by Mandy Baggot
‘Melina tells me you are setting up a surgery in the village,’ Dimitri said, changing the conversation.
Michalis shook his head, sighing. ‘Melina is making visitors drink goat urine before they go to their accommodation, did you know that?’
‘I knew of it,’ Dimitri admitted with a shrug. ‘What can anyone do? She is the president.’
‘She has got even more crazy since the golden tortoise arrived. When she is not giving orders to people, she is polishing it. Around and around. Up and down. Side to side.’ Nyx made a mime of someone cleaning in all the motions. ‘I think she expects Kyriakos Mitsotakis to visit and present her with something even bigger.’ She grinned at her own euphemism. ‘Another ball?’ She picked up the platter and offered the skull across the table.
‘I have enough,’ Michalis answered his sister. He was five balls down and unable to breathe without leaning back in the chair. And if he leaned back too far he would be in danger of falling from the balcony to the street below. The railings had been shaky for years. When Nyx had turned six and was old enough to climb olive trees and skilled enough to dissect a pig, no one considered it a hazard any longer. But perhaps he could fix it himself while he was here. His father wasn’t getting any younger…
‘Papa?’ Nyx asked.
‘Not for me,’ Dimitri said, putting down his fork. He took another slurp of ouzo. ‘So, where is this surgery to be? And why does the president know about your plans before your own father?’
Michalis let out a sigh, but his father showing interest in his plans was an improvement on his general demeanour. ‘This was not my intention.’
‘But you are going to do it?!’ Nyx exclaimed.
He wasn’t going to do it. Was he? The truth was he didn’t know what he was going to do. He hadn’t thought of anything much past the ripping off of his scrubs and the pain in his own heart as he lost yet another patient. He’d tried to talk about it with his friend, Nikos, once. After three bottles of Alfa and a shot called Kamikaze at a bar not far from the hospital, he had tried to explain a little of how he felt. But the words had stuck in his throat as Nikos claimed everything could be rinsed away with alcohol and the freedom of the dancefloor. It was then that Michalis knew not everyone felt the same. At times, Michalis had felt like he was cycling up the steepest of mountains. The summit was there, just out of reach, behind the clouds, until you rounded the very next corner and it completely disappeared. Did you stop pedalling and turn back because there was no guarantee the end would ever be there to reach? Or did you carry on regardless because not giving up had to make some kind of difference? He still didn’t have the answer to that question.
‘You are too good for this village with their earaches and their piles,’ Dimitri scoffed.
‘And,’ Nyx began, ‘there are certain creams it would be embarrassing to ask your brother for.’
‘Although the large amount of medicines Miltos goes through would pay a deposit on a house for you,’ Dimitri stated.
‘It was something I said to get myself out of a situation,’ Michalis continued. How many times had he done that before?
‘He is to be paraded through the streets,’ Nyx told their father, bouncing a little on her chair. ‘For the new festival. The Day of the Not Dead.’
‘I have seen the posters. They make you look like Superman.’
‘There are more posters?!’ Nyx said. ‘With Micha’s face on them?’
‘This is insanity,’ Michalis said, shaking his head. ‘From where has Melina got a photograph of me?’
‘It is not a photograph,’ Dimitri told him. ‘It is an artist’s impression.’
‘Someone has drawn him!’ Nyx laughed out loud, banging the butt of her fork on the table and making everything shake. ‘Please tell me it is a cartoon!’
‘This village!’ Michalis exclaimed in irritation.
‘Despite what you say,’ Dimitri said, ‘the village is changing. It is not how it once was.’
His father’s tone was reflective. It was almost as if this conversation was no longer about pills for haemorrhoids or the panegyris, but something deeper. Michalis’s gaze went to a small wooden basket on the shelves of the balcony wall. Its weaving was coming apart at the joins and there was evidence on the outside that swallows had been nesting in it. He had made that basket when he was eight with his mother. It was one of the last things they had done together…
‘I agree it is changing,’ Nyx said. ‘You are wanting to eat fish instead of meat!’
‘The village is old,’ Dimitri continued.
‘Mrs Kanaris is turning ninety-five on Christmas Day.’
‘The village is dying,’ Dimitri said again.
Michalis wasn’t sure he liked the way this conversation was going. Perhaps he could get his father to consent to a small series of tests to put Michalis’s own mind at rest. Blood pressure, blood sugar, perhaps a small body MOT to test the function of his liver and kidneys…
‘The village is not dying,’ Nyx scoffed. ‘That is one of the problems. No one is dying!’
‘But they will,’ Dimitri said. ‘And when they do, they will all go at once.’
‘Mrs Kanaris will be the last,’ Nyx mused. ‘Anyone who can eat baklava without their teeth has the will of a warrior.’
‘There are no new people coming into the village. There were only two births last year. Two!’ Dimitri stated, sipping at his drink.
‘Maria is pregnant,’ Nyx reminded. ‘Twins. She is due very soon. She is dying to eat offal again, did you know?’
‘And after that?’ Dimitri asked. ‘There are very few young people to reproduce but… you two.’
‘Oh my God!’ Nyx exclaimed. ‘Why does everybody want me to marry and breed?!’ She dropped her fork and folded her arms across her chest. ‘I am not a horse.’
‘You are thinking about grandchildren?’ Michalis asked. Perhaps his father was simply wallowing in the natural life process of getting older and hitting all the expected milestones.
‘I am thinking that, by now, I thought I would be teaching someone else the trade of butchery,’ Dimitri said.
‘Well,’ Nyx said, leaning forward and unwrapping her arms from around herself, ‘you could put the machetes in the fists of Maria’s twins when they get to five. Better butchers than policemen like their father, am I right?’ She grinned. ‘I am right, right?’
‘I am talking about family,’ Dimitri said, seeming to get a little frustrated. ‘Your mother, she always assumed there would be grandchildren.’
‘But she is not here.’
Michalis didn’t really know why he had felt the need to say that sentence aloud, but he had. They never talked directly about his mother, Lola, now. At first Michalis was desperate to keep the memory of her alive – more so for Nyx who barely remembered the woman who had raised her for only a year – but whenever this happened his father would leave the room and change the conversation until even speaking her name felt too challenging and intrusive somehow.
No one was saying anything in response now either, and Michalis’s words were hanging in the air above the sheep’s skull, perhaps longing to be deep-fried.
It was Dimitri who finally broke the silence.
‘Forget I said anything,’ Dimitri said, getting up from his seat. ‘Your lives are full. You do not need the advice of an old man from an even older village.’
‘Papa,’ Michalis said, rising from his own seat to try and stop his father from leaving the dinner table.
‘Sit,’ Dimitri ordered. ‘Finish your sister’s balls.’
Michalis sensed there was going to be no further discussion and he held his position, hovering over his chair until Dimitri left the balcony.
‘That went well,’ Nyx said, letting out a deep exhale. ‘I make balls and he starts to talk about reproduction. I will never make these again.’
‘How is he when he is at work?’ Michalis asked, retaking his seat.
‘Silent,’ Nyx answered. ‘Unle
ss he is whispering into his phone on his breaks.’
‘Whispering into his phone?’ Michalis didn’t even know his father had a mobile phone.
‘Mmm. It was a purchase he made a few months ago. He says it allows me not to worry so much when he goes out at night on his moped.’
‘Where does he go at night on his moped?’ Now Michalis felt completely out of the loop.
‘I do not know! I am not his prison governor! I am too busy at night going out on my own moped!’
Was Michalis the only one in this family who did not have a two-wheeled vehicle?
‘I want to give him a medical,’ Michalis said, decided.
‘He will not agree to that. You know how he hates to go to the doctor.’
‘He will not be going to any doctor. He will be coming to me. His son.’
‘I think that will make the idea even less appealing,’ Nyx said, leaning back in her chair.
‘You think he does not trust me?’
‘I think he does not trust the whole world after Mama died,’ Nyx said. ‘And you do not visit very much. Too busy with your new friends and your fancy career in Thessaloniki.’
Michalis sighed. His sister had no idea about the difficult parts of his life on the mainland, with good reason. He only shared with her the loud, crazy bars he knew she would love, the heartwarming success stories of his work, the beach parties he’d attended at the start of his career – when he’d actually had days off. But it hadn’t been like that for some time now.
‘And apart from the night riding and the mobile phone,’ Nyx started, ‘Papa still feels the same about everything. Life has dealt him shit and he is simply getting older.’
Michalis didn’t know how to respond. He had been so focussed on what was going on in his own life he had taken his eye off the ball when it came to things in Sortilas. Nyx had done her main growing up with only Dimitri. Their father had spent a large portion of his life as a widower solely responsible for a young daughter. That can’t have been easy for either of them. Perhaps sending home money and visiting sporadically hadn’t been enough. Maybe he had ended up putting his patients before his own kin.
‘So,’ Nyx began. ‘Are you going to open your surgery or not?’
Michalis sighed, plucking another lamb ball from the skull and holding it between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Yes,’ he answered finally. ‘If only to get Papa to take some tests.’
Nyx grinned. ‘Perfect. And, if he does not comply, I can help you collect samples in inventive ways.’
Michalis was certain he did not want to hear any more about that.
Twelve
Villa Psomi, Sortilas
‘Gavin’s room has an oven in it,’ Lucie spilled into her phone. She was standing on the terrace that led out from the upper sitting room, gazing at the glorious span of cerulean sea set out before her. Her now sun-cream-coated shoulders were soaking up the hot early evening sunshine as she chatted to Meg back in England. ‘It used to be a bakery apparently and you could actually crawl into the oven and sleep there, you know, if you wanted to.’ Lucie smiled to herself. ‘Gavin said there are groups who pay a lot of money to stay somewhere with confined spaces.’
‘How ridiculous,’ Meg replied. ‘Don’t they know they will end up confined in a coffin soon enough?’ She tutted. ‘Now, tell me more about the view and the village. I just can’t believe you’re in Corfu, Lucie-Lou.’
When Lucie had told Meg she was in Corfu, her aunt had made a noise that sounded like a cross between the mew of a cat and a purr of the engine of a well-looked-after classic car. It turned out that Corfu was the island where Meg had met Petros. But that was still all the detail Meg was currently divulging.
‘Neither can I,’ Lucie admitted. ‘And I can’t believe how beautiful it is.’ She let the sigh of contentment leave her and felt her soul soar as it gently pulsed in reaction to the magnificent vista.
‘Tell me what it looks like,’ Meg begged.
Lucie wasn’t sure she had heard Meg so enthusiastic about anything before. Not even the Isle of Wight. ‘Well,’ Lucie started. ‘The sea is the colour of… the mix of blues in your favourite blouse. It’s pale and then it’s deep and then it’s turquoise and, from where I’m standing right now, it’s so wide and peacefully still.’
Meg sighed, satisfied. ‘What about the mountains? Can you see the mountains?’
‘I can see Albania,’ Lucie said, nodding as she took in the dramatic backdrop where the sea stopped. ‘It’s like nothing I’ve ever imagined. Here I am, in Greece, and I’m looking at another country across the water.’
‘I can’t believe you’re in the north of Corfu too.’
‘What was the name of the place you stayed?’
‘Perithia,’ Meg said. ‘A tiny little apartment I didn’t spend any time in because it was so small. It had a lovely view of an olive grove, but the mosquitos were quite fierce in the evenings. The little village was lovely though. There were two tavernas, both equally delightful and…’
‘What’s the matter?’ Lucie asked as Meg suddenly stopped talking.
‘I’m here reminiscing about times long gone by and you’re the one who’s having your first summer in Greece. This is your story, Lucie-Lou. Tell me more.’
Suddenly Lucie didn’t want to tell Meg more. Something inside was nudging her to instead ask a question, as tiny snippets of maybe-memories prickled her subconscious. She was thinking about her mum again in this moment. Had she had any dreams to travel? How would Rita have felt in front of this view? Would her mum have breathed it into her soul like Lucie was, or would she have been more interested in finding the partying and late nights like everyone seemed to recall. Lucie shook her head.
‘Lucie, is everything OK?’ Meg’s voice asked down the phone connection.
‘Yes,’ Lucie said quickly. Now wasn’t the time. ‘We… we have a huge garden. Half an acre all to ourselves, with olive trees, and there’s herbs and beautiful pots of flowers and there are ruins next door that are all crumbling and atmospheric. Gavin’s already a bit worried about ghosts.’
Meg laughed. ‘He should be more worried about snakes if you have half an acre of grass.’
‘Really?’ Lucie swallowed. She might not be afraid of insects but she wasn’t quite sure how she felt about snakes…
‘There are many snakes on Corfu,’ Meg informed her. ‘But the majority are harmless and very beautiful. Just be noisy when you walk. Stamp your feet and chat. I cannot think that Gavin will have a problem with that.’
‘There are four bedrooms. Three in the main house and one in the cutest little studio outside. It even has its own terrace with more incredible views.’ Lucie took a breath. ‘Honestly, Meg, so far it’s the most amazing place I’ve ever been.’
‘You sound more relaxed than I’ve heard you in a very long time. After only a few short hours on Greek soil.’
‘And after riding in a fruit van and watching Gavin drink goat wee.’
‘What?’ Meg exclaimed with a chortle.
‘That’s a whole other story.’
‘What do you have planned for tonight?’ Meg asked. ‘Are you cooking in? Eating out? Honestly, I can almost taste the tender chicken souvlaki.’
‘Gavin said we need to celebrate our first night so absolutely no cooking. He’s going to arrange a taxi to take us somewhere. I don’t know where. What’s chicken soo-vaki?’
‘Souvlaki,’ Meg repeated. ‘Tender chunks of chicken on a skewer, usually served with chips and salad. Delicious.’
‘That sounds really nice.’ Lucie’s stomach gave a rumble of appreciation at the idea of the dish. ‘But, we will eat in too. We both agreed we have to do this as cheaply as possible. So tomorrow we will find a shop and get some supplies.’
‘Fresh salads,’ Meg said. ‘Those ripe, plump tomatoes, and cucumber and red onion… then add in that salty, creamy and crumbly feta cheese. You definitely don’t have to have Gordon Ramsay cooking for you to experience five-star ta
stes in Greece.’
‘I can’t wait,’ Lucie answered.
‘Oh, Lucie-Lou, have an amazing time. And keep ringing me. I want to hear all about it.’ There was a pause and then: ‘And, be careful won’t you? I mean, as much as I adored Corfu, it’s a foreign country to you and—’
‘Meg, you have to stop worrying about me so much,’ Lucie interrupted. ‘I always do the right thing.’ She watched a cream-and-black striped butterfly take flight from the tendril of a plant and for a second she contemplated its utter freedom, happily gliding from one flower to the next, no set routine or plan, no aunt suggesting the best route…
‘Lucie! That mantis is back! Help me!’ It was Gavin, loudly and from inside the house.
‘What’s that dreadful shouting?’ Meg asked.
‘Gavin communing with nature,’ Lucie said with a laugh. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow and describe the chicken on a skewer in minute detail.’
‘I might have to make one myself,’ Meg replied with a heady sigh. ‘Yassas.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means “goodbye”. And “hello”. In Greek.’
‘Yassas,’ Lucie said, loving the feel of the foreign word on her tongue.
‘Goodbye, my darling. Speak soon.’
‘Bye.’ She ended the call and shivered as she looked again at the beautiful sea view.
‘Lucie! Pur-lease!’ Another wail from Gavin ensued.
‘Coming!’
Thirteen
Vouni
‘And we have arrived! Come, Loosely, Gaveen. Come to experience the real Corfiot cuisine.’
Lucie couldn’t quite believe she was packed into the very same fruit van again. This was the ‘taxi’ that Gavin had booked to take them out for dinner. Miltos’s van was now jam-packed with large green striped watermelons that had felt like bowling balls to her kidneys when they had veered around more tight corners.
‘His price was very reasonable,’ Gavin whispered. ‘Dinner with drinks and a taxi both ways for only thirty euro. You did say you wanted to do things cheaply.’