One and Only Sunday

by Alex A King

  There's a noise outside, the squeaking of a gate opening.

  "Tsiganes!" Yiayia says.

  Kiki looks outside. Yiayia is right, but it's only one Romani woman. More girl than woman, sitting on the doorstep between childhood and adulthood. Usually they come in pairs, weathered women with sad-eyed children. The woman always ushers the child forward to be her mouth. But this one is alone.

  "Go away." Mama shoots out of the house, shaking a broom. "We don't have money."

  The woman doesn't move. The hem of her multicolored, cake-layered skirt sways. Like most Romani women, she wears a mismatched rainbow. "I do not want your money."

  "We do not have any work for you, either!"

  "I have work," the woman says. "Honest work."

  "Then what do you want?"

  "Nothing," she says.

  "Drina! Come away from there," a voice barks. It belongs to an older woman, her face beaten by the hot sun and its accomplice, time. Her companion shoves her way through the gate, takes the younger woman by the arm. "I am sorry," she says. "She is a girl with big problems." One finger taps her own head.

  "Tsiganes are all crazy," Yiayia mutters.

  "We are not all crazy." Her eyes are dark and tired. "We just do what we can with what little we have."

  "A curse on you," Drina says. "May an earthquake swallow your whole family."

  "Drina! What did I tell you? Small curses only. The big ones come back and bite your ass. Forgive her, forgive her." She looks up at the sky. "You, too, God. Forgive her. She did not mean it."

  "A small curse is okay?" Drina asks.

  The older woman holds up two fingers, pinches the air. "Very small."

  Drina turns back to Kiki and co. "Then I curse you with something very small. Ants."

  "That is better."

  The walking rainbows leave the yard, gate flapping behind them.

  "Ants." Mama shrugs. "It could be worse. I will go and see Kyria Dora this afternoon to remove the curse."

  27

  Leo

  Same circular shit, different day. No help from the US Embassy, no help from the Department of State back home. Three more days and he's going to be AWOL.

  Leo's never been a fugitive before. His mother is worth it.

  Travel. See new places. Try new things. That was the plan.

  Jail will be new—won't it? He can barely contain his excitement.

  He dials the embassy again, makes himself a pain in their ass. But they give him the same old no-can-do-story.

  They can-do he thinks. They just don't want it hard enough.

  But he does.

  Options—he needs more.

  Idiot. He's wasting his time on the wrong target. So he calls the Hellenic Ministry of National Defense. Tells them who he is, what he wants, and why. Gives them Socrates' address because they want to send paperwork. Paperwork is the key, they tell him. Fill out the papers and then maybe they can do something.

  Leo knows Greek paperwork: it'll be choking with red tape. And like Italian mobsters and Pennsylvania Dutch Teamsters, Greek paperwork has a funny way of vanishing.

  Papou steps outside in sandals with white socks. He tosses the moped's keys to Leo.

  "Where are we going?"

  "To see my friend, Takis. I had a vision."

  Takis (apparently) lives in the middle of nowhere. A meaningless term. Greek distance and time are negotiable. A kilometer is sometimes ten. Five minutes is sometimes a week.

  Turns out the middle of nowhere is about five minutes away by terminal moped, up a small hill and behind a thick wall of slanted olive trees.

  Where other trees have a tendency to reach for the sky, olive trees tilt toward their neighbors. They sprawl and grasp and shove, each determined to win a bigger patch of sun. A tree so competitive they're not afraid to fight dirty.

  The moped bumps along the dirt road, its tires kicking stones and flinging dust.

  "Here," Socrates says, when a chain-link fence appears between the trees. "Takis is a very rich man, but he lives like the pig."

  This from a guy with an outhouse.

  Nice digs. Swanky house. Old rotting planks held together with luck and determination. Built in the days before building codes made Greece earthquake proof. Maybe built before there were building codes at all. Lots of goats milling around the fenced yard. Leo likes goats; Leo likes animals, period—but goats are cool and easygoing.

  Sitting in an ancient chair, puffing tobacco-scented clouds into the air, is an elderly man who is more mustache than face. Younger than Socrates, but not by much.

  "Here comes trouble," the man says.

  "Takis, you old malakas."

  Takis cackles. "Too old for that."

  "When you are too old for that, you are dead," Socrates says. They slap backs, shake hands. Then Socrates nods at Leo. "This is my grandson. He is divorced and does not have a woman, so he is definitely a malakas."

  Takis offers his hand. "What do you do, eh?"

  "Veterinarian," Leo says, after they shake hands. Takis vanishes inside his shack, comes back with two more chairs.

  "You want to eat?" he asks them.

  Socrates says, with great authority, "He has the brains of my Greek underwears, but Takis makes the best feta in Greece."

  (Old-fashioned Greek underwear is the unfortunate offspring of long johns and that magic underwear they wear in Utah.)

  "In the world," Takis corrects him. "A veterinarian, eh? Go, look at my donkey." He nods to a donkey snoozing under the sprawl of an olive tree. The beast is gray with a black cross on his back. What they sometimes incorrectly call a Jerusalem donkey. The cross is a dominant trait in all kinds of donkeys, that's all.

  Leo says, "What's wrong with him?"

  "Why you ask me? You are the veterinarian! What kind of veterinarian is this you bring me, Socrates?"

  Valid point. "I mean what are his symptoms. What makes you think he's sick?"

  The mustache jumps. "He is not eating. Always that donkey eats and eats and eats, but now he is not eating properly. And he is getting skinny. There is nothing good about a skinny donkey or a skinny woman. Always it is a sign of poor health."

  Leo looks at the donkey. It's lean, but it's not bones.

  "Anything else?"

  "No, just his appetite."

  "How long has this been going on?"

  Takis shrugs. "A week, a month."

  With that kind of accuracy, Leo doesn't bother asking the donkey's age.

  "What's his name?"

  "Gaidaros."

  Nothing to do about that but shake his head all the way over to the tree. "Original guy, your buddy over there," He tells the donkey. "Now you know how cats feel when their owners call them Kitty."

  The donkey's not a big talker, but he's okay with Leo taking a look at his gums.

  Leo tosses a question over his shoulder. "When's the last time you floated his teeth?"

  "Eh?" Takis looks at Socrates. "What language does he speak?"

  "Floating," Leo explains. "It's when you file a horse or donkey's teeth."

  "Never!" Takis shrugs, palms upturned. "Who would do such a thing?"

  Leo gives the donkey's neck a quick rub, then it's back to the chair. "He can't chew properly, so he's not eating. His teeth need to be filed."

  "You are sure?"

  "Pretty sure."

  "Can you do it?"

  "I can do it."

  "How much?"

  Socrates has a look on his face like the man better work for free. So Leo says, "Free. Call it a gift."

  "Free is a terrible price. You get what you pay for, and if you do it for nothing, then my donkey will still have trouble eating."

  "I have excellent references."

  "References!" He slaps at the air. "Bah!"

  "My grandson is a professional," Socrates says. "The best veterinarian in America. Free is a very good price for the best."

  "Ah, but is he the best veterinarian in Greece?"

  "Pro
bably not," Leo says.

  Those watery eyes take him in. Thick, yellowing fingers reach for a pocket, pull out a packet of tobacco and roll papers. Takis watches Leo while he makes a new cigarette. He licks the end, balances it on his lip and says, "You might be a terrible veterinarian, but at least you are an honest man. I will let you do it. But be careful, he kicked the last American who touched him. And she was only trying to brush him."

  "Is that Kyria Dora's niece?"

  "The xena? Yes. She was stupid at first, but the more time she spends in Greece the smarter she gets. You will get smarter too if you stay here."

  "I'm not staying," Leo says. "First chance I can get, I'm going home."

  "If you say so," Takis says, grinning. "If you say so."

  28

  Kiki

  Ding dong, the town is dead. Kiki is the only one in its streets. Down by the beach there will be people moving, but only tourists taking advantage of every vacation moment. They paid for this sun, this heat, and they mean to get their euro's worth. After lunch, the main meal of the day, everyone Greek sleeps.

  Not Kiki. Not today.

  She doesn't mind the ghost town. It's a relief. She can walk freely, without accusatory heads and mouths turning her way.

  The sun is hot, yes, but it's honest. It doesn't hide its intensity behind puffs of white. Even behind sunglasses, her eyes sting from its assault. Her black dress creates a small breeze around her legs as she walks, but the sun slaps it away fast.

  And still it's better than sitting at home.

  The houses that aren't white look parched. Once the paved road runs out, the dirt looks just as thirsty as the houses and the cantankerous olive trees.

  To her left, just off the dirt road, sits a tiny church on a patch of green. There is grass but it's carefully tended, and trees that aren't olives twist up toward the sky. Fruit trees. Janera—a small, sweet, green plum.

  When she and Soula were kids, it was tended by a stooped woman with an angry broom that liked to chase children. Even now she can feel the pull of the trees with their ripening fruit. Summer is janera time. She wants to climb the trees, sink her teeth into the sweet-tart skin, forget about Stavros rotting in the ground and the people who want to pin his death to her back.

  Forget she is Kiki.

  A buzzing cuts the silence in two. A vehicle is headed her way. Something small and unhealthy. A moped bounces in her direction from a thin capillary that bleeds up into the nearby olive grove. It leaves a minor dust storm in its wake.

  She remembers the moped and the old man perched on back. And she remembers his bragging statue.

  Should she wave?

  If she doesn't, chances are good rudeness will be tacked onto the bottom of her current rap sheet. In time, people might forget a murder, but they will never forget that one time she didn't wave hello to one of Agria's own.

  But if she does, he might stop.

  The moped bumps closer, dragging its brown cloud like a half-deflated parachute. Kiki moves off the road, into the scratchy scrub. Seated up front, steering the two-legged vehicle, is a guy she doesn't know. Tall, with the kind of chest that's good to sleep on, dark hair on his head shaved close to the bone. Hard jaw. Big hands. Strong arms.

  Vaguely familiar, now that they're closer.

  Must be one of the Karas grandsons. Not Leonidas. He (and his ass—and almost her finger) left years ago, thank God. She doesn't see the Karas family around much. Time has scattered them around the area.

  Then the moped lurches past. The old man, Kyrios Karas, turns around, waving his statue.

  "I will see you soon, eh?" he calls out. "I had another vision!"

  When the dust lands, they're gone.

  Magic.

  Kiki picks up her feet and starts moving again.

  * * *

  Vivi Tyler's cottage isn't in Agria, it's in heaven. The small white-washed house stands away from the road behind a picket fence, an army of trees at its back. Fruit trees, mostly, including a gigantic fig tree sprawling over the yard. The figs are reaching their peak—Kiki can smell their sugar as she trots up the path.

  A dog bowls out of the house, catapults her way with a grin on his face.

  "Biff!" she says as he knocks her to the ground for a hug.

  Vivi is on his heels, mouth loaded with apologies. "My dog is an oaf," she says, pulling the brown behemoth off Kiki.

  "It's okay." She cups Biff's face between her hands. "Who's a good boy?"

  Biff's a good boy and he knows it. He hangs at her side as the women step into the house.

  The cooler air pulls Kiki into its arms. She sags into the sofa, drapes the back of her hand over her eyes.

  "Summer is the worst season to be in mourning," she says. "All this black."

  "I'm sure I've already said it, but I'll say it again for good luck: I'm sorry for your loss."

  "Thank you."

  "If you want you can borrow a totally-not-black dress to wear, at least until you leave. No one will ever know."

  Kiki smiles. "Thanks, but I'm okay."

  "Frappe?"

  "Yes! I'll be your best friend and love you forever."

  Vivi makes frappe, and while it's cold and loaded with caffeine, its slap is on the lame side. It's not the coffee, it's her. She's supposed to be sleeping and her body knows it.

  "So what have you got for me?"

  The American woman groans. "Paperwork. Everything in Greece requires paperwork when you run a business—and lots of it. And I don't understand one end of it from the other."

  "I'll do it."

  "Yay! I'm saved! It's a miracle. You've saved my life and my ass."

  What she means to do is laugh at Vivi's exaggeration, but what happens? Tears. Big, wet, ugly tears. The kind that make noses red and onlookers hunt for an exit strategy.

  "Yikes." Vivi leaps across the room for a box of tissues. She pulls a couple out, stuffs them into Kiki's hand. "I know Greek bureaucracy is bad, but it's not that bad."

  "It's not that. Everyone thinks I killed Stavros."

  "They'll get over it."

  Kiki looks at her. Vivi is a woman who knows how violently and quickly the tide changes here. "What if they don't?"

  "They will," Vivi says gently. "When Detective Lemonis gets his man or woman, they'll have someone brand new to talk about—someone who's actually guilty."

  "There you go, being sensible."

  Vivi laughs. "I try, but it's not always easy with my mother's genes."

  "I know the feeling." She runs her finger around the rim of the damp glass. Not crystal, but it still sings. "What would you do if you were me?"

  "Easy," Vivi tells her. "The same thing I did once I let John go and discovered I was free. Live."

  * * *

  Free.

  Ha-ha-ha. No.

  Kiki's nothing like free.

  Freedom is for other women, for the Soulas and the Vivis. Not for Kiki. She hasn't known freedom since twelve.

  Stavros trapped her in life, and died with his hand manacled around her ankle. He will not let her go. Yes, he's dead, but in some ways so is she. Between this mandatory mourning for a man she didn't love, and the murder accusations, she's already in a kind of prison. And the person holding the iron key is Detective Lemonis. She's not even sure he's looking in any direction but hers.

  29

  Leo

  Where does a guy buy tools in Agria?

  "At the supermarket," Socrates tells him.

  "Really?"

  "Where would you buy tools, clever man?"

  "For this? I'd get them from some places that sells veterinary tools or medical supplies. Failing that, a hardware store."

  The old man slaps his shoulder. "We have a medical supply store. It is called the supermarket. There you will find your file, vinegar, and rubbing alcohol. With those you can fix anything."

  That's not all he's got on his mind, is it?

  "Who was she?"

  "Who was who?"

 
"The woman you called out to. The one walking." The cute one with the long legs.

  Papou rubs his chin. "The Andreou girl? She is the English teacher at the high school."

  "Andreou? Sounds familiar."

  "It is a good family, but not for long, I think."

  "Why not?"

  "That girl is the one I told you about—the one who allegedly killed the Boutos boy."

  "I thought you said she didn't do it."

  "She did not kill him, but everyone thinks she did, which is just as bad. You have been away so long that you forget how people are here. It does not matter what you do, only what people think you do. And people here are very imaginative. Particularly the women, from watching all those soaps on the television."

  "You told her you'd had a vision."

  "I did have a vision, thanks to Laki."

  "What was it?"

  Socrates shakes a finger in his face. "My vision is for her, not for you."

  Leo shrugs. Fair enough. "I have to get that file. You coming with me?"

  "No," his grandfather says. "Now it is time for sleep. And I am very tired from entertaining you all morning."

  * * *

  Sure enough, the not-so-super market has a suitable file. It's on the shelf between a dusty hammer and dusty tub of Brylcreem. The shop is dim, the windows haven't seen a rag in years, and there's an overabundance of chickens pecking around the concrete floor. He wonders if it's like the lobster tank: choose your own chicken.

  The proprietor is a woman built like a planet. Her smile starts out big and expands when she sees Leo's money.

  "Are you breaking someone out of jail?" she asks, eyes lit up. They're the only thing not dusty in the whole store.

  "It's for a donkey."

  She doesn't look confused, which he finds mildly disturbing. "The donkey is in jail?"

  No, but chances are he will be soon. He might need that file.

  But first, time to see a man about his donkey.

  * * *