by Sara Alexi
‘No, really, there was no night under the stars. At the time I wished there had been, but later, when I met Spiros, I was glad there hadn’t.’ She turns her thin, worn, wedding band around her finger.
Then this cannot be his girl, because that night under the stars is all he has dreamt of for years. But he remembers the post office meeting, the girl’s mama being there, their meeting later by chance when he was riding around on a borrowed moped. Could his memories be so flawed?
So much was happening back then.
As soon as they arrived in Saros, his baba began shouting at him about his attitude, his lack of help with the unpacking of all the household items they brought from Athens. He shouted back too, his baba hissing at him to quieten down, worried about the impression they would make on their new neighbours, but he didn’t care.
‘This is your idea, your move – you unpack!’ Miltos shouted, before storming out, slamming the door of the tiny rented apartment.
He had not wanted to move from Athens, leaving behind his friends in the city, his life there. But he was not quite old enough to survive on his own, and so they had arranged to move together. And, as if this was not enough, just before the move he had been called up to join the army, for two years, to complete his military service.
When he returned after their argument, his baba bawled at him, ‘Grow up now, Milto, this is your home too,’ as if he had never left, as if the argument was all that had been going around in the old man’s head since his son had slammed the door five hours previously.
But in that moment, all Miltos could think about was how much the two-roomed apartment smelt of damp. He went through to the small kitchen and opened the window. There were black mould spots on the ceiling in the kitchen, and the paint around them was discoloured as if these spots had arisen before and someone had tried to wipe them away with a damp cloth.
‘No, this is yours, Baba. Your dream, not mine.’ He kicked through the carpet of old newspaper that his baba must have unwrapped from around the plates and cups lined up on the chipped formica-topped table.
‘But you were born here in Saros, it is your birth town.’ His baba looked so small and weak as he leant on one of the large suitcases they had brought with them from Athens, as if his legs could not take his own thin weight.
‘I won’t be here. I will be wasting my time doing national service.’ He spat these words in the old man’s face and then took the curled-up enlistment papers from his pocket and threw them on the table, where they lodged against a cup, a corner of them through the handle. He looked at them and thought that he could not have done that if he had tried – a thought that struck him as rather bizarre; he seemed to float outside of himself and watch until the whole world was spinning, and then he covered his face with his arm and wailed.
‘It’s only the army.’ His baba was probably disturbed at his son’s response, but his words just seemed callous. ‘What kind of attitude is that? Are you not proud of being Greek?’ the old man ranted.
‘Oh stop,’ Miltos retorted, ‘Greece is a third-world country with greedy politicians and old men like you in their fantasy worlds.’
Calling his father old was intended to hurt. Then he watched his baba cough, a spasm that racked his lungs and made him double over. How cruel his youth had made him, because, instead of offering help or showing concern, Miltos opened the door and stormed out again.
It was later that day that he had seen Vasso going into the post office with a woman he had rightly presumed to be her mama. Three days later was the night on the beach, and the fourth day was the last time he saw his baba alive, his old man’s face fixed in a scowl as he forced his son onto the train that took him off to do his national service.
‘How many days did you have with him?’ he asks Vasso.
‘Just two.’ Vasso smiles as she answers and then looks down at all the bags from the market. ‘Oh,’ she exclaims. ‘I didn’t get courgettes. I was going to make kolokithokeftedes.’
So, the third night – had he dreamt it? How does he remember it? Go back a little, before the train, before his last sight of the old man.
‘Where are you going?’ his baba shouted between coughs.
‘Out,’ Miltos replied, but although he did not show it he had been concerned about the hacking sound his baba had been making. It sounded bad, worse than the previous week.
‘I need you to help unpack before you go. You could be posted to the other side of the country.’
There was a whine in his baba’s voice that had annoyed him, although no doubt it was intended to rouse his sympathy. It felt like his baba just wanted to make use of him in his last hours of freedom, and he was not about to waste those.
‘No, it is you who needs to unpack,’ he retorted. ‘I don’t. After all, I’m going to be shipped to the other side of the country, aren’t I?’
After this, their arguments lost all reason and they resorted to insults. His baba was probably irritable due to his ill health, but Miltos did not know that then. Or did he? Was that what made him so angry at that time? Had he known that his baba’s desire to return to Saros was so he could die in his hometown? This period of his life is just a blur of feelings and sorrows and melancholy. None of the images in his mind seems to run in order or make sense. To him, Saros was the town where he lost his mama. The sight of the buildings, the lie of the land, catapulted him back to being five years old and feeling alone and vulnerable.
As for his baba, this was the town where he had met and lost his soulmate. Only, this time was not his baba’s time. This time, his baba had returned with the cough that would kill him. Was his youthful anger a precursor to the loss of his baba? … Or was he cross that his baba was ill and would neither talk about it nor take any remedy for it? He does not remember any doctors or hospital visits at that time.
Or was his anger all about his unspilt tears for his mama, and Saros town had just brought them to the surface? Or maybe it was because the country would soon stifle his youthful energy in drill and order and being told what to do, when his youthful blood carried energy through his veins that would have moved mountains.
Such a waste. Now all the memories melt into one another. His sadness over his mama’s death, his desperation over his baba fading away before his eyes. His powerlessness to do anything about any part of his life. The girl, that night, had lifted him from his misery. They met in the post office, they swam in the sea and they spent that wonderful night on the beach. That is the way he has been remembering it all these years, but here is the girl and the girl denies the warmth and intimacy that made him fall in love.
Then suddenly, a spark of memory! His sudden intake of breath causes him to cough. He struggles to speak.
‘Meli?’ He says.
‘You okay?’ Vasso asks and she slaps him on the back, quite hard.
‘Meli?’ he says again as the coughing subsides.
‘Did you want honey?’ she asks, glancing back at the market stalls, looking puzzled.
‘No, you – Meli?’ he says, his eyes growing wider as he recalls the pet name they had used for each other.
‘No, I don’t want honey,’ Vasso answers, and as she blinks the image of her separates from the image of Meli, or was it Melissa – the girl he spent the night with on the beach. A totally different girl.
Chapter 38
Could it be that all these years he has combined the two events, the two girls, into one in his mind? Why? Why would his mind play this trick on him? But even as he asks himself this question, his heart provides the answer. He had just said goodbye to friends in Athens in order to return to Saros town, the place where he said his final goodbye to his mama years before. He never wanted to have to say goodbye again, not to anyone, ever.
For that matter, when had he ever really had the chance to say goodbye to his mama? He was only five, and they had left for Athens almost immediately. It was as though she had deserted him. For years it had given him comfort to believe that she was still
alive in Saros and that they would return one day and she would be waiting for him. It was not as if she had prepared him for her leaving. That was what it had felt like: one day she was there, warm and loving and close, and the next she was gone, leaving him alone, so alone. He had felt the pain, the loss, so strongly at night when he was alone, it was as if he would suffocate and not wake the next day. That was what he had wished for, for so long: not to wake the next day, not to be alone at night listening to the strange sounds of Athens.
Now he snorts in derision at how soft he was. That night on the beach in Saros, with the girl, the one Vasso is claiming is not her, was the first night he had really felt in control of his life. His closeness to the girl’s warm body, her love for him, their intimacy – he really felt that his life meant something, that things could go well and that he was important. He knew when the dawn light came that she was his future and that he must run away with her, that they must make their own life. When the first fingers of dawn lit up the hills, he had already decided that he was not going to do his military service and that he was going to elope. It would not be so difficult to escape the army, ducking and weaving through life without his discharge papers. It would only have to be until he was forty-five, anyway – they could keep moving until then. It would be an adventure. And after that he would not be eligible. They had almost got away that first morning too. Had they not been at the bus station, ready to leave, when his baba had caught him and dragged him away? Away from his Melissa, his sweet little honeybee.
Melissa – that was what he had called her: his little sweet bee. He sighs.
No wonder he had merged sweet Vasso with Melissa in his mind. If he had not done it, he would have had two girls to mourn the loss of, when one was bad enough. And isn’t that what he has been doing ever since: merging one girl in his life with the next so none of them was distinguishable from the others, so not one of them would ever be in a position to leave him, like his mama did? He has ensured that he has had just one, never-ending relationship all his life – ‘my love’ merged into ‘Melissa’ merged into Isla, into Lana then Chunlian and Virginia, and all the girls in between.
His stomach churns.
‘Are you tutting and sighing at me? Did I say I wanted honey?’ Vasso asks, presumably doubting herself.
‘My mistake, I was thinking about something else.’ Miltos shrinks little.
‘Something not very happy, by the look of you. Are you all right?’
Vasso stares at him with such concern he can feel tears pricking. The same tears he often cries when he is alone, when he sees lovers, watches weddings, thinks of his life. The tears of someone who has never been cared for, who has a nagging feeling that something isn’t right, and that when it comes to women he keeps repeating the same mistakes, which lead to the same conclusions. He puts his hand in his pocket and rubs at the shell’s worn edge.
‘I am fine,’ he lies. ‘So, your amazing kisser, your lover who you never spent the night with. What would you do if he were to turn up again?’ He forces himself to ask this question. He needs a conclusive answer, although he can almost guess what she is going to say.
‘Ah, ha ha.’ Vasso’s light laugh is so charming he cannot help but smile. ‘He would not know me, but then I would not know him,’ she says. ‘Age changes people. How would we recognise each other?’
‘Well, let’s just say you do. Then what?’
Vasso loses her smiles and looks serious for a second as she contemplates his question.
‘I would thank him, both for what we had and for what we didn’t have.’
She gives him a little sideways look, and colour comes to her cheeks – presumably at the thought of all they didn’t have. ‘But he opened my heart, and I think it was because of this that when I went to Orino Island the next day and met Spiros, I was ready. Yes.’ She brightens. ‘I would thank him.’ Her smile returns.
‘And you would not entertain pursuing a romance with him?’ Miltos asks.
‘Oh, panayia mou, now why would I do that?’ She crosses herself. ‘I like good company for sure, and I would never say no to another friend, but anything more than that, no thank you. I have had many good years with the love of my life. I can ask for no more. I am happy as I am. Of course, I still have hopes that Thanos will find a wife and I will have grandchildren, but as for intimacies for myself, my life is rich enough without it and I enjoy the freedom of being single, my own boss.’
She pats her hand flat against her chest to emphasise her contentment. ‘Right. My coffee is finished. The shopping is done. Do I take a taxi back or are you going my way?’ she asks.
‘How could I refuse such a gracious request?’ Miltos stands and puts his hands on the back of her chair.
‘Ah, a gentleman. Now, I have no objection to having a few more of those in my life,’ she teases, and she reaches for the bags, but Miltos is too quick and he gathers them up, waiting for her to take the lead and head back to the car.
‘So, what were you coming into Saros for?’ Vasso asks as she settles in the car. ‘All you have done is help me around the market.’ The car coughs as it starts.
‘And a pleasure it was too, and far more fun than looking for a job.’
‘Oh, you are after a job. Are you any good with your hands? Have you asked Stella? I think she needs a general person to fix things around the hotel. But I am not sure, you will have to ask her.’
‘I will have my lunch at the eatery and see what she says.’
‘You could,’ says Vasso, ‘but I am making kolokithokeftedes. Come and eat with me.’
It is a strange feeling to be sitting next to a woman whom he is neither ignoring nor to whom he is trying to make love. It is almost like she is a man but with all the assets of a woman. And she can cook, and she clearly likes to nurture. He concentrates on the road and wonders at himself. How can he have got to such an age and not experienced having a woman as a friend?
‘I would love to have lunch with you,’ he replies. ‘I did not expect to find friends in the village so quickly.’
‘Ah, well, you see,’ says Vasso with a laugh in her voice, ‘all strangers are just friends we have yet to meet. But now we have met!’ And her light laughter fills the car.
Chapter 39
The morning sun peeks over the top of the courtyard wall, lighting up the jasmine that cascades down its undulating whitewashed surface. Along the bottom of the wall, on three sides of the courtyard, are geraniums in pots, the dark green leaves contrasting with the bright orange flowers. Tables laden with food are lined up along the fourth wall, on either side of the arched doorway that leads back into the hotel. A gecko scurries up the wall above a terrine of thick and creamy goat’s yoghurt.
Miltos is the only guest left breakfasting, and he has refilled his coffee cup and helped himself to a second helping of toast, enjoying the moment and letting his mind go blank as he chews. Lunch with Vasso yesterday was a most pleasant experience and they talked longer than he had expected. When she returned to her kiosk to relieve Petros, he wanted to think over his new friendship so he wandered into the hills and became lost, and dusk was falling by the time he found his way back to the hotel. Consequently, he missed the evening meal on offer there and this morning he is hungry.
‘I wondered if I might find you here.’
The voice, so close, startles him out of his reverie. The gap between the large white umbrellas, where the sun slices through, causes him to squint and put up a hand for shade so he can see who is addressing him.
‘Good morning, Juliet,’ he replies in English, and smiles at the sight of her.
Without hesitation he puts his linen napkin by his plate and half stands, inviting her by a touch on the chair adjacent to his to join him: a gesture he learnt in Italy.
‘I cannot stop as I have a group this morning,’ she replies. ‘Basic Greek. It will be all “a ferret’s toes” – efharisto – and “parrots’ claws” – parakalo – until lunchtime.’ She speaks with amusem
ent, as if she will enjoy her morning ahead.
‘I remember doing the same, with Russian, and French. Are you sure you do not have time even for a coffee?’ He is still half standing, now smoothing back his hair, which is already almost dry from his morning shower.
‘I’m afraid not,’ she says, but her stance relaxes and she rests one hand on the back of the offered chair.
He sits and puts his napkin back on his knee but leans back and to one side to create a triangle of space between himself, his breakfast and Juliet and waits for her to say whatever it was she came to tell him.
‘I just came to say that I happened to have had a word with Marina and, er …’ She hesitates, seemingly unsure how to continue. ‘Well, initially she was shocked, obviously. But then I got the feeling that she doesn’t really think you are the man she once knew. I mean, we don’t really know yet, do we? But she was also nervous – you know, in case you are him. Either way, the point is, what I am trying to say, is that she would like to meet you.’
She finishes this last sentence rather quickly, and then regathers her composure before continuing. ‘The other lady, however, I have not spoken to yet.’ Now she looks at him.
‘And nor must you,’ Miltos is quick to reply. Juliet gives him a quizzical look. ‘I think I might have misremembered one or two details. It’s possible that I knew Marina. Yes, possible. But impossible that I would know anyone else.’ He does his best to sound emphatic.
Juliet looks at him intensely for a second, and then with a light dismissive wave she says, ‘Great, I wish you luck then. Will you wish me luck with my class?’ And she turns to leave.
‘Good luck,’ he calls after her, but she is already gone, through the arch and into the hotel building.
If she had lingered for a second more he might have asked her to have dinner with him tonight. But as soon as she is gone his thoughts return to Marina, the woman in the blue dress, who may be his little Melissa. He spreads honey on his toast and takes a bite. The honey is runny and the smallest drop falls to his trousers. He wipes them clean but it leaves a mark. Concentrating on this, he becomes aware of how old his clothes have become, without him even noticing. They are faded and the stitching around the pocket has gone. He runs a hand through his hair again. Perhaps it is time for a haircut as well.