A Stranger in the Village

by Sara Alexi

Miltos’s sense of right and wrong was offended, and although he really needed this money in order to pay for his bed at the hostel, it was the principle of the thing that really got to him – added to which, the amount they were arguing about was trivial, and the owner could take it out of his back pocket and not notice the difference the next day.

  The first customers were beginning to file in, taking their places at tables that were bedecked with starched linen tablecloths and red candles. The conversation buzzed gently, and Miltos stood there in a rage, trembling from head to toe at the injustice of it. The owner stood by the front door, waving him out with a dismissive gesture. What could he do? His story would be dismissed if he called the police, and besides, he had no work permit. As he made his way reluctantly to the front door, he passed a little stage where musicians would sometimes play, serenading the diners from the grand piano, or softly strumming acoustic guitars. Before the thought had a chance to form in his mind, and almost before he knew what he was doing, Miltos hopped up onto this stage and sat cross-legged in the centre, with his arms folded across his chest.

  ‘Get off, go – the customers are here,’ the owner hissed, holding the door open for him, but Miltos did not move. He could see his actions were causing a stir. Some of the customers looked up at him, perhaps anticipating an act of some sort.

  ‘Will you go?’ the owner hissed again, but Miltos did not say a word. ‘If you don’t go, I will get my brother.’ The owner’s brother was a big man and was usually kept out of sight, doing the menial jobs that required strength.

  ‘If you get your brother this will become a much bigger incident. Right now, if you pay me I will slip away and no one will be any the wiser,’ replied Miltos.

  What could the owner do? The money Miltos was asking for was peanuts to him, and he had the restaurant’s reputation to consider. It was the most precious money Miltos ever earned because with it came the conviction that he was valid: that his time, like everyone else’s in the world, had value and he had every right to stand up for himself. He knew in that moment that he would always get by in the world.

  The hills, towering on either side of the trundling minibus, stand in front of more hills; it’s a place where a man could easily become lost. The valley bottom is compressed sand, the road nothing more than compacted dust and pale-coloured shale. Skinner is snoring. Paula is laid across Rosie’s knees, her hair hanging over her face. Virginia’s head rests against the window. She catches Miltos looking at her and smiles, and he notices for the first time that she is wearing a delicately embroidered white blouse, and last night’s conversation is brought suddenly to mind. For a moment he thought he had dreamt that conversation, but her prolonged look confirms it was real. He gives her the biggest grin he can and then turns to look out of the front window.

  Up ahead, in the middle of nowhere, are a woman, a child and a goat. As the bus approaches they stop walking and move to the side of the dust track, the woman’s hand on the child’s chest to stop it running in their path; her gaze follows the progress of the bus as it rumbles past. The sight of these figures standing alone in the middle of this endless desert brings back the dream of the woman with the golden hair holding back Marina and Vasso. It comes to Miltos with such clarity that it suddenly seems more real than everything around him. His hand finds the shell in his pocket and he rubs at its edge.

  The authenticity of the Greek village lay in the longevity of people’s relationships there. Neighbours who worked side by side had gone to school together, and their mothers before them had grown up together, as had their parents, back and back into times forgotten. That was what united the village and made it so real. How must it feel to be a part of that? The longest relationship he had ever had, apart from with his baba, was … He stops breathing and sucks on his bottom lip. Who? With whom has he had the longest relationship? There was the girl in Thailand – he met her the day after he arrived, and he was there six months. What was her name? Chunlian, was it? A sweet girl, but she never voiced her own views, and that had grown tiresome. Then there was Fleur in Holland, but that had been more intense than long-lasting. Oh, the times he had wished her back into his life, only to unwish it moments later when he recalled the reality. She had been too much. Beautiful, hypnotic, but too much.

  ‘What are you sighing about?’ The road ahead is so straight and flat that Josh is only half concentrating on the driving and takes the time to look at him as he speaks.

  ‘I was just thinking about the girls I have dated.’ He says it quietly, not wanting to be overheard by Virginia in her white blouse, but even as this goes through his mind he looks out at the desert and sees sand and rock and more sand and rock, and the landscape feels as barren as his life and it all seems a little pointless. He pulls down the passenger-side visor to see if there is a mirror, and adjusts it so he can see Virginia. Even she seems pointless. He could continue to gently court her, and maybe he would succeed, and then maybe they could go off and explore the world together. It would be nice to see everything fresh again, through her eyes, but then would that really be living or just a second-hand experience?

  He shifts in his seat, which is not very comfortable, and begins to wonder why he came. He could have spent the day floating in the sea or sleeping in a hammock. It is a bit sad that at his age all it took was the flattery of an invitation to make him go on a journey he would normally have avoided. And by Skinner of all people – not even Virginia. What on earth does he have to prove to Skinner?

  He rests his head against the door frame and tries to sleep. The rattling vehicle is jostling and bouncing over the holes in the road, and he does not expect to receive any relief, so it is a surprise to him that he is woken by the bus juddering to a halt.

  A sign tells him they have arrived in Nuweiba, but he can only think it must be mistaken.

  Chapter 27

  Last time he was here, Nuweiba was little more than a collection of windowless concrete buildings, the ground around them compacted sand, dust and dirt and bits of mortar with the occasional brightly coloured plastic bottle. Around the outside walls three goats had played follow-my-leader – stunted, black, long-haired creatures scratching in the corners of the abandoned buildings for food. At first glance, the place had seemed clearly deserted, and Miltos can still recall the surprise he felt when he discovered that inside one of these cuboid shells, upstairs, was a bank, and in another was the ticket office for the ferry across to Jordan.

  All this has changed in the years that have passed, and expensive-looking hotels have sprung up where the abandoned concrete block buildings used to be, with well-tended lawns in front of them and neat plastic signs directing the visitor here and there.

  Josh starts the bus again and they drive through the streets of the town, where colourful wares spill from shopfronts that were previously abandoned but which are now adorned and brightly painted in an attempt to compete with their neighbours to lure the passing tourist inside. As for foreigners – back then only Miltos and a Swiss couple were waiting for the ferry. They had had to wait a long time, watching the speck of a boat slowly making its way across the water from Jordan. Now, as the minibus approaches the water’s edge, a high-speed catamaran can be seen, moored in the new, purpose-built harbour. Over on the other side of the harbour, cargo ships are lined up where containers and haulage lorries are waiting to cross.

  ‘Well, this place never had much charm, but what it had is gone.’ He speaks his thoughts aloud.

  ‘When were you here before?’ Josh asks.

  Miltos opens his mouth to reply but then stops to consider. Was it in the early nineties? Josh probably wasn’t even born then. Best to stay quiet, so he shrugs instead and mutters, ‘a while ago.’ Vague.

  ‘Right, so if you go get the tickets, we’ll wait here, or maybe have a look around the town.’ Joshua turns around to see who is awake as he fumbles in a plastic bag. ‘Here are all the passports. You’ll need them for the visa stamps. If you are lucky you could be back in an
hour. You have two hours before the ferry “officially” leaves but – well, to be honest mate, they seem to choose when they leave on a whim so don’t worry if it takes you longer.’

  Miltos takes the proffered passports and frowns, wondering, as he climbs out into the burning sun, why it should take him two hours to buy tickets. Josh lies down across the bench seat, eyes closed. He is not going anywhere.

  Raising a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, Miltos feels obliged to trot to avoid being exposed to the heat for too long. For some reason the glare feels harsher here than back at the camp. Maybe it is all the concrete that surrounds him. Every few steps someone tries to sell him something or pull him into their shop. He shakes himself free repeatedly and it is with relief that he finds the visa building.

  There is a long counter down one wall, with arches cut out of the protective glass separation. The arches are so large there seems little point in the glass being there at all. Several men are working away at their desks behind this counter and a few people are milling around in the central area. The air is hot and stagnant, and there is no air conditioning. The windows are small and if there was any breeze to be had it would struggle to enter the room. Strip lighting hardens the daylight. Miltos approaches the first arch and places the passports on the shelf. The man takes the top one, looks it over, and asks, ‘Jordan?’

  Miltos nods his affirmation and the passport is stamped. The room echoes with the noise, but no one pays any attention. Each man is absorbed in his own duties and it is too stiflingly hot to show interest in anything beyond that which is necessary. Miltos is the only man not wearing a jelabiya and keffiyeh but the intensity of the sun has already darkened his skin and he might almost pass for a local nonetheless. He watches the man taking each passport in turn, inspecting it and then stamping it. There seems to be very little formality in the process and at one point the man stops to accept a cup of tea from a colleague. A pound or two would be sure to speed the process, and the man behind the counter gives the impression that he is waiting for something, but without asking. If he is to make any profit from this venture, however, Miltos feels he will have to avoid bribery. He waits patiently and when the teller sees no money is going to be passed he drains his cup and finishes the job.

  The ticket office is a different matter. The room is almost identical in size and shape but the walls have not been painted and it is much hotter here, and there are a great many more people. Here, tourists and locals jostle, each wanting to be served first.

  At this point, Miltos realises he has been manipulated into doing the job that someone must do but no one would want. It would be a disaster to bring the whole group in and let them try for themselves, and it now makes complete sense that Josh would offer him such a role, to avoid it himself. Maybe this is why the Australian was so keen he should come along.

  With his sleeves rolled up he enters the fray and, with a few choice Arabic words, and using his height to his advantage, he makes some progress. It is oppressively hot and each of the other men in the throng exudes his own distinctive body odour. As time progresses, the air appears to become more dense and less breathable. The scrabbling and pushing gets worse and Miltos can feel his patience reaching breaking point. He does not often lose his temper, but in this heat and stench it may be beyond his control. With elbows out, he pushes harder and then something in him snaps. He no longer sees the people around him as human and his regard for them is gone. Not caring about the toes he steps on or the ribs he digs his elbows into, he slides between people, physically pushing them out of the way. This is met with shouting and hand-waving but he narrows his eyes in response and increases both his speed and force. Once at a booth, he grabs the man in front of him under one arm and by his collar and lifts him out of the way, and fills the space he has created with his broad shoulders. The man issuing tickets raises his eyebrows at this technique but Miltos ignores this and demands tickets. Meekly, the man tears off the number required and names a sum.

  Miltos tuts a very Greek ‘no’ and then in Arabic says, ‘Aqall.’ The price is too steep. The teller looks even more surprised at hearing Arabic spoken but this one word has its effect and Miltos is offered a lower price. An elbow digs in his back and his anger is ignited for a second time.

  ‘Anna aihmab?’ He might have said it wrong but he thinks he has just asked the teller if he thinks him a fool. The teller now looks fearful and hands over the tickets, asking for a very modest sum. Miltos pays and then turns to face the sea of people; he is given a relatively easy passage to the door, with annoyed muttering following him as he goes. Outside, the hot, still air is refreshing by comparison. The decision is already made; there is no way that he will be buying the tickets on their return. He has already done the maths, and even with the cheap price he has negotiated and with the price he intends to charge the clients, he will not make enough to justify such an unpleasant experience.

  Back at the bus Josh is still asleep, but there is movement by the ferry. In the back of the minibus Skinner is awake and shaking James and Bryce, who yawn and open bleary eyes. The girls stretch and Grace takes her book, which was laid over her face to keep out light and flies, and closes it.

  During the process of getting onto the ferry, their passports and visa stamps are inspected no fewer than five times, but at least they are allowed to board first, before the locals, so for a brief moment they have an empty ferry to themselves. For Miltos, the relief is energising.

  They find a place to sit and then they wait. The boat is meant to have left half an hour ago but still people are pouring on. After another hour’s wait they are underway and it seems, from the whoops of joy and general uplift in mood, that this is an unexpectedly quick departure. The crossing itself takes just over an hour on tranquil seas, and with the sun lowering the sky is now tinged with pale yellow and pink at the horizon.

  The calm is broken as they dock in Jordan, and then the process of boarding is reversed as they all stampede off. Again, the heat takes Miltos by surprise, even though the sun is sinking, and he makes a note to buy a hat. The line of people in front of him filters through passport control, all visas being checked again. As they draw close to the uniformed officials he finds Skinner is by his side.

  ‘Oh, hold this man, my shoelace has come undone,’ he says, and holds out his pouch, on a belt that is usually around his waist. ‘Don’t lose it, man, all my wealth is in there,’ and he crouches to tie his lace. ‘I’ll catch you up,’ he adds when he sees Miltos waiting, trying to hold his ground against the force of the crowd.

  It is easier to move with them than to stand still, so Miltos allows himself to be swept through passport control and waits on the other side. The group come through in ones and twos and reunite around Josh, who leads them to a yellow van with a very happy man smiling away in the driver’s seat. He has one arm leaning on the open window, his other hand resting on the wheel.

  ‘This is Khaled,’ Josh says, and they climb aboard.

  ‘Where’s the pouch, man?’ Bryce asks Skinner.

  ‘Oh yeah, can I have my belt, man?’ Skinner says to Miltos.

  Miltos hands over the money belt, at which point Josh shakes his head and looks at him as if he has done something very wrong.

  The look dries his throat and he feels distinctly uncomfortable.

  Chapter 28

  The Orient Hotel, if Miltos’s memory serves him correctly, is just a short distance from the narrow, dusty path that makes its way through the canyon to Petra – the Rose City. On the side of the path there used to be a man selling water from a cart at inflated prices. The last place to buy a drink before the mile-long trek through the canyon, he would warn.

  Now, the way is lined with new shops and hotels, and there is even a visitor’s centre. Miltos looks around, half expecting to see the skinny dog that sat in the shade and scratched at fleas, but the road has been paved now, and there are no dogs. When he was here last he set out early and the shadows kept him cool – he seems to re
call that there were very few areas further in where the sun was unavoidable. But even so, the air was hot and the walk was long and some of it was at quite an incline. That cannot have changed.

  The bus pulls into the hotel’s car park as the sun casts its last rays upon the day. The hotel appears to be only partly completed, as though the builders got as far as laying the concrete blocks that make up the walls and then cleared up their mess, packed up and moved on. The walls have been neither rendered nor painted and the ground outside is no more than compacted dust. The owner hurries out, eager to greet them and seemingly unaware that his establishment is little more than a concrete shell. He bustles them inside, along corridors with tiled floors and no windows, to a variety of rooms where the beds are made up with cheap red-and-blue chequered sheets, and the cabinets are topped with vases of plastic flowers in faded tones. On closer inspection, it appears that these are lightly covered in dust; blowing the dust off reveals vibrant colours beneath.

  Skinner, James and Bryce dump their bags in one room and themselves on the beds, leaving the door wide open. Miltos’s and Josh’s room is across the corridor, and the girls are taken further into the darkened building. Miltos flings himself onto his own bed and watches across the corridor as James takes from Skinner’s pouch his illegal herbal tobacco and the paraphernalia to roll it into a cigarette.

  ‘Whatever possessed you?’ Josh flings his own bag in a corner. ‘Do you know the laws for bringing that stuff into this country? They still have the death penalty here, you know?’

  ‘I can’t believe he did that to me!’ Miltos stammers.

  ‘What did you think? That he needed to tie a lace that was already tied? Come on, man, you are not that naive.’ Josh seems genuinely annoyed at him. ‘Can you imagine how that would have reflected on the camp? They would investigate all of us,’ he says, looking shifty.