to break free and prove himself on his own terms. Not one person has mentioned the competition that he won, not just for himself, but for his country. For all he knows, they may not even recognise him from the television. Maybe they didn't even watch it?
'I am just passing. Thought I would take a look,' he says vaguely. It’s almost true, but an idea is beginning to form in a little corner of his heart. What about doing up the cottage as a little country escape, a place to retreat to if America gets too much? The melody that sifted through his soul earlier plays again in his heart, softer this time, not so aggressive, with a slower beat and the phrase end comes, too. He must play it as soon as he gets back to the hotel, remember the shapes of the chords in the patterns of his fingers.
'You not stopping then?' Dora asks, her eyes moistening as if her emotions live close to the surface. Over on his left, he can feel Jules staring at him.
'Well, it depends on what the inside is like. If it is not too bad, maybe I will stay a night.' There is no need to explain more to these people
'The inside will be fine,' Thanasis assures him. 'The roof developed a leak last winter, but I fixed that. Dora gives the place a sweep out every few months.'
'But there are no mattresses,' Dora interrupts. 'We had to throw them out years ago. I have some of the linen still, though. I hope you don't mind, but we have been using it. After you did not come for first one year and then two, it seemed the best thing to do.' She is fidgeting and her cheeks are red, as if she feels she has done something wrong.
'Good for you.' Sakis puts her at her ease.
'But why not stay with us?' Dora’s face brightens.
'That is so kind,' Sakis says and Jules breaks away from Yorgos and comes to stand by his side. 'But I think I would prefer to revisit my yiayia’s house.'
'I have a mattress you can have,' bird-like Anna offers. 'Then if you come again, it is all waiting for you.' Sakis smiles his thank you; Jules takes a step closer to him. 'Katerina, what happened to that one your brother gave to you? I thought you said it was in your way.'
'It is rolled up and in the apothiki.' She speaks as though irritated. Then her eyebrows raise and her face brightens. 'Ah, but you can come across and get it.' It is clear she would enjoy the process. She looks around the company, nodding and smiling at her own importance.
'Meat’s done,' Yorgos announces, and this prompts everyone to take a plate. There is noise of cutlery and crockery. The patient dog barks and someone tells him to Shh. A child offers the animal a small piece of bread, which it sniffs at disinterestedly.
The more the villagers talk, the less his baba is mentioned, but nor does he get to assert himself and brag about his recent win. There is a moment when Katerina slips up beside him and whispers, 'I think everyone else was watching the Olympiakos match on the other side. You were very good. Well done.'
He turns to thank her and she smiles shyly.
'I think your friend Yorgos is the only person here who speaks English,' Jules interrupts them and Katerina looks down to her empty plate and heads toward the food. Jules has a plate of food piled so high that if he eats it all, he will not be hungry for months. Most of the people have gravitated to the table in the shade by the side of the house to sit and eat. The day is growing hot. The dog has taken refuge under the table and chickens strut from the backyard to clean up as crumbs are dropped. They show no fear.
As bellies fill, the chatter quietens. Thanasis and Yorgos pop over to Anna’s for her mattress and then, to the disappointment of Katerina, they go and help her to retrieve a somewhat old and stained mattress from her apothiki. A key to the front door of Sakis' yiayia's cottage is found and, by the sound of things—unseen from where he is being persuaded to eat some more grilled chicken by Dora—the back door is force opened from the inside.
Sakis feels a strange excitement with the anticipation of seeing the inside of his childhood home again. Thanasis calls him over, but he does not want to go in with everyone there. He would prefer a quiet moment to allow the memories to flood back, so he cheerfully raises his glass and continues to talk to Dora, who says she will sort out enough bedding for them both. She also has some eggs he can take over; the chickens laid well today. She has a can of gas for the tiny camping gas stove that she knows his yiayia used to make her coffee on.
'It is lovely to have you home,' she says and her eyes grow moist again.
The day is getting hotter and the neighbours head for their homes, to sleep through the warmest part of the day. Katerina wishes Sakis a fond farewell.
'I remember you as a boy. You've not changed much,' she says and pats his hand in a way that reminds him of being that small boy all over again.
Thanasis says he must go and make sure his donkeys have enough water to drink, and Dora hands Sakis a bag full of sheets that smell freshly laundered. Jules is sitting at the table, picking through the remains of the food.
'I am going back over.' Sakis raises his eyebrows in the direction of the cottage. Jules pushes his chair back and stands.
Yiayia's Cottage
Sakis looks around. It is not another hotel, and definitely not his flat in Athens. It is just a room, sparse and plain. A chair by the bed, hooks on the back of the door where his clothes hang, and slithers of light slashing their way through the tightly fastened shutters. A glint on the wall, the gold of an icon, and he is grounded. Yiayia's house. A gecko runs zigzag up the wall by the door. A tendril of vine has found its way into the room through the shutters. He slept in this room when he was a boy. There is no rag rug on the floor by his bed as there was then, but otherwise nothing has changed. Well, there is precious little that could have changed. Four walls and a door!
He stretches and puts his hands behind his head. Yesterday, coming into the house after the impromptu gathe
ring was a bit eerie. Mostly because he could not imagine the house inside without Yiayia being there, or the smell of her cooking and incense, or the bundles of sewing she always seemed to be doing. Even so, right from the creaking sound of the back door, it was all so familiar.
The small out room just inside the back door was empty. He couldn’t even remember what Yiayia used to keep there. Newspapers perhaps, baskets and empty crates that the local farmers used for oranges. Oh yes, and the sheets she used to spread under the walnut tree, and under the edge of these were his Sunday shoes that rubbed his toes, and her big black waterproof boots for the winter, so big that if he held onto the doorframe, he could get both feet into one of them when he was small.
The handle on the door to the main room is just as he remembers it: black and shiny. It even feels the same, too: smooth and cold. Cautiously, he pulls the inner door open a crack, almost afraid of what he might find. A nervousness that the stored-away, time-faded images he cherishes as preserves of his life with Yiayia might be proved fake. Looking into the stillness beyond, he almost expects Yiayia to be there, her hair falling from its loose bun, her saggy black trousers wrinkling around her ankles under her greying skirt. She always seemed to wear so many clothes, even in summer. But of course she is not there. No extended arm invites him for a hug, no smells of the food she was forever cooking, just stillness.
The shutters, now half-open on either side of the glass-panelled front door, allow in some light. Amazingly, the net curtains over windows and door are still there, a little torn, sagging low, but still there. They diffuse what little sunlight sneaks its way in, a misty half-light that only illuminates the top surfaces of the furniture. The table in the middle of the room is still there, its surface white with dust, dully reflecting the light. The chairs on the side nearest to him are only visible as silhouettes against it. This is the table where his meals were eaten, games played, where Yiayia would lay out material to cut before she sewed. A gash of light on the left-hand wall glances off the glass of an icon that has hung there all his life, the image obscured by dust and reflection. On the opposite wall, the mirror is smoked with a fine layer of time. It was always too high for him to see himself in. Now it seems to be hung low. The wooden ceiling glows almost orange above his head and hanging in its centre like a black spider is the outline of Yiayia's mama's brass chandelier.