by Alex A King
Vivi has a minor epiphany. If she and Melissa are staying, they need a car. Nothing fancy, just wheels to get them around.
She does the math. They can afford a car if they go simple on the house. An apartment is another option, but that’s not fair on Biff.
God, look at her, already worrying about the dog.
John has been generous. Last thing he wants is his client base to find out the truth (come on, John, it’s 2014), so he went way overboard. Vivi would never say anything anyway – he should have known that. Strangers, she thinks. That’s all they were. Two dumb kids who built a house on a bedrock of lies – well, lie.
Heat shimmers off the pavement in waves; looks like a rainstorm backing up. Siesta time. The Greeks are in their beds, sleeping off the hottest part of the day, but not Vivi and Biff. With Biff’s makeshift leash in one hand (a length of slender rope Max found in the Jeep), and a map of Volos in the other, they go walking.
For a dog that has never seen a leash, Biff is cooperative. He only stops to pee on everything. Every time he lifts his leg he looks to her for approval.
What else can she say but “Good boy”?
Six sweaty blocks later, they hit the automobile jackpot. A small used car lot blots the horizon. Beside it, a small kiosk ripples.
Mirage or the real deal?
The heat is taking its toll. Her bra is doubling as a paddling pool.
The ripple steady and solidify.
Hallelujah, not a mirage. She and Biff aren’t going to die on the streets of Volos. Silly dog wasted all his liquids spraying Biff Wuz Here over half the city.
“You should have siesta,” says the kiosk’s toothless proprietor. He takes her money, gives her two bottles of ice-cold water.
“I'm a crazy foreigner,” she says.
Biff refuels. Vivi takes a long, long drink, and boy does it taste great. Nothing is sweeter than water when you need it.
Temporarily hydrated, they trot over to the car lot.
Dozens of cars – some she’s never heard of. A metallic blue Volkswagen convertible is hanging out in the shade, chilling out until the right buyer swings its way.
An older man approaches, barrel-chested and sweaty, olive oil stain marking his white shirt.
“You want to buy the car?”
“Maybe. How much?”
“For you I give good price.” He reels off a number that makes her want to slap him.
Vivi laughs, saunters away with Biff. “I don’t think so.”
There’s a lot of huffing and puffing as the salesman catches up. “Wait, wait. What was I thinking? I got the price wrong. This never happened before, can you believe it? For you it is much less. Very affordable, I think.”
He gives her a price slightly lower than the first.
“Is that the man’s price or the woman’s price?”
He wags a finger. “You are very clever. I will give you the smart people’s price. Is special – today only!”
She stares him down. Makes him sweat a bit more. Makes his left eye twitch.
“So, do we make a deal?” he asks.
“Okay.”
“Okay! Good! Okay!”
“And I'll want to test drive it, of course.”
“Of course!” he cries. “You will not regret this, I think.”
She’s regretting it twenty minutes later when she pulls the Volkswagen back into the lot. There are road rules but they’re serving suggestions. Driving with Greeks equals swimming with sharks when you’re covered in paper cuts.
But she buys the car and drives away with Biff riding shotgun. The sleek little VW isn’t brand new, but it’s got guts.
Her first major John-free purchase.
* * *
The real estate office isn’t far. She parks in the shade and leaves Biff to keep watch.
She’s barely through the door when a friendly voice says, “You must be Vivi.”
The woman is mid-twenties, polished to a brilliant shine. She’s one of those women who can wear linen during the oppressive summer regime and command it not to wrinkle.
Meanwhile, Vivi tries not to drip on the marble floor.
“Come sit, have a drink. Max told me to expect you.”
What a guy he is, helping out a pair of strangers.
“You know him well?”
“Of course, we are family. He is my cousin.”
That whole family smiles in megawatts.
Still . . . cousin is a nebulous term in Greece. Could be they’re first cousins or twenty-fifth cousins, completely removed.
“So you are Vivi and I am Soula. Together we will find you a house. The perfect house. You are looking to rent or buy?” Her perfect nails begin a fast dance across a sleek keyboard.
“I'd prefer to buy something. Nothing too fancy or too expensive. In Agria or very close by.”
“How many bedrooms?”
“Two.”
“You have a child?”
“A daughter. You?”
“I have a boyfriend. That is a little like having a child, yes?”
Vivi smiles. “I used to have a husband. He was more trouble than a kindergarten full of children.”
“What happened to him?” Her voice drops, becomes more intimate. She leans closer. “Did you shoot him?”
“Worse. He left me for a man.”
“Better a man than a woman. At least you know what he's got that you don't.” She wiggles her pinkie.
Which makes Vivi feel better.
No really, it does. With a few simple words, Soula has given her a fresh perspective. No more sitting around wondering what she could have done differently. Growing a penis is impossible.
(Although, scientists being scientists, you know there’s one growing on a mouse’s back in a lab right now.)
“At least,” Soula continues, “he is someone else’s pain in the ass, yes?”
Takes a minute for the joke to sink in. Then a whole ton of pennies rains on her head. She laughs until she’s crying, laughs so hard the chair needs a seatbelt to keep her in the upright position. People are looking, but Vivi doesn’t care.
Meanwhile, Soula is tapping on the keyboard. She waits for Vivi to stop laughing, then she nods at the screen.
“You point and we will go.”
41
VIVI
SOULA SAYS, “YOU DRIVE like an old woman.”
“I drive like an American. Plus I just bought this car, I don’t want to screw it up yet.”
The road is rough. Made of dirt and stones and wishful thinking.
So far they’ve seen four houses, all of them wrong. The first was too small, the second too big. Three was the little pig’s house of sticks.
Vivi says, “How much further?”
“Not too far, I think.”
“You think?”
Soula holds up both hands. “Yes, I think.”
Greek distance is like Greek time: negotiable.
Nothing much out here except a tiny church, endless olive groves, sooty-faced goats. Cute things with lop ears.
“There,” Soula yelps, pointing to the road ahead.
Vivi squints at the cottage. Doesn’t look too bad from the road, but it’s a postage stamp at this distance.
Zoom zoom.
Up close it looks good, too. Smooth stucco recently whitewashed, by the looks of the crisp white. The cottage is wearing a porch as a wide belt. Irregular flagstones form a walkway that vanishes out back. Clay flowerpots contain creamy white gardenias and geraniums in shades of cotton candy and sunset. Shutters slick with new brown paint.
Soula is tense with anticipation. “What do you think?”
Vivi shrugs, disappears around back.
Smells like a Fig Newton factory back here. There’s a giant fig tree in the yard, branches plunging most of the patio into shade. Its fruit is at that awkward adolescent stage, stuck between green and brown. Biff sniffs about, raises his back leg on the tree trunk. He doesn’t make eye contact.
“What do I think?” She looks at Soula, who has wandered back there. “I have to wonder why someone would give up this place.”
“Eh.” She shrugs. “The owners moved back to England to be closer to their grandchildren. They have no need of this house now. And they didn’t have time to tend to the olive trees.”
A twist of a key later, she’s opening the house for Vivi to step inside.
“The olive trees come with the house?”
“Sixty-thousand square meters. Fifteen acres. About a thousand trees – maybe more.”
What the hell would she do with olive trees?
The open floor plan reveals a cozy living space, with four doors leading to, she assumes, the bedrooms and a bathroom. Rustic furniture invites a body to sit, stay, relax. Vanilla paint, textured walls; none of the blinding pinks and blues in older Greek homes. The appliances aren’t the trendiest (a wood oven with an aluminum vent pipe running overhead to heat the whole house, gas hot plates, and a refrigerator with the freezer on top), but they’re good enough.
Vivi says, “I love it.”
She looks behind the doors. Three bedrooms – decent but not huge.
The fourth door is hiding the house’s dirty little secret.
“Shit,” she says. “Aaaaand . . . now I don’t love it.”
“What is it?” Soula peers over Vivi’s shoulder. “Oh.”
Shower, hand basin, medicine cabinet, and a gaping (toilet) hole in the floor.
Vivi spits out a bunch of words she’d never say in front of Melissa.
Soula asks, “Is that physically possible?”
“I’ve seen it on the Internet. How much do they want?”
“You are still interested?”
“I'm interested. Doesn't mean I'm going to say ‘Yes.’”
Soula tosses her a figure.
Vivi throws a smaller one back. “The bathroom needs remodeling,” she says. “It's going to cost.”
“They won't like it. This is an excellent price.”
“An excellent price for a house with a toilet I can sit on.”
“You can sit on this one,” Soula says, deadpan.
“If I amputate my legs.”
“What, you are too good for a Greek toilet? Is your bottom made of gold? Americans,” she says, laughing. “You want everything to be sanitary. A little dirt and hardship builds character.”
“My mother used to spank me for having too much character. Can you at least try and get me that price?”
“I will try. This is Greece – everything is negotiable except the weather.”
“If the owners accept the price, then we have a deal.”
Soula goes away with her cell phone, hands doing as much talking as her mouth.
Vivi looks outside at the land she wants. Yeah, she’s already imagining Melissa hanging in the yard with her friends, Biff peeing on the trees.
No, that second thing isn’t imaginary; Biff really is peeing on all the trees.
Anyway, point is she’s fantasizing about this place. Feels good.
Soula’s hands and tongue are gaining momentum. Her expression says nothing. Then she drops the phone back into her leather purse.
“You want this house?”
“Yes.”
“It’s yours.”
“Just like that?”
“Well, you have to pay for it, of course. But it’s yours as soon as you want to move in.” She tucks her arm through Vivi’s, steers her back to the VW. “Come, now we celebrate! Wait – first we talk money, then we celebrate!”
* * *
Surprisingly easy acquiring a home loan in a semi-corrupt country, when the bank manager is your second cousin.
Nepotism is nice when it's in your favor.
“I don't suppose you know where I can buy a toilet?” she asks Soula.
“I know someone who knows a place.”
She bought a house. What is she going to do with a house? And all those olive trees?
“Oh shit,” she says. “I just bought a house.”
42
VIVI
THEA DORA SLAPS A triangle of baklava onto a plate. The nuts jump.
“Where will you go? What will you do? How will you live? Your child is ill. You cannot live on your own!”
“You live on your own.”
“That is different!”
“Different how?”
“It just is.”
“We’ll be fine,” Vivi says. “Melissa will go to school in the fall and I’ll get a job.”
“What job?”
Biff jumps the fence. The dog’s sick of sitting in the car. But once he’s over the fence, he gets a load of Thea Dora and slams his canine brakes.
“Ay yi yi!” she shrieks. “What is that thing?”
“That’s my dog.”
Thump! goes her palm against the baklava container. She mutters something about fleas and plague and Turks.
“He’s clean and healthy.”
That might be true, or not. But Vivi comes to the dog’s defense anyway.
“Vivi, my love, why don't you stay here? I'll be lonely without you and Melissa.”
“Can I put in a new toilet and let Biff sleep in the house?”
“The dog cannot stay. Let him loose and he will find somewhere else to go.”
Vivi says, “No way.”
* * *
Stale fries and desperation – the hospital cafeteria reeks of both.
Vivi isn’t all that hungry, but that doesn’t stop her biting into the rubbery kasseri. The cheese is paired perfectly with the bread in her other hand.
“You look pleased with yourself,” someone says.
What do you know, it’s Dr Andreou – Max. He’s holding a bucket of hot coffee. Takes his caffeine seriously, that man.
“I bought a house,” she tells him.
“Soula told me.”
Vivi waves a hand at the empty chair. “If you don’t sit, I’ll wind up with a sore neck.”
“It’s my job to make people better, not worse.”
“So, sit.”
“I am, I am.”
Even now, when it’s obvious he’s coasting on no sleep, he’s a good-looking man.
“It takes some getting used to,” she says.
“The coffee?”
“Yeah, the coffee.”
Max says, “Did you know Greeks drink more coffee per capita than any other country?”
“Ah, so that's why you're all so feisty.”
“The caffeine makes us passionate.”
“Or neurotic,” she says, thinking about the twists in her family tree.
“Are you making fun of our people?”
“No, just the coffee.”
Her teeth sink into the bread. She hopes for a dainty bite, but it’s more like shoveling coal. With a bit of luck, Max will attribute her pink cheeks to sunburn, never suspecting that she’s having a fun time mentally twisting him into erotic poses.
Hey, it’s been a long time.
“Did Melissa say anything to you about the therapist?”
Vivi swallows. “No. Why?”
“I’m a curious man. Tell me, how do you like your new house? You'll have to give me your address so I can bring a gift.”
“You don't have to.”
“I want to.” His dark brown gaze collides with hers.
Now she’s on fire from the neck down. She tries clearing her throat, but nothing comes out.
“It's not necessary. Honestly.”
“Melissa is my favorite patient,” he says between gulps. “And I can't help feeling responsible for finding you a house.”
Ooookay. She fumbles for paper and a pen, scribbles their new address, her email, and the phone number that will be active when the phone company can be bothered.
Sometime between now and never.
43
MELISSA
HOW DO YOU FEEL today, Melissa?”
“How do you feel today, Dr Triantafillou?”
“I’m well. Thank you for asking. But we’re here to talk about you.”
“I’m well. Thank you for asking.”
Now she’s getting it. But Melissa figured the shrink would be angry, not smiling. Her teeth are whiter today, or maybe her tan is darker. Whatever. Melissa wants her outfit. She likes the denim pencil skirt and the too-tall wedges.
“It’s a common tactic,” the shrink says. “But ultimately a time waster. Time we could both be using to help you. Is that what you want, Melissa, to waste your time?”
“How old are you?”
“Does it matter?”
“No.”
“I’m twenty-eight.”
“How come you told me?”
“Because you asked.”
“Oh.”
“I’ll give you honest answers, Melissa. But you have to give me honest answers, too.”
“What happens if I don’t?”
“One of two things. They assign you a new psychologist, or they may decide you need . . . a different kind of help.”
“Pills?”
“Possibly. Probably a combination of medication and observation, until they’re sure you won’t harm yourself again.”
“I wasn’t trying to kill myself. Nobody believes me.”
“Would you like to tell me how it started, the cutting?”
“Not really.”
“Okay. We don’t have to talk about it today.”
“Are you going to have me locked up if I don’t?”
“No. Only if I think you intend to hurt yourself again. Do you want to hurt yourself again?”
“No,” Melissa says. “I wasn’t trying the first time. It’s just . . . Being fifteen sucks.”
“How does it suck?”
“Don’t you remember what it’s like?”
Dr Triantafillou says, “I think American teenagers have many of the same pressures as Greek teenagers, but also some that are vastly different. Tell me what it’s like for you.”
Melissa doesn’t need to think too hard. “Nobody lets me do anything. Nobody cares what I want. And if they lose their minds and – ” she fakes a gasp “ – ask what I want, then they ignore what I say and do what they want, anyway. So why even ask me to begin with?”
“It’s not easy being fifteen. But you don’t have far to go until you’re eighteen.”