by Sara Alexi
With a last look he closes the door to the unused – and unusable – room behind him. Next time he goes in there he will bag up all his mama’s fussy little ornaments. Poppy will love those.
‘But just giving Maria the note is a decision! Maybe it is best not to make a decision after all, do nothing.’ His guts twist at this thought. He promised himself that he would stop making excuses about the things he is scared to do. But what if he gets it wrong? What then?
Normally, he would not think of this as a question to be answered, but today he considers it.
‘What would actually happen?’ he asks himself. ‘What would be the worst-case scenario? Maria might fall out with me and Thanasis would not be so friendly?’
He says this out loud whilst internally he asks himself, Is that true? Thanasis is not one to hold a grudge. He might say that he, Cosmo, was in the wrong for interfering, but it would not break their friendship. As for Maria, he would lose an hour or two a week in her company reading her letters, and even that would not be forever, just until enough time had passed to smooth everything over. So probably he would not lose anything. What would be the gain? Thanasis and Maria might have a happy-ever-after, or, better still, Thanasis might be rejected by Maria and then he and Maria could have their own happy-ever-after. A lot to gain, potentially.
So that is settled, he will take some action. But in which way?
‘Enough!’ he declares. ‘My head is going to explode.’ And he stomps from the house to the kafenio.
‘Ah, here he is. What did the police say?’ This greeting confuses him, and he looks behind him to see who is being addressed, before recalling all of a sudden that when he last left the kafenio it was to go to the police in Saros with the registration numbers of the thieves’ vans! He puts a hand over his mouth – he hasn’t even been to write down the numbers that are still – hopefully – scratched into the dirt in the orchard. He must do that, and quickly, if it isn’t already too late. His foot does not even touch the last step, and he swivels and trots back down, runs to his house and jumps onto his bike, satchel over his shoulder.
At the back of his orange orchard the dust is untouched; no breeze has stirred the ground and his twig scribbles are clear. He copies the letters and numbers and before anything can interrupt him again he is on his way to Saros.
By the time he finally comes out of the police station, his stomach is rumbling as if he has never been fed. He watched the desk sergeant eat a salami and salad sandwich and wash it down with a cola, before being ushered to an inner room where he sat with a detective someone-or-other who was eating a sugary doughnut, and drinking what smelt like a strawberry milkshake. His doughnut sprinkled sugar onto the official form he was filling out, and when the detective wiped it away with his sleeve it left a faint trace of grease across the words in a sweeping arch.
Cosmo told his tale four times in all, and the third time it was written down by a girl with false eyelashes and long fingernails that made it very difficult for her to type. But he was glad she took her time because her police shirt was undone enough to show the edges of her black bra, which caused him some trouble in concentrating on what he was saying.
Finally, the lawyer representing the farmers who had put up the reward turned up, and Cosmo took out his notebook again, and told his tale again, and the lawyer made a note of the numbers, quizzed Cosmo for a description of the men and made him sign a declaration.
‘Do I get the money now?’ Cosmo asked. People seem constantly to be hiring lawyers, taking each other to court, tangling each other up in red tape. But how often does one hear of a positive outcome, of debts being paid, or settlements being honoured?
‘Got to catch them first,’ the lawyer said, and stuffed his papers away in his briefcase. Cosmo sucked his teeth and the lawyer left and he was alone. He sat for twenty minutes before he realised that he had done all he was meant to do and could leave. No one else wanted to speak to him, no one thanked him, no one showed him out. He stood and left the room, his notepad forgotten on the table.
‘See you,’ he called to the desk sergeant, who was now crunching away on a bag of nuts, but the man did not even look up from his newspaper.
If he does ever get the reward money, and judging by the lawyer’s demeanour this now seems like a big ‘if’, but if he does, might there be enough for a new chair as well as a new fan and a fence around the orchard?
His bike coughs and is reluctant to start, and only splutters into life after much coaxing.
He is ravenous as he pulls to a stop outside the eatery and he hopes he will not have to wait long for his chicken and chips.
Heaving his bike onto its stand, Cosmo calls ‘Yeia sou’ to Grigoris, who is passing on his tractor, and his thoughts turn once again to Maria. With all the officialdom of the police station and his focus on producing a factual statement, he is thinking logically, and he realises that he is in no position to second-guess what a fifty-year-old woman might think of Thanasis. How does she see him? He doesn’t have a clue. It would be useful to talk to a woman about this. He needs to talk to someone nearer Maria’s age. Not Poppy, she is too old, but someone who is discreet. Someone who is …
‘Yeia sou, Stella.’ His eyes light up at the sight of her, a perfect choice.
‘It seems your belly is never full these days,’ she jokes. It is true, but unless he learns to cook he will continue to eat here every day. Of course, he is here for the company as well as good food.
He goes through to the dining area but there is no one there. It is the in-between hours. The lunch farmers have gone for a sleep and the evening diners have not yet arrived.
‘Mitsos not here?’ He comes back into the grill room, where Stella is shaking a bottle of a thick, pale-yellow liquid, a new batch of her lemon sauce.
‘Up at the house – do you need him?’
‘Actually, no.’ He scratches his head. Now how does he start?
‘Troubles?’ she asks, putting the bottle down.
‘No. Well, yes. Well – sort of. Advice would be good, you know, because you are a woman and – well, it’s complex and I am not sure what to do.’
‘Oh.’ Stella becomes animated. ‘You want to sit?’
Just at that moment his stomach gurgles so loudly that neither of them can ignore it. Stella takes a plate and starts piling it with chips.
‘Sausages or chicken or both?’ she asks.
‘Everything! Tomatoes, salad, pile it all on.’ He takes a beer from the fridge, cracks it open with the opener that hangs on a string from the fridge door, throws the cap in the bin and goes back through to the little dining room. Stella is right behind him, carrying a basket of bread, cutlery and a plate of food.
‘You are an angel,’ he says, and before he can stop himself he has shovelled in several mouthfuls of food and can hardly close his mouth to chew. The olive oil on the tomatoes is so fresh and thick he could eat a plate of it on its own and be happy. It must be the first oil of the season. Stella sits at the table with him and watches him eat, smiling.
‘God, I am so hungry,’ Cosmo says as he swallows his mouthful, then he washes it down with the beer. Soon the urgency subsides and he sits back a little. Stella is still waiting for him to talk.
He dabs at the corners of his mouth with a paper napkin – the lemon sauce has a tendency to go everywhere. He checks his shirt front, but he is fine, he has not spilt any.
‘Here’s the thing.’ He pauses. How should he express himself? ‘I know someone who is admired by someone. But this someone does not know who this other someone is. But I have happened to find out who this other someone is. So, do I tell this someone who the other someone is, or do I let the other someone keep their secret because if they wanted the someone to know they would have told the first someone?’
Stella frowns and pulls down the corners of her mouth. ‘Complex?’ she says. ‘Unintelligible!’
‘Did you not follow? Someone is admired by some–’
‘Stop!�
� says Stella, laughing. ‘It is all the someones that I cannot follow. Who is the object of attraction? A woman or a man?’
‘A woman.’ Cosmo feels he should be cautious. He does not want to let on whom he is talking about.
‘Okay,’ says Stella. ‘Let’s call her Maria. That’s a common enough name, it could be anyone.’
Cosmo almost chokes on his chips at this. He takes another swallow of beer and controls himself. For a moment he thought she had guessed, but he scans her face and sees that she is looking beyond him, deep in thought. The sun is low in the sky now and it is piercing the room with soft orange shards that cut across her face, light up her gold earrings, make the flecks in her eyes stand out.
‘So, Maria is admired by – let’s pick a name. Yianni. But he has not told her?’
‘No, he has not told her. He has admired her for the best part of thirty years and she knows someone admires her but she does not know who.’
‘Are they both single?’ She is looking at him now, and the slight smile that plays at the corners of her mouth lets him know that she thinks he is the admirer. Which of course he is, in a way, but not in the way she thinks. He cannot add that to the mix, that would really confuse her.
‘Oh yes, yes! This is all above board and proper. They are both unattached.’
‘Okay, so you knew she had an admirer, and somehow, I will not ask how, but somehow you have discovered it is Yianni.’ She gives him a side-on look, eyebrows raised. ‘For the sake of a better name.’
‘Er, Yianni, yes, right.’ He uses some bread to soak up the juices of the tomatoes that have mixed with the oil at one side of his plate.
‘So, should you tell her?’
‘That’s the question.’ He exhales, relaxes a little. She is bound to know what to do.
‘Depends on the man – who this Yianni is.’ She sits back, looking at him directly, challenging him.
‘Does it?’ he responds. He has never thought of Stella as intimidating before, but right now he feels just a little scared of her. Or does he just feel annoyed that he is back to the question of whether Thanasis is a good man?
‘Why does it depend on who Yianni is?’ he asks.
‘Well, some men are worth being admired by, worth considering, and some would just be an amusement.’
‘Ah.’ This doesn’t seem to be getting him anywhere.
‘Well, if it was you, for instance …’
So she does think it is him.
‘No, it is not me. Not until the way is clear,’ he says, and then he looks up sharply. He has said too much.
‘Aha, so that is your involvement.’ Now she smiles broadly. ‘So you admire someone, who is admired by another. You feel he has the first rights on her and so you want to know if you should tell her about him or just make a move yourself?’ Stella tips her head to one side.
‘Oh no, I couldn’t just make a move myself.’ He looks around himself furtively, to reassure himself that no one is listening in to their conversation. Stella responds by moving a little closer to him, encouraging him.
‘Why not?’ Her voice is soft.
‘Well, this person has been writing for thirty years.’
‘Ah, writing.’ She leans back as if everything is clear to her now. Then she leans forward, with a slight frown, concerned. ‘And you have delivered these letters? And read them to the woman, I suppose?’
Cosmo looks up sharply at this.
‘Oh, come on,’ Stella continues. ‘I know half the village cannot read or write. It’s no secret to me! You must have died a little every time you had to read one of these letters.’
She puts her hand on his, just for a second, just to show she cares. She has such a tender, good heart and he has always felt an affinity for her. They were both pushed around and picked on by the other children at school – he because he was slow, and she because she was from gypsy stock. Neither of their early lives was easy. But there has always been an unspoken bond between them. Each knows what the other has suffered.
‘It wasn’t easy reading them.’ He drops his guard; his chest feels heavy.
‘Oh, poor Cosmo. And presumably you had to write her replies? That must have been awful!’
‘Oh no, there were no replies. Maybe if she knew who it was, but he has never signed them, you see, in thirty years.’
‘But you worked out who it was?’
‘Oh no, it was chance,’ he stammers. A heat comes to his cheeks.
‘Is this you thinking that the other person might be a better match for her than you, by any chance, Cosmo? Because, if you don’t mind me saying, that would be typical of you, and rather foolish.’
Stella gets herself a beer from the fridge. ‘You want another one?’ she asks.
He shakes his head. He has been called foolish before, foolish and slow, and there he was, thinking that he was changing.
‘Oh, don’t look so down. You have a good heart, Cosmo, but putting other people before yourself is not always the right thing to do. What of your own happiness? I say you should tell her that she has an admirer. But I think you should tell her it is you. Give yourself the chance of a happy match – why not? Do you think this other admirer deserves happiness more than you? I think not!’
With this, she gathers up his empty plate and takes it with the bread basket through to the sink in the grill room. She returns with a bottle of ouzo and two glasses.
‘You want a nip?’ she says.
The weight in his chest is accompanied by the weight of the food in his stomach and the weight of the world on his shoulders. Why does life have to be so complicated?
Stella talks on but he is only half listening now. He has laid off the ouzo for the last few days and the first measure makes his head spin. Stella pours another.
It would be just plain wrong to make his feelings known to Maria before she knows about Thanasis. It would be like going behind his friend’s back. But he cannot tell Stella the other suitor is his best friend. What a mess. He picks up the glass, and with a quick movement his head is back, his drink is gone.
‘Yeia, Stella!’ someone calls from the grill, and two farmers come through to the dining room. They have brought their wives – to give them a break from cooking, perhaps? If he could take Maria out, Cosmo thinks, he would find somewhere in Saros, a place fit for a queen. He is not sure he can imagine Maria eating here.
The moment the farmers enter, Stella is on her feet, wiping the faded plastic tablecloth at the next table for the new arrivals.
‘I must get going,’ Cosmo tells Stella, and he buys a bottle of ouzo to take with him. She only has Ouzo Mini, which is not as smooth as Plomari, but it will do.
He makes a point of not going past the kafenio, instead taking the road behind the bakery. Thanasis might be in the kafenio, and he will want to play tavli and chat. He could not face that now. His guilt mixes with a feeling of embarrassment and a sense that his urge to take something of life for himself means he is greedy.
The whole combination causes him to spit out an accusation at himself: ‘Traitor! What sort of friend are you?’
Another two shots of ouzo at the kitchen table help take the edge off these intense feelings. Another one and he has energy, and he uses it first to bag the ornaments in the best room; then, the alcohol speeding through his veins, he manhandles the two uncomfortable chairs and the sofa out of the back door and leaves them outside Poppy’s with the abandoned chair and his mama’s glass table. Hands on hips, he decides they look much better there.
Back inside, the sitting room is all space and emptiness. Taking the ouzo from the kitchen, he abandons his glass and sits in the middle of the empty room swigging from the bottle. His energy now drains quickly, his limbs become heavy again, and he lets them hang without a thought for his new clothes.
Then, with sudden blinding clarity, the pictures from Poppy’s house spring to mind, and he sits up quickly.
‘That’s it! That is why the pictures are sad. It is not Poppy, it is no
t the children, but the woman, the woman standing at the side watching.’
He recalls the pictures as best he can. The children had her face, the same long limbs, the same hair. They were her children, and yet there she was, not playing with them, not tossing the ball and laughing. No, a young Poppy was doing that. The mother was standing and watching.
‘A bystander in her own life,’ he says out loud. ‘That is what was so sad!’
And in the pit of his stomach, somewhere under his solar plexus, the truth twists a knot that blinds him and makes his head spin until he reels back, crashing to the floor, for he has been doing exactly the same thing. Watching Thanasis woo Maria, going about the village reading about lives that are not his, writing letters to loved ones that are not his loves, calling this his job, when in reality it is a substitute. He is participating from the sidelines in other people’s lives, instead of living his own.
‘Mama! Is this is your doing?’
When was his life not about her, when she was alive? When he was a boy, her thoughts and feelings were paramount in the home and his baba bowed to her every whim, or else made excuses to spend time in the sanctuary of his orchards. Mostly in the orchards. So it became his job, her son’s, to keep her happy.
‘Who is my little boy, my baby!’ she would say, pinching his cheeks. All very well when he was six, but to still be doing it when he was thirty-six? At what point do you turn around and say no? He tried when he was fifteen or so, but she first became angry, saying he was ungrateful not to want his mama’s love, and then she tried all the more to cuddle him and kiss his cheeks, half joking, but as he resisted she became quiet and stern. When his baba eventually came home he saw how sullen she was and Cosmo was in trouble.
‘Being your mama is her role in life. You are trying to take this away from her?’
Cosmo’s baba was not angry, but his disappointment was worse than if he had been. So, to comply and keep the peace – and after all, he had his own life waiting ahead of him (didn’t he?) – he accepted the cheek pinches, the baby talk, allowed her that power, that control. In his heart, though, he blamed his baba. Why did he not save him, act as his ally and help him become a man? And if he had been more attentive as a husband, more loving to his wife, then she might not have needed to use her son as a substitute for her thwarted emotions.
