by Sara Alexi
Petta has moved a little closer, put an arm, bent at the elbow, on the back of the bench so he can shield his eyes from the sun to see Miltos clearly. Miltos swallows. The cinnamon was a good idea but he will try the icing sugar tomorrow, for variety.
‘Egypt,’ he says, licking his lips, in response to his own question. ‘That’s where I had my best sailing.’
‘You mean in the Mediterranean, off the coast of Alexandria?’ Petta has started shuffling his feet; his legs twitch, and his hands gesticulate, suddenly needing to expend some energy.
‘Ah, the coast of Alexandria! Where did he not conquer, eh, that Alexander the Great? But no, my favourite place was not even on the sea. It was on the Nile, down at Luxor – you know, across from the Valley of the Kings where all the pharaohs are buried.’
Petta nods vigorously.
‘Well,’ Miltos continues, warming to his story, ‘I had taken the bus from Cairo to Luxor with the intention of seeing the tombs. What a place! I’ve never been so hot in my life.’ He lets his head drop back, looking up at the blue sky, which is dotted with birds floating on unseen thermals. The great ragged leaves of the palm tree in the square move ever so slightly in the lightest of breezes. The sun has moved and the bench they are sitting on is out of its shade now. ‘I had very little money, so I looked for the cheapest place to stay I could find in Luxor, and it was cheap! Just a few cents it cost me a night. But once in my room, by midday, I realised why. I could not move. The building was a block of concrete and it absorbed the heat and, with no air conditioning, I lay on my bed and watched the ceiling fan turning around. In my mind I pretended it was actually cooling the air, but in reality it just blew the heat about a bit, possibly making it worse. I was so hot I just could not move. So the next day, I set out to see the tombs before the sun was fully up and the day was fresh. I could not afford the bus so I had to walk, and so the earlier the better. Well, Luxor is on one side of the river and the trail to the Valley of the Kings is on the other side, and there was no avoiding spending a few piastres to get across. So I wandered down to the water and there I saw the most graceful of sailing craft. They call them feluccas, and they have huge triangular sails to catch the light winds on the river. Beautiful things. Well, the owner was asleep but his little brother – Mohammed was his name – took me across to the other side. He was a good lad, wise and so full of life, like a forty-year-old in an eight-year-old’s body. Anyway, I went up to the tombs and when I came back Mohammed was there again, as if he had not moved in all the time I was away. His elder brother was still asleep at the back of the boat.’
Miltos folds the paper packet that his bougatsa came in and puts it in his pocket.
‘The tombs were interesting, don’t get me wrong, but it was the felucca that really caught my attention. Mohammed was full of questions about Greece, asked if I had been to Germany, England, America. For such a small boy his English was perfect, and strange, coming from a youngster the colour of a burnt chestnut. In his long cotton robe he looked as if he was straight out of the Bible.’ Miltos stops to smile at the memory.
‘But I digress! I was talking about the boat. It was an old wooden open boat, and she was a thing of beauty. Pretty soon Mohammed started the patter. “Hey mister, you take a tour with me down the river?” That kind of thing. His hair was so bleached by the sun that it was a kind of dark red, and the whites of his eyes were so white, as were his teeth. He was a good-looking little chap. I could see his future ahead of him, doing so well with the tourists with his grin and his wit, but eventually finding he was a big fish in a small pond and wanting more. I felt for him.’
He has had that feeling himself once or twice, when he has been somewhere too long. His solution, back then, was to move on, usually to another country. These days he always feels like a big fish because he has seen so much of the world, experienced so many things. Not that this makes him better than anyone else: it’s just that he always sees the bigger picture and the small stuff loses its intensity. On the positive side it seems to have slowed down his haste, but the price of that is that there is nothing to ground him. He returns his thoughts to his storytelling.
‘So I said I couldn’t afford his tour. We were about halfway across the Nile then, on the way back, and he let go of the rudder. He had been steering with his foot, his toes curled over the tiller. But he just moved away and lay down. The boat began to drift – we had been side on to the current, but the bow began to shift round and once in the current we began to pick up speed.’
Petta is smiling as he listens; all the signs of the adult life he must have lived are wiped away and he looks like a small boy. It pleases Miltos, and he continues.
‘I cannot afford your tour even if you force me,’ I told Mohammed as I took the rudder and steered us back to the bank. It didn’t make any difference to him, he just shrugged and let me steer the boat, and let me tell you, she handled beautifully. Well, it seems the young lad had been thinking as I sailed us across, because he asked me to go in with him. “You come with me,” he said, or something like that. “We make tours together. I do the chat-chat with the women and you do the steering.” Just like that! “He’s no good,” he said, meaning his brother, who was still half-asleep. And that’s how it happened, and I spent the summer taking tours up and down the Nile. I tanned a dark brown with being out in the intense sun all day long, and Mohammed gave me a jelabiya to wear, and for all the world I looked like I had been born there.’
He sighs. Mohammed became like a younger brother and a son all in one, and because of it, for the months that he spent on the Nile, he felt very grounded. But by the end of the summer his care for little Mohammed began to worry him. He thought that if he grew too fond of the little man he might become stuck. At least, that was what he told himself at the time. The truth was that the feeling he had for the boy, the love he began to feel, as if Mohammed was his own offspring, began to ignite a spark that made him think about having children of his own. That frightened him, and although he was only half aware of it at the time, it was why he left.
‘What an adventure!’ Petta says. ‘This is the sort of adventure I want to have with my son when he is grown. I can see us sailing from island to island, with Irini – that’s my wife – making the food, and watching the dolphins. This is my dream.’
‘Oh, you have a boat then?’ Miltos asks.
‘Ah, no, that is my first dream. I have had this dream since before my son. The dream to build a boat with my own hands.’ Petta spreads his hands out before him. He has a big span.
‘That is a fine dream, and one I have had myself. But it looks like I will never fulfil it.’
‘But why wouldn’t you?’ Petta curls his fingers into his palms and drops his hands to his lap.
‘Well, for one I have never stayed anywhere long enough to make it happen.’ The corners of Miltos’s mouth twitch downwards.
‘So stay somewhere. Stay here. Maybe we can build such a boat.’ Petta’s eyes sparkle, a broad grin on his face. His legs have started jiggling about again, his toes tapping. ‘If you stay long enough my son can help too.’ He is laughing now.
Miltos scrunches up the paper packet his bougatsa came in and smiles at Petta.
‘Ah, to have a son, how lucky are you. It is him you should build your boat with. Now, that is a luxury I can never have.’ He stands. ‘I think I will take a short walk. Where does the little lane on the other side of the kiosk go?’
Petta is also on his feet now. Miltos notes that he has to fractionally look up at him, which is rare. He doesn’t often find men taller than he is.
‘Up to the pines on the hilltop. There’s a beautiful view from there,’ Petta tells him.
‘Sounds perfect. See you.’ He says the words but he does not really want to leave this man’s company. He would love to stay and start to build boats with him, maybe even stay long enough to watch Petta’s son’s small hands grow and learn to use woodworking tools. But this desire makes him feel vulnerable, an
d his legs jiggle involuntarily, ready to run.
‘By the way, my son’s baptism is the day after tomorrow – if all goes well,’ Petta adds, and his brow wrinkles. ‘But if it does, it would be a pleasure to see you there.’ He does not wait for a reply. He turns his broad shoulders and strides across to the corner shop. ‘Come and we can talk some more about the boats we will build,’ he calls back over his shoulder.‘Ah yes, I think I heard something about that,’ Miltos replies, and he watches Petta stride across the square towards the corner shop, but before the young man reaches it he is waylaid by a dog and stops to rub its head.
‘Ah, so the lady in the blue dress that runs the corner shop is the mama,’ Miltos says to himself as he makes the connection, also noting a resemblance.
Chapter 13
‘The priest has only gone and double-booked us,’ Stella announces as she enters the corner shop.
Frona is perched on a chair close to the counter, chatting with Marina, who is busying herself with a carton of mini ouzo bottles, arranging them on a high shelf on the back wall. Juliet is standing by the shelves of cleaning products, picking through a box of rubber gloves, dishcloths, rubber sink plugs and pan scourers.
‘Double-booked who?’ Frona asks casually.
‘Do you have any of those metal things with holes in that sit over the sink plughole to catch peelings and teabags and so on?’ Juliet asks.
‘Yes, they are in the button and zip box.’ Marina points to where it is on the shelf Juliet is looking at.
‘Of course they are! Where else would they be? Oh, it says that it is only one hundred drachmas!’ Juliet pulls out her find and holds it up to show the price tag.
‘I’ve been busy,’ Marina says.
‘Since 2002?’ Frona wags a finger at Marina and laughs.
‘Did you hear me?’ Stella says.
‘Who has double-booked who, Stella?’ Frona asks.
‘Petta and Irini’s baptism and Loukas and Ellie’s wedding.’
‘Surely not?’ Juliet says.
‘Please tell me this is a bad joke?’ Marina abruptly stops organising the bottles and sits heavily.
‘No joke. I have just been talking to Petta.’ Stella looks behind her, out of the door. He is there on the bench by the kiosk talking to the stranger with the broad shoulders.
Marina looks through the window and asks, ‘What’s he doing with that man?’
‘What man?’ Juliet peers out of the window, as does Frona.
‘Oh, it’s the tall man who was in here yesterday.’ Frona says. Marina starts to smile, as the memory of their discussion about pigs in sacks comes back to her, along with the look the stranger gave her. A thrill runs down her spine, making her wriggle.
‘It looks like they are chatting, but he is not the point. The fact is we are double-booked.’ Stella turns back to Marina.
‘Well, that’s the priest’s fault, surely?’ Frona says.
‘Yes, but our problem,’ Stella says.
‘Well, if it is the priest’s fault, get the priest to sort it. I’m sure he hasn’t double-booked anyone, and someone has heard the date wrong.’ Frona sniffs.
‘Well, I didn’t.’ Marina is adamant.
‘I really don’t think Ellie is going to get her dates wrong – this is her wedding,’ Stella retorts.
‘So you are suggesting I don’t know what I was told?’ Marina is back on her feet facing Stella.
Stella’s hands are on her hips and she is about to reply when Frona says quickly, ‘Ask the priest.’
‘You are right. Come on, Marina.’ Stella relaxes her stance and the two of them bustle out of the shop. Frona, who is still sitting, struggles for a moment to stand and then hurries to catch them up. She pauses in the doorway for a moment to beckon Juliet.
‘I’ll keep an eye on the shop,’ Juliet says, and she watches the three women hurry away, up towards the church, before her gaze returns to the stranger on the bench opposite.
Behind the church there is a large grand house with a balcony that overlooks the paved area around the church, and seated on this balcony, sipping coffee in the sun, is the new priest, in his black robes. He is the second new priest in fairly quick succession and the villagers do not really know him yet.
‘Papa?’ Stella calls up. He starts over his coffee and then draws a hand over his long beard before wiping the same hand down his cassock.
‘Papa, can we talk?’ Stella takes a step closer.
‘Of course,’ he says amiably, but he does not offer to come down, nor does he invite them up.
‘The last priest might have been a bit vacant but he was not rude,’ Frona says quietly. Then, loud enough for him to hear, she adds, ‘You have double-booked a wedding and a baptism the day after tomorrow.’
A noise behind them makes them all turn. The old widow who lives opposite the church has come out of her house with a broom, and she begins to sweep her spotless porch.
‘No, no, no, no, no.’ The priest chuckles to himself. ‘I have booked the wedding for eleven, but the baptism is at ten.’ He stands with his coffee and comes to the edge of the balcony.
‘Exactly!’ Stella says. ‘And I am supposed to do the catering for both, and both celebrations are meant to be held in the village square.’
‘Oh.’ The priest pales.
‘Yes – oh.’ Stella folds her arms and looks up at him.
‘Well, I’m afraid after today I have a lot of diocese business to take care of this week and I will not be here except that morning. Maybe the wedding or the baptism can be moved to next week?’
‘People are coming from long distances. I think there are cousins from Crete and Corfu, maybe even from abroad. We cannot reschedule.’ Stella is firm.
‘Is it not possible to use the hotel for one of the celebrations?’ the priest asks lightly. He doesn’t seem concerned.
‘For our own reasons we want both to be in the square,’ Marina says.
‘Well, ladies …’ The priest takes a sip of his coffee, and appears almost to enjoy looking down on them and receiving all this attention. ‘I am not sure what you are asking of me now?’ He smiles, his face muscles growing soft, the skin around his jowls sagging.
Stella opens her mouth and then closes it again.
‘What are we asking him?’ Marina hisses quietly through her teeth, keeping her face still.
No one says anything. The priest shifts his weight, the corners of his mouth drop and he scratches at his belly under his cup and saucer as he waits.
Stella suddenly shrugs and walks away, leaving Marina and Frona hurrying after her. They all come to a halt outside the shop.
‘So, it is as it is,’ Stella states. ‘Someone will have to give way. Marina?’
‘It makes more sense that Loukas and Ellie have their reception at the hotel,’ says Marina. ‘After all, all of Ellie’s family will be staying there.’
‘Yes, that’s true.’ Frona nods.
‘But they work at the hotel. Don’t you think they need a break from the place?’ Stella says.
They are now back at the shop, where Juliet is standing in the doorway, ankles crossed, arms folded.
‘That’s true too.’ Frona nods.
‘We need to tell Ellie and Irini and see what they have to say. Let them decide,’ Stella suggests.
‘Ah, but we were trying not to stress them,’ Marina says.
‘Can’t be helped,’ says Frona, then adds, ‘He’s still there.’
‘Who is?’ Stella turns to see where she is looking.
‘That man with Petta,’ Juliet says, not averting her gaze.
‘You know, Marina, if I was your age I would speak to him.’ Frona giggles.
‘What do you mean, “my age”? You make me sound like a spring chicken. I am fifty-three and have been a widow for twenty-five years.’
‘Exactly! Twenty-five years alone.’ Frona’s eyes shine and she is looking from Marina to the man on the bench next to Petta.
Vasso, acros
s the road, is looking back at them, watching them from within her kiosk. Finally she releases herself from her confines and hurries over.
‘What’s going on?’ she asks, arms folded, ready to gossip.
‘Frona is matchmaking Marina with Mr Shoulders over there,’ Juliet says.
‘What are they talking about, do we know? I could hear them, from inside my kiosk, but not the words, just the tone. He has this lovely slow way of speaking,’ Vasso says.
‘Then you have him, Vasso. You are more of a spring chicken than I am,’ Marina says, but she is still looking at the stranger.
‘We are the same age,’ Vasso replies, but now she is staring at the man too.
‘Perhaps he is married,’ Juliet adds.
‘No ring,’ Frona responds without hesitation, as if this is the most natural observation in the world to have made. ‘But actually, Juliet, perhaps he is the man for you?’
‘Me?’ Juliet exclaims, as if the thought is unthinkable, but then she looks more carefully at the stranger.
Chapter 14
The air-conditioning unit sends a blast of cool air into the shop. Mounted over the doorway, it chills the air that enters the shop, and Frona, Marina, Vasso and Juliet continue to stand in the entrance where the air is coolest, watching the stranger talk to Petta. Petta stands and begins a slow walk towards them, stopping halfway to pat a stray dog.
The stranger now stands and with long, easy strides walks around the kiosk and up the lane that leads to the pine forest on the hill. As he turns a corner and is lost from view, the women shuffle a little. Marina folds her arms, Vasso pats at her hair.
‘Right, well, I’m going too,’ Frona says. ‘I have my bees to tend to.’
Marina follows her out into the heat, and looks up and down the lane for potential customers. On her way back into the shop she takes three bottles of water from the drinks fridge by the door, hands one to Juliet and one to Vasso, and opens the third herself.