by Sara Alexi
‘Don’t be fooled by Stella, she is dynamite! She has another business with this girl I have met. Abbie is her name. They have a candle-making factory over towards Saros. You know, traditional Greek candles, the type they use in the churches. They export them around the world.’
He strums his three notes again and, concentrating on the fretboard, he adds, as if it is a casual afterthought, ‘They also make scented candles for homes and people who have beauty salons, that sort of thing.’ He plays the three notes louder and adds the chords with confidence. ‘I am even toying with the idea of asking her to marry me.’
‘Congratulations!’ Miltos’s excitement comes through in his voice.
‘No spilling that to the press, now.’ Sakis says this with a quick glance at Miltos, and a quick grin. ‘This is confidential stuff. I haven’t even asked her yet. Just toying with the idea.’ Playing a couple of chords, he sings the words ‘Join with me’, and then adds the three notes and lightly strums a harmony.
‘What’s stopping you?’ Miltos asks.
‘There is always that thought, isn’t there, that she might say no? That terrifies me. That thought always leads on to thinking of all the girls in the world I have yet to meet, and then this holds me back from asking her.’
‘Yes, there are always all the girls you have yet to meet!’ Miltos laughs and leans back to rest on his elbows, stretching his feet out in front of him.
‘Well, you have a few years on me, old man. You must have met an awful lot more than me.’ Sakis laughs too. But Miltos stops laughing. Old man! Who is he calling an old man? He sits up so his chin is no longer on his chest, a position in which he could feel the loose skin from his neck gather. He lifts his head tall and pulls back his shoulders. Old man, indeed.
‘Right.’ Sakis gathers all his sheet music and folds it carefully into a small satchel that he slings over his neck, then stands and swings his guitar round behind his back. He opens the satchel again and appears to be looking for something. ‘Ah, here you go,’ He closes the bag and holds something out towards Miltos. ‘That will get you into any of my concerts and allows you to come backstage to see me. But, you know what, I suspect I will see you again in the village before long.’
He chuckles and with a wave walks off down the hill, his hips rolling with each step, his knees turned out slightly as if he is a cowboy. There is no hurry in his movements.
‘Old man, indeed.’ Miltos looks at the card Sakis gave him. ‘Guest pass, all venues, backstage,’ he reads. The pass is valid for the remainder of the year. ‘Generous,’ he mutters, and then he stands and looks after Sakis. ‘Old man,’ he repeats. He waits a moment so he won’t catch Sakis up and then he too starts off down the hill.
Chapter 18
Back down in the village square a reflex tells him to buy some gum from the kiosk. Not that he wants gum. What he wants is another glimpse of, and maybe even a conversation with, the coiffured woman who works there, to smooth his ruffled feathers.
Up under the pines, Sakis, intentionally or not, pulled a switch on him. One minute, he seemed like a mirror to Miltos – inside, Miltos felt exactly as the young musician looked: energetic, alive and full of vitality – and it was a real shock when Sakis suddenly and swiftly pulled that mirror aside and called him an old man. Even if it was said light-heartedly, that must be how he appears to the young musician. It jarred him, displaced his internal sense of self, and now he feels a need to re-establish how he believes others see him. After all, his muscles are still strong, his legs are still powerful. Who could not believe him to be young, or at worst middle-aged, when he still thinks nothing of walking for four or five hours for pleasure? Does he not spend long hours waiting for his next delivery helping the mechanics by lifting car tyres and lugging them around at the depot? It is just a game to pass the time for him.
‘Hello,’ he says to Vasso in the kiosk. He is aware he is flouting his own self-imposed rule of no more flirting, but to hell with it – he will flirt as much as he likes. He is not ready to be passed over.
‘Hello.’ She leans on the counter inside her wooden kiosk as if she has all the time in the world.
‘Like a bird in a cage,’ he says, and he watches her flutter her eyelashes. The reaction is flattering, but she is not a young women. Handsome, and giggly, but not young. ‘I’ll just take this gum,’ he says, forcing himself to look away from her deep brown eyes. He needs to flirt with someone younger to feel himself again.
‘Excuse me, papou.’ A boy of about eight or nine pushes by his knees and takes something from a lower shelf. He holds it up to show Vasso, tosses a coin on the counter and runs off.
‘Papou!’ Miltos exclaims. First old man and now granddad.
‘Ah, we all look old to the young, and the young all look like children to us. It is the way of the world.’ Vasso giggles again. She doesn’t seem to mind this fact in the least. But then, he reflects, how could she avoid the truth, sitting in the same spot day after day, year after year, watching the faces of the children as they grow up, marry, even have children of their own? Is this why he never settles anywhere – to avoid his own reflection? Maybe this is what is different about this village: the people somehow don’t give you a choice but to see yourself, but at the same time they seem to completely accept you, just as you are. But who is to say they are giving him a true reflection? Well, he will not have a likeness imposed on him that he is not satisfied with, not by this village, not by young children or musicians, nor even by a comely kiosk owner. He looks over his shoulder at the corner shop and remembers the woman with mischief in her eyes, the lady in the blue dress. But she was a mature woman too. He pays for the gum and leaves without another word.
If the car was fixed and ready to drive he would be glad to leave right now. He takes the three steps up into the kafenio in a single stride, forcing a bounce into his movements. He chooses a table overlooking the village and sits with his back straight and his head up to appear alert, young.
‘What can I get you?’ Theo asks.
‘A cola,’ he says and then wonders if they still taste the same. He has not had a cola in years.
The man on the table next to him smells, but it is a comforting, warm smell.
‘Goats?’ Miltos addresses him. It’s good to talk, to keep his mind from turning things over.
‘Yup, just been trimming their feet,’ his neighbour replies.
Theo returns with Miltos’s cola.
‘You want a drink, my friend?’ Miltos asks his new companion.
‘Thank you, I’ll have another Greek coffee. Sketo, I don’t think I could stand the sugar. Nicolaos, by the way,’ the man says by way of introduction, and his face contorts in what could be pain. He is a big man, barrel-chested, and his eyes are half screwed-up and his lips tight.
‘Miltos,’ Miltos replies. ‘You all right?’
‘Toothache.’ Nicolaos grimaces even more.
‘Toothache – oh, I have a cure for toothache – shall I tell you it?’ Miltos is glad that he has a chance to tell a tale, a chance to cheer someone up. It will stop him thinking about himself and will take him back to his younger days. ‘Ah yes, toothache. Like all aches, if you concentrate on them they fill your world and there is nothing else in your mind. That is the worst.’
‘But you have a cure?’ The shepherd asks.
Theo brings the coffee and gives Nicolaos a commiserating pat on his shoulder before returning behind his counter to make crockery chime as he rinses it under the tap.
‘Let me tell you. I was just out of military service.’ Miltos looks up at the ceiling and it is as if he can see the exact day in the swirling cigarette smoke that lingers there in a hazy cloud. ‘You would think that I would have been aware of the political tension in the Middle East. But I was young and, do you know, it didn’t even occur to me to wonder what was happening in the world.’
He lingers on the feeling but considers that perhaps the wisdom of age has some advantages too. He plays with his c
ola, turning it around and watching the ice stay still. His mouth twitches in and out of a smile as the sun reflects off the glass, lighting up the cola so it becomes almost red. ‘So, anyway, I ended up in Israel, in a kibbutz, in the kitchen of all places. I was slowly pouring fourteen litres of oil into a hundred eggs, or something like that, making a sort of chocolate spread for something they called matza im shokolad. Do you know it?’
He pauses for a response but Nicolaos looks blank and a little confused. He is rubbing his cheek against his gums.
Miltos goes on. ‘Anyway, I was sweating like a pig and through the open windows I could hear some of the other volunteers twittering and fidgeting and getting into a flap. The day before had been the last day of Jewish Passover, I think it was, and the PLO had infiltrated another kibbutz some distance away. It scared some people and now half of the volunteers wanted to leave.’
Nicolaos looks out across the square and then back to Miltos and settles. A story is being told and everyone likes a good story.
‘The other volunteers at the kibbutz were from all over the world. There was a girl with flaming red hair from Scotland, Isla was her name, and I do remember that there were two pretty Australian girls. Oh, and a really beautiful French girl with her weasel of a boyfriend, and several Dutch. The French girl really was beautiful, but aloof, as only beautiful girls can be. This French girl and some of the others had even packed their bags and were ready to leave, but I didn’t even think about it.’ He pauses and takes a sip of his cola. It is sweet and sickly. He should have asked for a coffee instead.
‘I don’t know about you, but when I did my military service I think I fired a gun once, on a shooting range. I suppose I was lucky.’ He grins widely. ‘My first piece of luck was walking as tall as I do, the second was to have such broad shoulders.’
He sits up straight as if to demonstrate, but when he looks at Nicolaos to see if he is impressed he notices that his companion is nearly as tall as him and probably bigger round the chest. But he does not have the same straightness across his shoulders. Miltos pulls his elbows back to accentuate his advantage. ‘And I was lucky enough to catch the eye of a visiting officer. Naturally, I didn’t care if I was stationed in Kalamata, Thessaloniki or Thebes – it made no difference to me. But no sooner was I in my uniform than this officer shipped me off to Athens. He wanted me to be an evzone and guard the houses of parliament, in my foustanella and those shoes that turn up at the toes. Me!’
He throws his head back and laughs heartily. Other heads in the kafenio turn to see what is so funny, the infectious sound causing them to smile and chuckle. Nicolaos also laughs.
Chapter 19
‘But why would you not make a good evzone?’ Nicolaos asks as the laughter subsides.
‘Oh, if only you knew how I cannot sit still. It is the story of my life. I have never stayed anywhere for long, and even when I am in any one place, to remain still there is impossible.’ As if to demonstrate the truth of his statement, Miltos’s foot starts tapping, and he puts his hand on his knee, forcing the movement to stop. ‘And here was this officer selecting me as a presidential guard where I would have to stand motionless for hours at a time on Syntagma Square, for everyone to stop and stare at!’
His words roll into another laugh; all thoughts of age are forgotten and he feels young again. Faces around the kafenio look over with amusement.
‘Is it true they never blink?’ Nicolaos asks. ‘They say the training is very hard.’
There is a clack of a wooden piece on a backgammon board and a chair scrapes. A game of tavli has begun at another table.
‘I never found out. As I said, I was shipped to Athens, and the night I arrived this officer ordered me to drive him somewhere, to some function where he wanted to be able to drink, and that was that. The rest of my military service was spent playing chauffeur to the big guys. I got to drive limos, jeeps, Jaguars, Daimlers and, once, a really wide American vehicle.’
‘But where was I with my story? Oh yes, listening to the volunteers on the kibbutz getting ready to leave because they were scared. The Israelis themselves seemed to take it in their stride. After all, the PLO had been around since the sixties, and they were used to these scares. In any case, where would they go? So there I was, mixing the eggs with the oil, and I could hear the bombs in the distance, and I distracted myself, thinking what if there was one bad egg in the mix? Would it be enough to ruin this batch of chocolate sauce? Would two be enough, three? As I considered this, I felt someone’s eyes on me. I looked up to see the man who ran the kitchen, his name was Goddan, or something like that, and his eyebrows had lowered into an intense frown.
‘“You not bothered about the bombs and the PLO?” he asked me.
‘“What can I do?” I said above the noise of the mixing machine.
‘He shrugged and his eyebrows rose. “You are right,” he said. “I guess you either have the luck or you don’t. Maybe you have the luck.” And then he left.
‘As it turned out, it seemed that I did have the luck. Later I found out that not only was that one of the safest kibbutzes, so close to the border, but also it was a pretty easy place as far as the volunteers were concerned. I later heard reports that some of the kibbutzes were run like slave camps, the volunteers being worked fourteen or sixteen hours a day, but I never saw any of that. We had big green lawns, a swimming pool, a room each for the volunteers, plenty of dope to smoke. It was a hippy’s dream.
‘But back to the story. The French girl did leave, and so did the Austrians. But Isla, the red-headed Scottish girl, she stayed on and for a while there was just me and her in the volunteer rooms, until more volunteers came, after the troubles calmed down.
‘I don’t know if you know your geography. I didn’t before I went. The kibbutz was in the Negev desert, which is down in the south of the country, very close to the border. Just a few hundred yards from the kibbutz was a high fence, and beyond the fence the lush green grass ended and there was just the sand of the desert. It was the Gaza Strip on the other side of the fence. We would see the planes flying over occasionally. They had created an oasis in the desert, the Israelis. I don’t know where all the water came from, but they must have used a lot of it, to get the desert so green.’
Nicolaos is sipping his coffee, sucking the dark liquid off the top, his eyes on Miltos, enraptured. Miltos knows he is a good storyteller. He puts energy into the telling, priding himself on his delivery. The two men on the next table have stopped their conversation and they too are listening. Even Theo has stopped clattering and loiters nearby, wiping the tabletops, straightening the chairs.
‘I spent a couple of weeks in the kitchens, and then they moved me to the fields, to work with the bulls. They rotated us, and we would only work on a particular job for a short time. Some of the volunteers grumbled, but I found it interesting, to try new things. It was hot outside with the bulls, and dusty. We would round them up, and lead them from here to there. Sometimes we would have to give them injections, with big, thick needles. There was a knack to getting round behind the animal so you could stick your syringe in its rump and press the plunger before it ran off.’
Nicolaos chuckles but then nods, encouraging Miltos to go on.
‘We spent a lot of time carting the hay about. That was hard work, heaving heavy bales of hay on and off the trailer. Built me up some fine muscles.’ He lifts his arm and flexes his bicep, which is hard and round. Not as bulging as it once was, but there is enough meat there to make him feel proud.
‘But the work was satisfying, too. There was an American guy who lived there full-time, and when he wanted the bulls to move out of the way or go in a particular direction he would throw a clod of earth at their heads. Boof!’ Miltos jerks his head back and slaps the heel of his hand on his forehead to demonstrate. ‘And it worked,’ he continued. ‘They would just move out of the way. I don’t think they were bothered, they were so big and their skulls were so thick. But they were unpredictable. Sometimes they w
ould just look at you and have no fear, and other times they would run off when they saw you near. I never understood them.’
‘Ah well, at least with a goat you know where you are,’ Nicolaos says. ‘Even when they don’t want their hooves clipped they are still gentle. They try to yank their legs out of your grip and occasionally turn their heads and lower them as if to butt you, but they rarely do. I find them to be really gentle creatures.’
‘I have never trimmed a goat’s feet,’ Miltos admits.
‘Nothing to it, the hooves are in two halves, just level them up, make them flat, and don’t take too much off the heel else they rock back and it puts a strain on the tendons.’ Nicolaos says this as if it is the easiest thing in the world.
Miltos leaves the last of his cola. He will not order another one. Not today, probably not ever. He cannot imagine how he ever liked the stuff. It is sickly-sweet and far too fizzy. Perhaps he will drink a coffee to chase the flavour away.
‘You want another coffee?’ He asks Nicolaos.
‘I’ll get you one.’ Nicolaos turns his head to find Theo. ‘One glyko, please.’ He orders himself a sweet coffee. ‘And what will you have my friend – another cola?’
‘No. Coffee for me too, please. Metrio,’ Miltos says.
‘You sure you want it sweet, Nicolaos?’ says Theo.
‘Yes, why wouldn’t I?’ Nicolaos’s eyebrows rise at his question.
‘Because of your toothache?’ Theo reminds him.
‘Oh!’ Nicolaos looks as if he has suddenly remembered something unpleasant. ‘Oh yes, better make it sketo.’ He looks sad. ‘So what about this toothache cure?’ He turns to Miltos.
‘It worked very well until Theo reminded you otherwise,’ Miltos says.