Float the Goat

by Katerina Nikolas

  “Look. Gormless American tourists.”

  Cilla and Clive soon discovered the central locking system effectively trapped them in the backseat of the taxi, preventing them from stepping out to experience the sandy delights of the beach or to dip their toes in the azure water that looked so refreshing in the broiling heat wave.

  Fortunately the sight of Quentin and Deirdre inspired Nitsa. Remembering how much her foreign neighbours raved about the delights of exploring traditional old mountain villages she pointed the taxi in the direction of Ankinari, thinking to call in and have words with Pungent Pedros, the philandering goat herder. Cilla and Clive exchanged ominous looks as the taxi started coughing its way up a narrow pot-holed road with a sheer drop off to one side.

  Spotting the fear on his wife’s face, Clive attempted to reassure her, whispering, “Cilla don’t worry; this is obviously a very experienced taxi driver. I’m sure the Greek authorities don’t just go handing licences out willy nilly to anyone.”

  “Well it looks to me as though she should have been pensioned off in the last century, Clive. She can’t even see through the windscreen without balancing on that pile of magazines,” Cilla argued.

  Hearing the word magazine, Nitsa shuffled around in the driver’s seat, sliding a glossy brochure out from beneath her bottom and causing the taxi to lurch violently through a pot hole. Leaning over she took her eyes off the road, offering the magazine to Cilla, thinking the tourist was after some reading matter.

  “Watch out,” Clive shrieked as the taxi veered off into an olive grove, circling a tree and decapitating a snake before hitting the pock-marked tarmac again.

  “Clive, pass me one of those ornamental ouzos,” Cilla cried, thinking she would never survive the grand Greek tour sober.

  “Malaka,” Nitsa groaned, slamming the brakes on to avoid hitting a herd of goats suddenly milling across the road.

  “Oh quick Cilla, pass me the camera,” Clive instructed, entranced by the sight of hundreds of goats of every size and colour flocking around the taxi and voraciously snacking on any bit of random greenery.

  “Now this is what I call the real authentic Greece,” he trilled, snapping away.

  “It doesn’t seem that authentic to me to have a shepherd herding his flock from the back of a motorcycle,” Cilla observed as Pungent Pedros rode into view whistling to his charges.

  Nitsa jumped out of the taxi to berate Pungent Pedros, shouting, “Who does yous think yous is Pedro, ignoring me after we ‘ad that moonlit swim together?”

  “Nitsa?” Pedros shouted back. “Good grief woman, I didn’t ‘ardly recognise yous in that strange ‘at, those dark glasses an’ that flasher’s mac.”

  Rushing over to embrace her he asked, “What brings yous up ‘ere Nitsa?”

  “These English eejits want a grand Greek tour,” Nitsa told him sourly, remembering how he’d upset Hattie. “Yous didn’t tell me yous ‘ad been making eyes at Hattie before yous turned yous charms on me.”

  “An’ yous didn’t tell me yous was walkin’ out with Fotis Moustakos,” Pungent Pedros retorted. “What can I say Nitsa, I ‘ave always been a confirmed bachelor with a field to play, ever since Fotini rejected my advances all them years back.”

  “K-Went-In said you ‘ad a daughter,” Nitsa said with narrowed eyes.

  “Well, a confirmed bachelor, except for that time I was married to the mother of my daughter,” Pedros hedged.

  “So yous was really taken with Fotini?”

  “Aye, I was took badly but she gave me an ultimatum. It was either ‘er or the goats on account of ‘er ‘aving an irrational loathin’ of the creatures. Has Fotini changed much over the years?”

  “Not a bit, she’s exactly the same as she was in ‘er twenties, an’ she still hates goats,” Nitsa sighed, deciding she might let Fotis take her out on the town later as she didn’t fancy the idea of dating Fotini’s smelly old cast offs.

  “It’s just not natural ‘aving an aversion to goats,” Pungent Pedros said wistfully.

  Their conversation was interrupted by Cilla and Clive banging on the window, demanding that Nitsa release them from the stultifying heat of the taxi.

  “I’d better be gettin’ on with the grand Greek tour, even though I don’t ‘ave a clue what it is,” Nitsa groaned as the last goat gambolled safely into the olive groves.

  “Well there’s nothing more authentically Greek than a goat so that pair should be ‘appy,” Pungent Pedros observed, adding,

  “’Ere Nitsa, yous should take ‘em ‘ome with yous to see yous famous curative being manufactured. Apart from goats, olives an’ moussaka, there’s few things Greeker than yous curative.”

  Climbing back in the taxi Nitsa pondered the possibility of turning the manufacturing of ‘Granny’s Traditional Greek Cure All’ into a tourist attraction; after all some enterprising types had turned old olive presses into tourist magnets and Bald Yannis had scammed the Japanese into sponsoring his olive trees.

  “Fotini would ‘ave to keep the blasted parrot under control,” she muttered to herself, “an’ even if the manufacturing bit bored ‘em to tears it would still give us a bigly captive audience to flog the curative to.”

  With that Nitsa undertook a dangerous three-point turn that had Cilla groping around in the bulging carrier bags for another ornamental bottle of ouzo. “It’s been a long day with my spying mission. ‘Appen Pedros’ idea is a good one an’ I can likely palm some curative off on these eejits before extorting an exorbitant fare then popping over to see if I satisfied Bald Yannis.”

  The thought of an up close and personal encounter with the hardware shop man brought a smutty smile to Nitsa’s face as she headed back towards Rapanaki, not sparing the brakes.

  “Thank goodness, she seems to be taking us back to sea level,” Cilla said with relief. “These mountain heights are making me dizzy Clive.”

  “It’s more than likely the ouzo that’s making you dizzy dear; it’s potent stuff,” Clive replied, equally relieved to be heading back towards civilisation.

  Fifty traumatic minutes later Nitsa swung the taxi into Fotini’s driveway, narrowly avoiding a collision with Melecretes who was speeding away with mail order Masha. Releasing the central locking she practically dragged Clive and his now drunken wife into the kitchen where she pointed to Hattie, saying “Speaky English.”

  Taking Hattie to one side Nitsa told her, “These English eejit tourists ‘ave come ‘ere to learn about the manufacturing process of the curative. If yous can flog ‘em enough bottles of the stuff we could turn this into a lucrative tourist attraction.”

  “They don’t look as though they want to be here,” Hattie noted, observing the two reluctant English visitors visibly squirming.

  “Make ‘em welcome then, but whatever yous do don’t let ‘er get ‘er hands on any more ouzo or we’ll ‘ave to carry ‘er back to the taxi,” Nitsa hissed.

  Firing a disparaging look at Nitsa, Hattie rushed over to greet the tourists, saying “I hear you are eager to see where we manufacture the infamous ‘Granny’s Traditional Greek Cure All.’”

  “I wouldn’t say that exactly,” Clive began. “This is the first chance we’ve had to actually get out of the taxi since we started the grand Greek tour. That eccentric Greek woman locked us in.”

  “Most likely it was unintentional, probably just a miscommunication with the language barrier,” Hattie improvised. “I’m sure you had a grand time on the grand Greek tour?”

  “Well we had expected to see some ruins but all we really saw was a load of goats, a rather pungent old goat-herder and some dramatic views,” Clive explained as Hattie shot Nitsa a dagger’s drawn look for fraternising with the enemy goat-herd after all her midnight talk of sisterly solidarity.

  “There may have been more to see, but I had my eyes closed most of the time on account of those terribly terrifying bends,” Cilla slurred.

  Clive studied the traditional Greek kitchen with its vast stainless steel vat, wonde
ring how anyone could possibly try to pass it off as a tourist attraction. Reaching up to scratch his sweaty scalp he hurriedly tried to brush away the dandruff shower his fingers dislodged.

  “’Granny’s Traditional Greek Cure All’ will get rid of that in a jiffy,” Hattie declared, rushing over with a bottle of curative and vigorously rubbing the oily lotion into Clive’s hair. “If you have any other little embarrassing problems such as warts, fungal infections or acne, this wonder potion will sort them out.”

  “Does it cure hangovers?” Cilla asked, grabbing the bottle and knocking back the contents.

  “Hopefully you’ll still be alive to tell us tomorrow,” Hattie said drily.

  “Clive, this stuff has improved your hair already.” Cilla turned to Hattie, confiding “he suffers something terrible with his dandruff, always scratching away at his scalp, such a nasty habit. We’ll take a dozen bottles.”

  “Not as nasty a habit as you overindulging in the bottle Cilla,” Clive sniped back. “I bet the only reason we landed up here in Greece instead of Spain is because you were half-cut when you talked to the travel agent.”

  Hattie interrupted the bickering couple before they could air anymore of their dirty laundry in public, saying “every single natural ingredient in the curative is grown locally.”

  “Even this?” Cilla asked, dislodging a parrot’s feather from between her teeth.

  “Oh indeed, the parrot is Greek born and bred,” Hattie assured them, kicking herself for offering them a contaminated bottle.

  To Hattie’s horror the parrot honed in on the parrot based chatter. With a flap of feathers the blasted bird launched itself from its perch on top of the dented vinegar barrel, landing on Clive’s newly oiled head, squawking “nasty habits.” Hattie’s horror turned to surprise when Clive perked up, revealing himself to be a keen twitcher.

  “Oh I say what a superb psittaculidae specimen. Cilla take a photo, I bet we wouldn’t have enjoyed this experience in Spain.”

  Chapter 27

  Bald Yannis the Gigolo

  Fulminating over his public embarrassment at the hands of Stavroula, the Pappas massaged the tender spot on his shoulder where the deranged harpy had whacked him with the frying pan. Ever since being hospitalised following crazy Koula’s violent attack with a candlestick when she left him handcuffed to the blow up sex doll in the church, the Pappas had attempted to project a calm and reasonable personae in front of his parishioners. He considered his goodwill was still woefully unappreciated by the heathen villagers; why even his laudable intentions of warning Stavroula that Bald Yannis and the old crone Nitsa had conspired to create chaos at the tourist tat annex grand opening had only ended in ritual humiliation when Stavroula refused to give him the time of day. Deciding if he couldn’t earn the respect of the villagers by being respectable he may as well earn some cash with a spot of blackmail, he steadied his stove pipe hat and strode off purposefully towards the hardware shop.

  Bald Yannis was sitting behind the hardware shop counter oiling a chainsaw, smugly satisfied that his scheming to put a spoke in Stavroula’s retail competition had gone off better than he could ever have envisaged. He’d expected Nitsa to create a bit of a rumpus in the new annex and had to admit her traffic bedlam stunt in the taxi had been a stroke of sheer genius. Tall Thomas’ mobile refrigerated fish van hurtling straight into the newly renovated annex would necessitate Stavroula closing down her new enterprise as the building was now unsound and liable to come crashing down on any customers. He may even be able to relieve her of any surplus stock of lobster adorned shower curtains at rock bottom prices.

  The Pappas blundered his way into the hardware shop, fighting his way through a throng of gaudy inflatables suspended around the doorway. About to launch into his prepared blackmail speech, his nerve almost failed him when he tripped over a headless deflated duck that he presumed had been decapitated by the very chainsaw Bald Yannis was now wielding menacingly. Squaring his shoulders the Pappas thought of the blackmail cash he could extort, but before he could utter a word Bald Yannis openly mocked him, saying,

  “’Ave yous come to ‘ave some more hot air blown into Gloria?”

  The Pappas turned puce, incensed that the hardware shop man never missed an opportunity to ridicule him about the blow up sex doll.

  “No, I have come to inform you I know all about your nefarious activities with the old hag Nitsa and my silence will cost you,” the Pappas said haughtily.

  “Ha, the holy roller is wanting ‘is thirty pieces of silver. Does I look like a gigolo, yous moron? Does yous really think Soula will believe yous ludicrous lies that I am carrying on with Nitsa?” Bald Yannis guffawed, creased up with laughter at the thought he would ever succumb to the hideous hag’s bawdy advances.

  Before the Pappas could explain his cack handed attempt at blackmail related to Bald Yannis’ and Nitsa’s scheming rather than anything sexually sordid, Soula returned to the shop with her sister Voula.

  “’Ere Soula, yous will never believe this. The phony god botherer ‘ere is under the deluded notion I am ‘aving adulterous relations with Nitsa.”

  “Does he look like a gigolo?” Soula scoffed. “My ‘usband is an ‘appily married man with twins on the way and yous ‘ave no right to cast slanderous accusations at ‘is goodly character by suggesting he is carrying on with a woman old enough to be his Granny. Yous should be ashamed of yourself, raking up mucky gossip. Imagine how Nitsa will feel if she ‘ears about this.”

  “She’ll most likely be delighted. It can’t have escaped your attention the way she throws herself at your husband,” the Pappas said peevishly.

  “Enough. Get out of the shop,” Soula commanded, relieving her husband of the chainsaw and chasing the Pappas outside.

  Humiliated, the Pappas scuttled away. Soula’s arrival had put a spoke in his blackmailing plans when he realised it wasn’t wise to openly blackmail Bald Yannis in front of an attentive audience. He decided to turn his blackmailing attentions on Nitsa if he could get her alone; after all she was the one who had actually used her cunning wiles to disrupt and destroy the tourist tat annex, even if it had been at the instigation of Bald Yannis. Satisfied with his plan he returned to the church to brush up on the finer points of the wedding ceremony he was due to conduct for Toothless Tasos and Thea.

  “Ooh Yanni, such goings on across the road,” Soula said to her husband. “Tall Thomas had a dreadful accident in the mobile refrigerated fish van and crashed right into Stavroula’s new tourist tat annex.”

  “No!” Bald Yannis exclaimed, feigning utter surprise.

  “The crash sent Onos the donkey into premature labour. Luckily Voula arrived in the nick of time to deliver the foal an’ she took charge when Tall Thomas fainted clean away,” Soula gushed.

  “Is Thomas all right?” Bald Yannis asked worriedly. He hadn’t intended for anyone to be actually hurt through his scheming.

  “Prosperous Pedros and Gorgeous Yiorgos ‘ave carried ‘im over to the new Doctor’s clinic for the once over,” Soula said.

  “He was more in shock than physically hurt, but he has got a nasty bump on his head,” Voula explained. “Yanni, I am that grateful to you for finding me a job in the village. Getting away from Osta is exhilarating.”

  “It will make Soula ‘appy to ‘ave yous close,” Bald Yannis stated.

  “Yanni is always so thoughtful,” Soula piped up. “Now I ‘aven’t met yous new employer so it’s probably best if Yanni comes with us to introduce yous. All I know is he’s Stavroula’s wealthy uncle from Athens.”

  Bald Yannis decided it was best if he didn’t elaborate on Soula’s description. There was no need to alarm the two women by mentioning Lukas’ reputation as a lecherous sex pest.

  “I just hope he doesn’t mind me bringing Poo along,” Voula sighed, holding the piglet aloft for Yannis to admire. “I couldn’t bear to be parted from this squishy little darling.”

  “I should say not. That is an ‘andsome creature, but
best to try an’ keep it out of ‘is way,” Bald Yannis advised, thinking Lecherous Lukas would have no qualms about turning Voula’s pet piglet into bacon sandwiches if it could save him a cent or two on his food bill.

  “I’ll take yous over to Lukas’ ‘ouse now,” Yannis offered, locking the shop.

  As the threesome marched past Stavroula’s taverna Voula rushed over to intervene between that old fool Vasilis, who was sozzled on ouzo, and his equally sozzled old neighbour Sotiris. Each of the drunken men had hold of one end of the new foal as they vociferously argued over who owned the donkey’s offspring.

  “I ‘ave rights. It was my donkey what got Onos pregnant,” Sotiris shouted, keeping a tight hold on the newest donkey’s ears.

  “But it was Onos that gave birth,” that old fool Vasilis retorted, securing his grip on its tail.

  “Gentlemen, you must settle your differences at once and agree to joint ownership. This public disturbance is distressing the newborn,” Voula cried.

  Instantly chastened the two old fools let go of the foal and reluctantly shook hands, just as mail order Masha sashayed onto the scene, berating her husband with her fists for breaking his promise to keep off the ouzo.

  “I only wetted the baby’s ‘ead,” Vasilis protested.

  “That’s right, he only ‘ad a drop,” Sotiris echoed.

  Mel agreed to drive the two inebriated old fools and their new offspring home, whilst Prosperous Pedros piled Onos onto the back of his pick-up. Bald Yannis, suitably impressed with his sister-in-law’s no nonsense approach to the locals, hurried along to the finest house in the village; hopeful Lecherous Lukas would keep his hands to himself and not scare Voula away.

  Having no clue that the long single Bald Yannis was now married Lukas erroneously presumed the hardware shop man was bringing along two women for him to select his live-in housekeeper from. Goatishly eyeing the two sisters up from head to toe, he pulled Bald Yannis to one side, hissing,

  “Is that the best you can come up with? I told Stavroula I wanted someone young and pretty.”