How Greek Is Your Love

by Marjory McGinn

  “Is her house near to yours?” I asked, with certain dread.

  “Not far, on the other side of the road, the stone house with the tower. They had this added about 10 years ago. You know how we Maniots like our towers,” he smirked.

  I knew the house well. I had passed it almost every day not knowing who it belonged to. It looked pretentious with the flat-topped tower stuck on the side. Many Greeks and expats too were building houses with these additions, a nod to the old fortified dwellings of the Deep Mani, a region that had once been like Scotland crossed with Sicily for its level of clan feuds.

  “Don’t worry, Thekla is okay. She will like you.” He winked.

  “I don’t embroider.”

  “That’s all right, neither does she.”

  “You’ve been winding me up, haven’t you?”

  “Yes,” he said, laughing. I had always liked the way Leonidas could seem serious on the surface but there was a gremlin of mischief in his soul that I knew too well now.

  “Thekla does like to gossip, and she’s very religious,” he said with a comical grimace. “But enough talking, Bronte. Let’s go home.”

  At those words I was like a horse at the starters’ gate and sprang to my feet, accidentally bumping a carafe of water, sending it gurgling over the table top.

  “I hope that’s not a bad omen,” I said to Leonidas as I dabbed at the mess until the waiter arrived to clear the table.

  “We Maniots tend to think that spilt water signifies a future baptism,” he said with a slip of a smile.

  “Really?” I said, unconsciously hurrying him along towards his car.

  As long as it wasn’t a baptism by fire instead, I thought, as Leonidas gunned the car out of the car park.

  Chapter 3

  Barking mad

  At midnight Leonidas and I were in bed, wrapped in each other’s arms. It was a tender moment, our passion spent, as we enjoyed the intimacy of a close, loving embrace. This had been worth waiting all week for. We were almost asleep when a loud aggravating howl started up from the direction of Myrto’s farm.

  “What on earth is that?” Leonidas said, wide awake, leaning up on one elbow, his hair damp and tussled. The howling went on.

  “A stray, Leo. They’re everywhere now,” I said, pulling him towards me and kissing him to distract him from the sound of the grey mutt at Myrto’s. It couldn’t have been anything else. Damn bloody dog! Ten minutes earlier and it would have been damnably distracting. Worthy of Myrto’s shotgun. I remembered then that I hadn’t gone back later with the rest of the meatballs as planned. The dog was still starving and Myrto probably hadn’t fed him.

  The howling went down a notch to loud barking. Leonidas got out of bed and pushed the window open, leaning out, his hair a wild outline against a full moon.

  “Come back to bed, don’t worry. It will quieten down soon.”

  “Bronte, you don’t know these village dogs. They can bark all night when they are hungry or a fox is nearby. It sounds like it’s coming from Myrto’s house. Does she have a dog now?”

  “No, not that I know of,” I said in a high thin voice, rubbing my hands over my forehead. Would I have to get dressed and slip out later to feed it? The dog went on barking and then there was a wave of obscenities that went crashing through the still night air, and the jarring sound of a door being wrenched open. Myrto at the animal enclosure giving the mutt hell. I even managed to smile at that. Leonidas shut the window and came back to bed with a sigh.

  “I am sorry. This is not the way I hoped the evening to end.”

  “Oh, don’t be sorry, It’s not your fault.”

  “How can you ever forget in Marathousa that you’re in a rural location: goats, donkeys, mad dogs, and the sound always carries. Remind me to see Myrto tomorrow to find out if this barking dog is hers. It will keep you and Angus awake every night.”

  I panicked. “Oh, don’t bother yourself. I’ll talk to her. I see her most days.”

  “Okay, whatever you wish, agapi mou.”

  He pulled up the top bed sheet. He held me tight under it and kissed me softly on the face and the mouth. I wanted him again and yet, within minutes of laying his head on the pillow, I heard his breathing grow heavy and I knew he was asleep. I lay on my side watching him, the errant black curl hanging over his brow as usual. I reached out and felt it, smooth and silky to my touch, and moved it off his forehead but it sprang back fitfully. I loved this man more than anyone I’d ever met, but there was so much I still didn’t know. A depth of foreignness amid all the warmth and attraction that sometimes made our relationship seem fragile, as if it could easily be unpicked by an incoming force. Even something as insignificant as an aunt. How illogical that seemed. Or perhaps not.

  It was warm enough the next morning to sit outside in the garden in the sun. Leonidas had set out breakfast on the patio table while I showered. Yoghurt, fresh fruit, honey, a pot of coffee and a crusty loaf.

  “You’ve been to the bakery already,” I said, admiring the healthy spread.

  “I woke up early and felt refreshed, despite that damned dog.” He uttered a short tirade in Greek, then gave a warm smile. The Greek temperament is like the local weather: rain can patter down, then dry completely before the umbrella’s up.

  He looked relaxed, his skin glowing, the dark hair slightly more tamed. He was wearing jeans and a light cotton jumper. Everything about Leonidas always seemed easy to me, and fresh.

  “Why don’t you move into my villa now, Bronte? There would be much more space for you in this house instead of you and Angus squeezed into Villa Anemos.”

  “I don’t know, Leo. I’m used to living there now. It’s company during the week and I can make sure Angus is taking all his heart medication, and not drinking too much. I love this house, but it’s big. I’d just rattle around here on my own.”

  He smiled at my description. “Like a stone in a bottle?”

  “Something like that.”

  “You could convert one of the bedrooms and make a proper study for yourself.”

  Now he was tempting me. At the moment, my study was the front corner of the sitting room in Villa Anemos with a window overlooking the road but with the mountains careering up in the distance at least. It made sense to have a bigger work space now that I was securing regular freelance features for several publications back in the UK, and the newspaper column as well. But I had a better idea.

  “Why don’t you spend more time here? You don’t need to stay over in Kalamata all week, do you? The drive from here is easy, 30 minutes.”

  “There and back every day would be fine, Bronte, but you forget that because of the siesta time I would drive back and forth at least four times. And then there are the call-outs, sometimes in the night, usually Kalamatans.”

  “Yes, of course, you’re right. It wouldn’t make any sense.” But so early in our relationship, I wondered if perhaps he liked to keep his own space in Kalamata. And while he didn’t seem to care what the villagers might say if I moved in here, I already knew enough about rural Greek life to realise there were still expectations, rules, gossip, that applied to women above all. And foreign women especially, I imagined. In Greek society, doctors were gods, almost above priests, and Leonidas was well respected here. For him to be seen living with a foreigner would be beyond the pale for some. But then again, if people bitched at me, I wouldn’t understand them anyway. It would take years to get my Greek up to speed.

  “At least come here if you want some quiet to do your work. You have a key. Do as you wish, Bronte. Treat the place like your own, my love,” he said, quietly scrolling through messages on his work mobile phone. “I have a couple of patients to see this morning in the Mani, so I will be out for a few hours. What are you doing?”

  “Oh, some work, and I’ll call in on Myrto. Remember?”

  “Ah, that. Please do. I don’t want the dog waking us all up every night.” He said something under his breath in Greek.

  “You don’t lik
e dogs then?”

  “I don’t like those big ugly things that roam around the streets, though it’s not their fault. The council is to blame for not controlling things. It’s cruel actually. Anyway, I think I like small dogs, easy ones.”

  “What, like poodles?”

  “Yes, things you can put in a bag, or under your arm.”

  I snorted with laughter. The idea of Leonidas with a poodle under his arm was too funny.

  “You’re winding me up again, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I am,” he said, his eyes sparkling with mirth. “Anyway, you know we Greeks are not so obsessed about dogs as you are in Britain.”

  “Yes, I’ve noticed. And I’ve seen all the poor dogs chained up in farmyards and used as security guards.” Until someone got tired of feeding them, or ran out of money and set them loose on the streets.

  He put his phone in his pocket and kissed me. “See you in the afternoon, agapi mou.”

  When I walked into Myrto’s compound a bit later, I could see the dog and the donkey both tied to the same tree. The evening must have cemented a friendship at least. The donkey looked calm, as did the dog, until he saw me and strained at his rope, fizzing with excitement. Myrto walked towards me, her big hands on her hips.

  “Well, Bronte. Bladdy load of howling going on last night. You heard?”

  I nodded. “Everyone heard. I’m sorry.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I give him a bit of barking myself and wave a stick at him. Then I have to give him some tucker. He was hungry.”

  I’d brought more food from Villa Anemos and tipped it into a metal bowl by the tree. It was the last of the meatballs. In the blink of an eye, they were gone.

  “I got my shotgun handy if you want to shoot him now.” She laughed heartily.

  I shook my head. “You know I don’t want that. But look, I’m taking him to the vet this morning, like I said, to get that head wound looked at.”

  “What you do if the doctor fellow can’t help with finding a new home. You bring him back here?” she said, pursing her lips.

  “I’ll sort something out, don’t worry.”

  “I don’ say any more now. You got a fixed mind on this. Might as well comb a cloud,” she said, with what I took to be a folksy saying, the kind of thing Angus would come out with.

  I took the dog down to the vet’s surgery in Angus’s car, parking outside on the road opposite a small shingle beach just south of Kalamata, a place where a few British expats lived, but mostly Greeks, slightly more well-heeled. The kind of people who did keep animals as pets.

  The vet had a fabulous name, Dr Mavrofidi, Dr Blacksnake. It was written in Greek and English on a nameplate outside the surgery. I smiled and expected to see a man who was old and wily-looking, but the vet was perhaps 40 and good-looking, with dark, spiky hair. The only snake-like attributes were his round and vibrant green eyes. I gave him a short version of what had happened with the dog. No point in rolling out the whole tale, and he didn’t look like he had the time for it. Dr Blacksnake set to work, looking him over. He parted some of the fur on the dog’s neck and uncovered another fat green tick.

  “That must come out,” he said, “and there will be more, I’m sure of it. I will give him some drops on the skin for those. They will all die off soon enough. The cut on the head doesn’t need stitches. Just try to keep it clean.”

  The vet spoke very good English, telling me he’d done post-graduate studies in England.

  “This dog, I would say, is not especially wild. He has had an owner some time, I think. He’s quite well-behaved and his teeth are in good condition. He is perhaps around two years old.”

  Somehow that didn’t surprise me. He wasn’t like the other strays lurking at the rubbish bins. He was also comfortable with people, apart from the creep.

  “He was probably left on the streets by someone who couldn’t afford to look after him any more. He will need some vaccinations and treatments now. Are you happy for me to do all that?”

  “Of course.”

  “And what do you plan to do with this dog?”

  “I’ve heard you work with the local dog rehoming group, Animal Angels. Would they be able to take him? He’s quite a nice sort really.”

  “I could contact them for you but it will take a few days before they can collect. They have a lot of work now. They have a facility on the other side of the city. They are sending dogs to Germany, Austria, sometimes to Britain. Is that what you want?”

  I nodded. “Better than chucking him back on the street.”

  He smiled. “You foreigners are very kind to animals. We Greeks are getting better but we still need to do more.”

  It was as if the dog had understood. He put his paw on the vet’s arm and whined softly.

  Dr Blacksnake laughed. “Okay, my canine friend, you might have a good life after all. We shall see.”

  That was easy, I thought, as I walked back to the car with the dog on a lead, with a new collar, bought from the surgery. The dog had a jauntier step, happier in his own fumigated skin. I was strangely glad that Animal Angels wouldn’t be fetching him for a few days. I could have him a bit longer. Or Myrto could, I hoped!

  On the way home I stopped at a small supermarket on the coast and bought some tins of dog food and a few treats, and something for Myrto too, a sweetener. A nice gift pack of her favourite chocolates with soft centres.

  “Oh, not the mutt back!” she moaned when I strolled into the farmyard. I pressed the pack of chocolates into her hands before she could say any more. She cradled it as if it were a newborn, her eyes flickering with delight.

  “You trying to fatten me up when I’m supposed to be on the Lenten fast now before Easter.” She winked.

  “Are you really fasting?”

  She gave me a sly grin. “I don’ eat no meat now, that’s true, and each week we Greeks cut out other things bit by bit. Like a food torture, until all we eating in the end is the horta, the wild green veg, plain, with no olive oil. But nobody knows what Myrto eats here all alone in her ktima, farm,” she said, caressing the chocolates.

  Myrto was an outlaw at heart, and I smiled at the thought of her eating sweets alone while the rest of the village subsisted on the equivalent of grass clippings for the next few weeks. I explained the dog would only be here a few days until the Animal Angels turned up. She nodded, with resignation.

  “The dog looks better now, don’t you agree? And smells better too,” I said.

  “Yeah, sure, but he better not give me bladdy trouble in the nights.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve brought plenty of food for him. He should be quieter now,” I said, handing her the bag of supplies.

  She bent down and looked closely at the dog, puckering her eyes slightly. “The ticks all gone?”

  “They will be soon enough. They’ve been zapped with special drops.”

  “Just a few days, right?”

  “Yes, absolutely.”

  “Ha! You know in Greece there’s no such thing as a few days. Have I told you that, Bronte? We have no idea of time. Could be he’s here a few years.”

  Myrto walked towards her house, hugging her chocolates.

  Chapter 4

  Running like the wind

  When Leonidas returned to Kalamata early, on Sunday night, I felt at loose ends and realised I could never stay in his villa full-time without him there. It seemed to lack his presence in every way; seemed chilly and slightly diminished. That’s when I happened to think about the dog. I went to Myrto’s to see that everything was okay. She had her hands on her hips, watching me pat its head, checking on the wound. She had an uncanny way of sussing out how your mind was working.

  “Why you don’ keep him, Bronte? He likes you. I can tell. You got no cute animals to look after, only Angus.” She rolled her eyes and I laughed, wondering if this was her being comical or getting her English wrong.

  “I can’t keep a dog there. Angus won’t like that. Leonidas definitely wouldn’t, I think.” />
  “Oh no, the doctor much too neat and tidy for a big hairy skilos.”

  There had always been a little frisson of dislike between Leonidas and Myrto, which I’d discovered the previous year had something to do with their shared family history, or at least the fact their families, like many in Marathousa, came from the same village of Platanos, high in the Taygetos mountains behind us, where family feuds would have been the norm. Many of these families had come down to Marathousa in the past century seeking better grazing land and an easier life.

  Despite any discord, Leonidas had done Myrto a good turn by suggesting his young nephew Angelos could come and help her to look after one of the olive groves she harvested, which had become too much for just one farmer. Myrto would teach Angelos the skills of pruning and harvesting and he would have a cut of the income from the resulting olive oil. It was a good solution for both of them, especially for Angelos, who had lost his job in Athens during the crisis and had returned to his rural roots.

  On the Tuesday morning I took Myrto another treat – a box of honey cake – and told her to expect the Animal Angels late in the afternoon. Myrto was busy stacking up some of the olive branches she’d collected earlier in the morning, left over after the winter harvest. She had lugged them back from the adjacent field on the donkey.

  “You want to repay me for the dog, Bronte? One day you can come with me down the field when I go to gather up all the other branches. Must be done before summer. It’s nice work, out in the fresh air, with a mountain view,” she said, twirling her hand towards the Taygetos peaks.