by Sara Alexi
‘Come on, Yanni. We have important work to do.’ Babis’ arm is around his shoulder again and they step down into the still-warm night.
‘Kalinixta,’ Theo calls after them. A thousand stars twinkle overhead, the same stars that prick the heavens over his cottage. His mama and baba will be asleep now, his own bed empty. He wishes he was in it. Turning to the side road past the kiosk, Yanni can think of nothing nicer than to be horizontal. ‘Here we go,’ Babis says as a car pulls up. There is not time to even question as the door is opened and Babis pushes him in.
‘Where are we going?’ Yanni slurs. ‘I need to get to bed. Big day tomorrow.’ He mustn’t say more. Babis puts his finger to his lips; he too wishes for silence, and the taxi drives on. The road to Saros seemed so much longer when he walked it. He remembers none of the corners that throw him against Babis or the door. There are no orange groves to see, just dark shadows and the occasional glare of lights from a house. The car window jolts his head as he leans on it, his eyes closed.
‘Out.’ Babis pushes him. His head springs upright as he wakes and stumbles sideways from the car and onto unsteady feet. His eyes wide, he looks all around him, finally focuses on Babis, who is paying the driver and then he hears rather than sees the taxi drive away in the blurred darkness.
‘Wherearewe?’ It seems he has lost control of his own tongue.
‘Shh, come around here.’ Babis strides round the end of a building into the dark. ‘This is Gerasimos’ office. Second floor. Look up there. He always leaves that window open because he smokes so much. Can you see?’
Yanni thinks he sees, but a thick bougainvillea vine climbs the side of the building up to a balcony and very little of the dim street light reaches beyond. Above it, the stars are there in their thousands. Thousands of them and one of him. How insignificant his troubles are in the vastness of everything. Nothing is really important, just being alive. He sighs.
‘Yes, there, next to the balcony, you see it?’ Babis enthuses. At this moment, Yanni decides he would be better off sitting down and does so, on the ground. ‘What are you doing?’ Babis takes hold of both his arms and pulls. ‘I can’t do it. I am not fit like you. I have no upper body strength. You are fit as a goat, with the strength of ten.’
Looking from Babis’ face to the bougainvillea, to the window, Yanni slowly understands.
‘Y’ kidding me?’ Yanni starts to laugh. ‘You’s expecting me, up there—to do?’ He raises his shoulders, arms outstretched. ‘Change the numbers. Which papers. Where.’ The words come out mispronounced, word endings merge into word beginnings.
‘No, of course not. Just open the door from the inside. I will do the rest whilst you stay on guard.’
‘No.’ He is done. He wants to lie down.
‘What?’
‘It’s not right.’ It is more of a mutter, a mumble. The ground is like water. He is floating on his back.
‘It’s my life, my future. You want me not to be able to support my mama in her old age?’
In the half-light, Babis’ features are unclear. He is in his own shadow, the moon behind his head giving him a halo. Maybe he is dreaming. Maybe all this is a dream and he is sleeping outside up on the ridge. He should go indoors or he will get cold in the early hours of the morning. Yes, that is what he will do, go indoors, sleep well, and when the morning comes, he can tell his mama and baba of this peculiar dream he had. On his feet, he is floating again. Someone takes his hand and puts it on the bougainvillea stem. It feels real, alive, earthy. A cicada is disturbed, flies off the bark, hits him in the face, and flies away. He could be in the pine forest. He must climb the hill to get home. Up, one hand, one foot, up. The steps are steep here. The smell of bark and leaves. Up. It is a sheer climb, it is good that Dolly is not with him. The bark becomes metal, sliding to his touch. It confuses him, so he stops.
‘Go over.’ He hears. Over, what does the voice mean by over? He must go over the ridge. Over the ridge to the far pasture. Over and … He sits heavily. One foot out through the balcony railing. ‘Well done, Yanni,’ a voice hisses. Sophia used to say that when they climbed trees together. Sophia, his Sophia. Tomorrow, or is it today now, and he might see his Sophia? See her and … and what?
‘Don’t just sit there. Get up. The window is to your right.’
She is a sister, a nun. What can he expect? She is not going to pull the headscarf from her head and run away with him.
‘Get up.’
The chances are that by seeing her, he will bring his love to the surface, make his life even more painful without her.
‘Yanni, get up.’
The best he can expect is to find she has changed. That she is a nun inside and out. Maybe his love will turn to that of the brotherly kind. He can imagine that sense of freedom. Freedom to …
‘Yanni, tsst, Yanni. Get up, will you?’
Freedom to talk to his soulmate, who is at this very moment asleep in her bed not so very far from her sandwich shop. He stands.
‘To your right. Climb across to your right.’
He would climb a mountain for her. Climb any height to fall into those eyes, haul himself over precipices, grip on to rock faces so he can fall, fall, fall …
‘Bravo, Yanni. In there. Pull yourself in there. There’s a table on the other side.’
Fall into her eyes.
‘You okay? Yanni, can you hear me? Are you standing? Don’t turn the lights on. He hangs a torch on the back of the door for when there is a power cut. Can you see enough to see the door? It should be to your right if your back is to the window. Yanni? Yanni? Yanni, if you can hear me, go out the door, down the stairs, but don’t go to the front door, go down another three steps. It leads to the back door. Yanni?’
A cat jumps from the bins by the back door as it opens.
‘Well done. Bravo. Give me a minute.’ Babis grabs the torch from Yanni’s grasp and disappears inside.
Yanni slumps to the floor. His legs have gone back to lead, he either needs another drink or to lie flat. There is no drink, so he lies flat. The moon on his face, the cicadas still rasping their love songs. Maybe she will pull off her headscarf. His hand covers his breast pocket, the familiar edges of the book. Maybe if she knows of his feelings, it will change everything. The poem certainly suggests that was the case all those years ago. He hasn’t changed, so why should she?
‘Wake up.’ The voice is loud. Yanni opens his eyes. Babis’ face so close.
‘You have done it? That was quick,’ Yanni whispers.
‘No. I have not done it. I will do it tomorrow.’ Babis speaks loudly.
‘But I thought you said that, what’s-his-name, Gerasimos would not make it possible for you to do it tomorrow?’ Yanni sits up, suddenly sober.
‘Tomorrow, Gerasimos will jump in the sea if I ask him to.’ Babis’ smile is lopsided and it does not reflect in his eyes, which are hard and cold. ‘Tomorrow, everything changes. I thought I had something to celebrate tonight, what with you being here and my idea for selling houses on the Island. But this, my friend, is even better. Who knows where this could lead?’
He takes out his mobile phone and orders a taxi. Yanni waits for Babis to tell him more, but he is silent, his face set hard. The taxi arrives. When he tries to stand, he finds his body is still drunk. It is hard work getting into the taxi. Once inside, Yanni finds sleep is on him before his head is resting on the window. He is woken when they arrive in the village and Babis helps him to his bed.
He is asleep again before he manages to take his boots off.
Chapter 11
Sunbeams slice through the slats of the shutters. Dust swims in the light, floating, hovering, and unseen currents swirl the specks into mini tornadoes which settle again and drift. Outside, the incessant call of the cicadas rasps the air with their continuous song. A cockerel crows and in the ceiling beams, there is a gecko clicking to its mate. Yanni’s legs feel heavy; he still has his boots on. The cockerel crows again. It cannot be very early: the li
ght is too warm, the temperature too heavy. Turning on his side, he finds a litre bottle of water and a packet of aspirin on the small table by the bed. Babis, forever the host. Snapshots of last night flicker though his thoughts. At one point, he was going over the ridge on Orino Island, but it was made of bougainvillea. That must have been a dream. He was not on the ridge, he was in Saros. Why was he in Saros?
He reaches for the water and swills down two pills. The water just gives him a thirst for more. Tipping back the bottle, he watches the geckos chase each other across the ceiling as he drinks his fill. The room has a woman’s touch, Babis’ mama, no doubt. There are pictures on the wall, prints of flowers, a lace cover over the back of the single chair, long navy curtains. Navy like the skirt of the woman outside the sandwich shop, whose eyes he fell into last night. That cannot be right either; he has not even spoken to her. Not yet. The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end and he gives an involuntary shudder. He is not sure if it is fear or excitement. He knows what Sister Katerina would say.
‘Panayia mou.’ He calls upon the mother of Christ. Today, maybe, he will see Sophia. Scrambling to his feet, he lurches into the main room. It really is a mess. Picking his way through the clutter, he looks around the room for a clock. The cockerel crows again. If it is anything like his cockerel back home, it will be accurate to the hour. It does not feel early but he could be mistaken with the aching of his head and the nausea that is coming upon him. He will just go. His hand fumbles for his tobacco pouch. It is nearly empty. He will ask the way to the convent when he buys some more from the lady at the kiosk. What was her name? Vasso?
‘Kalimera Vasso.’ He greets her, but the day does not seem to be so good. His head is really throbbing, and the thought of battling with the abbess and the general protocol to see Sophia for some reason no longer feels like a joy. Today, it feels like a chore. This fills him with dismay. His own sweet Sophia, why would she be a chore?
‘It is hardly morning. Did you get up to the convent?’
‘What? What time is it?’
‘Nearly five, no, ten to six.’
‘In the afternoon?’ Yanni turns his back on her to look up towards the sun. Everything is too bright. He turns back to the shade of the kiosk. His breathing has quickened, the nausea has returned. He puts out a hand to steady himself.
‘Watch the crisps.’ Vasso giggles. ‘You make a night of it, did you?’
‘Give me some loose tobacco, not that one, the blue packet, yes.’ He takes it from her, opens it, and rolls and lights a cigarette before he even thinks to pay her. His hand slips into his back pocket and he turns white.
‘You okay?’ Vasso asks.
‘My … I had …’ His hand feels across his breast pockets before delving into his front jeans pockets. He huffs his relief.
‘I hate those moments,’ Vasso chirps. ‘I do it all the time, lose my keys, my purse, my shopping list. It gets boring how often I lose things.’ Yanni pays for the tobacco.
‘Hello Yanni. Is Babis taking care of you?’ It is Stella, with an apron on over her floral dress.
‘Er, yes.’ But he feels angry. Angry at Babis for not waking him, angry at Babis for taking him out last night. It is one thing to be hospitable, but Babis fills his glass again and again until he has no choice about anything. But mostly, he is angry at himself for not finding the fine line between accepting hospitality and being coerced, bullied. He takes a deep draw on his cigarette at the word bullied and Hectoras comes to mind, an image that is too much when his head is being held on by the merest thread.
‘He’s a one isn’t he, that Babis. Blows like the wind from one thing to the next, so much energy, he’ll whisk you into things before you know you have agreed. All the makings of a lawyer.’ Stella takes a step closer to Yanni and says more quietly, ‘Take some advice, my friend: set your course and don’t let Babis take the rudder.’ Her smile is so open and warm, and something about her reminds him of Sister Katerina.
‘Truer words were never said,’ Vasso agrees. ‘Not a harmful bone in his body, that young Babis but, my, he has energy that takes him this way and that. What can I get you, Stella?’
‘I just want some matches. You heard they came up to our place, I guess,’ Stella says, a tremor in her voice.
‘The surveyors?’ Vasso’s eyes grow wide as she hands over the matches. Yanni is held fixed to the spot, his legs too heavy to move. His throat has tightened and his eyes are stinging, moist. How can he have overslept when it was so important? He never oversleeps for the goats, or if he has a job arranged hauling stuff from an early boat. Why now? Why? His hand creeps over his breast pocket, feeling the edges of the book.
‘Yup, they say it does not look good, but we must wait for the report. Mitsos will be gutted. His family have lived there, well, forever and a day.’ Stella’s voice rings with compassion, her eyes dart with fear. Worry for what they will do, perhaps.
Yanni smooths his moustache and draws on his cigarette. He wants to wrap his arms around himself and cry, but instead he keeps his back straight and his chin held up. Without a word, he flicks away his cigarette and then, with no warning, his stomach growls so loudly, Stella and Vasso stop talking, turn and look at him, and giggle.
Yanni can feel the heat in his cheeks.
‘Come on,’ Stella says to him. ‘The chicken is done, the chips are hot, and you are hungry. Yeia sou Vasso.’
They take the few short steps to Stella’s eatery side by side. They find no reason to fill the space with words.
‘You want sausage with your chicken and chips?’ She asks. Yanni shakes his head. ‘Lemon sauce?’ This time, he nods and takes the same chair as the last time he was there. The sandwich shop is lit but there is no sign of the woman.
‘Oh Sophia, what is happening to me?’ he whispers to himself in hushed tones. ‘My second day here and all I have done is drink.’ He lets his head sink into his hands. ‘And the price, Sophia my love, is not seeing you.’ He takes out the book from behind his tobacco pouch in his breast pocket and it falls open on the oft-read words. He traces them with his finger. Maybe to turn up after all these years is a cruelty to her. In all his self-indulgent moments, he has never once considered what impact contacting her after all these years might have on her life. Maybe she will have no dilemma, her marriage to God unshakable. But maybe the sight of him will ignite her love again. But, then again, maybe not enough to set her free, just enough to present a divide, a tear, an abyss between the life she has and the life he offers. Surely she would curse him for that. Then she will be condemned to live her life as he has lived his, a life that is everything he wants except that one niggle, that single thorn that twists when he least expects it, just often enough to remind him that he is not completely content.
That would be an unthinkable thing to do to her. He would wish that on no one. He turns to see if anyone has appeared in the sandwich shop doorway and sure enough, she is there. His heart leaps into his mouth, his breath is sucked from his lungs. He tries not to stare.
The aspirin begins to have the desired effect.
‘Okay, enough.’ He snaps himself out of it. ‘Be logical.’ His brow creases. But his internal answer asks how can he be logical about affairs of the heart, and through the shadows of some dim memory, Sister Katerina recites a poem they read somewhere together:
It is well to be happy and wise and it is well to be honest and true, it is well to be off with the old love, before you are on with the new.
‘I do not wish to cast Sophia off,’ he hisses under his breath. He can feel the woman’s eyes on him. He turns to look at her, but a customer approaches and she goes into the shop.
There has been too much swaying about. He must stick to his plan. He must go to Sophia. If she does not let him go then he will not let her go, either. He will fight for her until either she is his or he forces her to cruelly reject him and so extinguish his love for her. ‘But if she lets you free, then you can go to the girl at the sandwich shop. ‘
‘Sorry, did you say something?’ Stella puts a hot plate in front of him.
Chapter 12
The food restores his energy but not his mood. To deliver Sister Katerina’s letter and to face Sophia, he will now have to wait another three days. He can fill one with the buying of the donkey, but the other two? And what of his goats and his baba’s strength, his mama’s worrying?
‘Panagia mou.’ He drops his fork heavily onto the empty plate.
‘Problems?’
Yanni turns in his chair to see an old man sitting in the shadows. He grunts and looks back at his empty plate.
‘Come,’ says the old man, ‘I will tell you a story, and it may be of use to you.’
The exchange has drawn a glance from Stella, who has come to clear his plate and ask him if there is anything more he wants. The way she looks from him to the old man suggests she knows him. Not wishing his bad mood to affect Stella’s business, Yanni pulls out his chair and turns it to face the grey-haired old man’s direction. In this, he can no longer keep an eye on the sandwich shop door.
Stella, who has taken Yanni’s dirty dishes inside, returns with a plate of sliced, honey-covered fruit, which she puts on his table.
‘Compliments of Mitsos,’ she says and puts a small jug of wine and two glasses in front of the old man on her way back inside. The old man pours a glass which he pushes to the very edge of the table towards Yanni. The second glass, he keeps hold of himself.
‘I hear Babis, our budding new lawyer, is your cousin,’ the old man begins, raising his glass and indicating for Yanni to do the same. When Yanni hesitates, the man frowns a little. ‘Go on, it won’t bite. Do yourself a favour and relax a little, and take some advice from an old man.’