by Sara Alexi
He felt his lips curl in self-admonition as he began to realise that his silly little letters were the reason beautiful Maria had shied away from the world. He muttered something like ‘Thée mou’, hoping his god would step in and redeem him as she continued.
‘The letters kept coming, one every six months, and I began to realise that this was not someone being cruel, but someone who maybe did harbour feelings for me.’ She had been speaking to the open air as she said all this, but now she glared at him.
‘I am not blind, Thanasi. I saw the way Cosmo looked at me and so I began to wonder if they were from him, and it drove a wedge between us. I thought he wasn’t brave enough to confess, and that he disguised his handwriting so that I wouldn’t know. And he, no doubt, was embarrassed by having to read someone else’s love letters.’
And in that moment, he realised that she could not read, and the enormity of what he had done to his friend covered him like the heavy clouds of a storm. His heart sank and he wondered if there would ever be a way out.
‘I swear, I did not know that you could not read,’ he started. ‘It never occurred to me. Nor for one second did I ever think that Cosmo would be reading those letters to you, and I swear on my mama’s grave, I swear to God’ – and he crossed himself for added sincerity – ‘I did not think for a second that Cosmo ever harboured any feelings of affection for you. I really didn’t.’
He didn’t think she believed him but his thoughts were now for Cosmo and he found himself struggling in an unfamiliar place, which, if he had to label it, he would call regret.
He only half heard her as she talked on, comparing his writing with some of Cosmo’s writing – a letter he had written for her, or something. As she talked, it sank in that Cosmo held her in high regard, and he began to think of a hundred and one tiny events that pointed to this in the past, signs he had ignored, or even, to his shame, made a joke of. Like the time Cosmo stood for her to pass in church and, once she was seated, handed her his prayer book. Thanasis himself had only been there because it was Petta’s wedding, and he had thought Cosmo was teasing her with this behaviour.
Another time, he caught Cosmo holding the lid of the bin for Maria to put her rubbish in, the cats all around her ankles. He had not taken that seriously. But now, the more he brought to mind such events, the more he realised that it was not in Cosmo’s nature to tease in that way and that his actions towards others were motivated by respect. He was not sure what hit him harder: the surprise, or the horror of what he had done.
‘What are you saying about Cosmo?’ he asked, in an attempt to deflect her attention from himself to his friend. ‘Do you mean that you, and Cosmo, the two of you …?’
He did not laugh – he could have sworn he did not laugh. He might have smiled, not in fun, but because he was pleased. Pleased to have Maria’s focus off him, and because Maria was not calling him out on the love he could not provide, and not least at the thought that Cosmo and Maria might have a stab at a little mortal happiness. Yes, he was pleased.
‘You laugh!’ Maria’s voice was so loud he could have sworn the leaves on his orange trees rattled and the donkeys turned their ears backward. ‘You write of your love and your longing, of watching me from afar and considering my beauty, of your esteem for my elegant conduct over my parents’ death!’
She pulled a letter from the pile and held it in front of her as if quoting from it. ‘You go on about your admiration of my kindness to animals, but what good are all those wild, flourishing words to a woman? Cosmo has been by my side through the rejection by my fiancé, he gave me space when I needed to heal, and he came back when I needed his companionship again. He has been there for me, through everything, for the last thirty years and in all that time he asked nothing for himself. He has listened to me talk, laugh, cry and moan. He comforted me when first my baba and then my mama died, and he has kept me company every few days ever since, whether he had the excuse of a letter to deliver or not. He has continued to be my friend even when the village has come to view me as a bitter, reclusive old woman. Yes, I am aware of what they say.’
Her eyes flashed, defying him to deny this.
‘And I am aware it does Cosmo no good at all to be seen as my ally, but he is there for me anyway. There have been no pretty words or false promises, only actions that prove his devotion. And I have waited, Thanasi, I have waited these thirty years to find out who this letter writer was that was stopping Cosmo declaring himself. And do you know why it stopped him? Do you?’
Her finger jabbed at him – her nail sharpened to a point, he could have sworn. ‘Because in his self-effacing way, he believes the letter writer has first claim on me, because the letter writer announced his love first.’
She pauses as if in triumph. ‘That’ – she pauses again – ‘is how uncomplicated his mind is, and that’ – another pause – ‘is how pure his thoughts are.’
It was at this point that she took off the string that held the bundle of his love letters together and she threw them, envelopes and all, in his face. Not on the floor, or vaguely in his direction, but actually in his face. A feisty woman.
After he got over the shock of the corners digging into his cheek and one nearly taking his eye out, he murmured a lot of words to explain how he had meant no harm, that it was a bit of fun, that it was meant to make her feel good to have a secret admirer. But he could hear the hollowness of his own selfish words as they left his lips, and it did not surprise him at all when she sucked her teeth at him and looked down that straight nose of hers as if he was nothing. Her derision reflected how he felt about himself at that moment.
But even then she was not finished, and he began to despair.
‘Your affection for me was from your own imagination,’ she hissed, her face inches from his. ‘Your letters served your own purpose – they offered me nothing.’
And then came the crushing blow he had been expecting.
‘You will go to Cosmo and you will tell him what you have done and tell him that you retract any claim he thinks you might have on me, and you will encourage him to confess his feelings to me. You will urge him to confess, you hear me, because neither I nor he is getting any younger.’
And in the silence that followed this torrent of words, it hit him with a horrifying sense of reality that he must do all the things Maria had said, to make things right.
The silence in the kitchen is deafening as Thanasis finally stops talking. The paint has dripped down the brush, over Cosmo’s hand and wrist, and off the end of his elbow onto his already-tainted shoe as he stares open-mouthed at his friend. Thanasis stares back, looking into one of his eyes and then the other, trying to read his friend’s expression. His brow keeps furrowing into the deep crease between his eyes. His eyebrows do not know whether to lift or fall. Cosmo has no idea if seconds or minutes pass, and he is not sure if the ground beneath his feet is moving, or if the room is spinning.
Thanasis colours red and coughs. He seems to have realised something.
‘I’ll tell you one thing, my friend.’
His tone is falsely jolly as he stands.
‘That is one bullet that I am glad I dodged. Wow! That is one feisty wench.’ He is talking too fast. ‘Whoever ends up with her, I wish them well, I really do, but it will take quite a man to tackle that one, and rest assured, Cosmo, my dear friend, that man is not me. No, that is not me for sure. It is a better man than me who takes that one on! Now, where are we? Oh Lord,’ he says, looking up at the cuckoo clock, its hands still motionless. ‘Is that the time? I must go to feed the donkeys.’
And he is out of the door and round past the window before Cosmo can fully take in what has just happened.
He is still standing there when there is a second tap on the door. Thinking it is Thanasis come back, he is both reluctant to answer and curious too. Surely there can be no more to say? In fact, he has not completely processed what has been said so far. He is still unravelling it; his mouth keeps flickering into a smile, but
he needs to replay some of the words Thanasis said over in his head to make sure what just happened really took place.
‘Was he saying what I think he was saying?’ he mutters to himself, and he opens the door, deciding to ask Thanasis to speak in plainer words, so he can take it in.
‘Cosmo?’ the stranger asks.
‘Er.’ He is not sure he wants to commit himself.
‘Thanasis the donkey breeder told me you had early oranges to sell.’
The man smiles and puts out his hand to shake, and Cosmo is lifted out of his thoughts to focus on the need to sell his harvest.
Chapter 23
The next morning, Cosmo’s head is still spinning. Despite his efforts to find Thanasis, he has not managed to see him again. At one point, the situation seemed desperate and he even drove from one bar to the next in Saros, searching for signs of his friend. He needed confirmation of what he thought had been said.
The more he thinks about it, the less he dares trust his own interpretation, but Thanasis has gone to ground and Cosmo’s thoughts have continued to make him dizzy through each hour that passes. In any given moment, he might feel confident that what he believed, hoped, could be possible is in fact true. But as soon as he has this thought, his brain tells him not to talk such nonsense and he forces himself to dismiss the possibility as ridiculous once more.
Back and forth he has gone. Now, after a brief, restless sleep, Cosmo still needs to speak to Thanasis, to put himself out of this misery of hoping and get his friend to confirm what he said.
‘Or deny it.’ Cosmo lets the wind take his words as he speeds toward the village with the morning’s mail.
There is not much of it today, and he partially sorted through it at the depot. He stacked all of Sakis’s letters together, and a few others for the same street, and that accounted for all but a handful of the post, which he can easily sort as he makes his way from cottage to cottage.
But first to drop off Sakis’s letters. As usual, the musician can be heard around the back of his cottage, the beautiful, melodic strumming of his guitar drifting off and becoming muffled in the orange grove at the back of his house. Cosmo lingers for a few moments. The sound seems to soothe his soul, and when Sakis starts to sing Cosmo cannot move.
‘I didn’t set my alarm last night … I woke up this morning with the new sun gently warming …’
The breeze snatches the next few words and notes away with it, but then they return:
‘Outside I listened to the birds
They didn’t chastise me for
my ignoring them for so long
They were happy to have my ears back
to listen to their song
I was happy to listen
I was lost without thought
A deeper connection that leaves me vacant to not think
and just be
for this moment amongst the orange trees.’
Then the guitar takes over again and Cosmo pushes the letters through the door so he can free up his hand to wipe a tear from his eye.
He used to be like that, with nothing on his mind, waking up with the sun, listening to the birds, just being, and in those pleasant days people called him lazy, slow and simple. Well, they don’t call him lazy or slow or simple any more. They use expressions like ‘hard-working’ and ‘blossoming’, whatever that is supposed to mean!
These new labels give him no pleasure. The hard work and the complexity of his life nowadays is not something that has enriched his world. It steals his time and makes his head spin until the days pass in a blur, and he finds he has not felt any of them. When did he last take the time to listen to a bird?
He delivers other letters down the street. His bike is misfiring again. One day it will give up, cough and die and he will have to learn how to fix it because he cannot afford to take it to a garage – or can he? Maybe that was another myth of his mama’s, like the expense of clothes. She might have made his life simpler by forever treating him as if he was five, but she also made him more fearful of what might happen.
But she has been dead ten months now. He is no longer afraid of what might happen. What happens, happens – there is no cure and no putting it off. The trick is just to roll with the waves. But he could get back to things being simpler. Sell the orchard, and stop reading and writing people’s letters. Or maybe give up the post office job and concentrate on the oranges after all. That would be the simplest: nothing but oranges, which do not talk back or ask him to write letters.
A flying bug crosses his path, bouncing off his chest. He looks down at himself. There is paint on his new shirt, the cuff is torn, and his shoes are smeared with a sheen of white spirit. He is not good at looking after himself.
There are only two letters left. The top one is for Marina at the corner shop. He gives this to Theo, who is just going in the door there – and the last …
‘Too cruel,’ he whispers at his fate as he sees that it is addressed to Maria. He will not knock, just slip it under her door. If he is going to find any peace over this whole business he needs to talk to Thanasis first before he sees Maria … If he ever sees her again, that is, and at the moment it is the last thing he wants. He is just so exhausted by it all.
He stops his bike on the corner that leads down to his house, pushes it back onto its stand and, with his head bent, goes to push Maria’s letter under the door. The thin white envelope, with its typed address, slides underneath easily and quietly and he has begun to walk away when the door slightly opens, and he freezes, caught out.
‘Come in.’
She speaks through the crack. He cannot tell if it is a request or a command. He rubs his forehead.
‘Please,’ she adds, which makes him look towards her, but she is gone, leaving the door ajar.
He is not sure he can face this now. The emotions that have been sweeping through him since the night he wrote the letter have drained him of all emotion. He is like a grape still hanging from the vine in December, shrivelled and dry. He is cleared out, unreachable, and there is no fight left in him.
Reluctant feet scuff his shoes over the threshold, through Maria’s door and into the kitchen, which is filled with the smell of freshly baked biscuits. Two coffee cups sit ready at the table and the water in the briki is boiling.
She makes the first coffee in silence and Cosmo sits heavily at the table, head bowed, fingers interlocked in front of him; his satchel is still over his shoulder, across his chest, hitching his winter jacket up into an uncomfortable mess under his armpit, but he does not care.
‘There you are.’ She puts the first coffee in front of him. It takes a few minutes for the grounds to settle and in that time she has made her own. She sits beside him, picks up a biscuit and breaks it in two, handing him half. It is such a familiar action that, despite himself, he looks up at her face. She is smiling; her face is soft, the harshness gone and with it many of the years.
He nibbles on the biscuit.
‘Is it good?’
‘Your biscuits have always been good,’ he says cautiously.
‘I have listened to what you have said about them over the years and used it to improve them to your taste.’
She dips her own biscuit in her coffee, holds it there, just for a second, and then transfers it to her mouth, first sucking then crunching.
‘Oh.’ Cosmo can think of nothing more to say in reply but she is looking at him expectantly. ‘I am tired, Maria,’ he says.
‘It is too much for a man,’ she replies.
He frowns.
‘To go to work, to keep a farm, keep a house, look after himself, cook, wash clothes, sweep floors, go shopping. Too much.’ She shakes her head.
Cosmo’s frown deepens. He neither cooks, nor shops, nor washes his clothes. He looks at his hand and sees his torn sleeve, the remains of the paint, and he understands what she is saying.
‘Yes,’ he says.
‘It’s funny, isn’t it?’
Her voice lightens and she take
s another biscuit, breaks it in two and gives him half. He has not finished his first half yet, but he takes the second anyway.
‘All day I keep house, sweep floors, cook, bake and mend but there is no one to appreciate what I do. Here we are, just a few steps away from each other, and you work all day and have no one to take these chores off your shoulders.’
For a moment he wonders if she is asking for a job, but then she takes out the letter he wrote when he was drunk. With his elbows on the table and his fingers interlocked, he knocks his thumbs against his forehead and screws up his eyes at the sight of it. He is going to refuse to deal with this today. He just doesn’t have the energy for it if she is going to tell him off as she did Thanasis. At least he, Cosmo, signed his name.
‘Your letter finished with a question,’ she says, smoothing the missive on the table.
He closes his eyes even tighter.
‘The answer is yes.’
He has forgotten the question. Well, he hasn’t, but he must have, because the answer to what he thinks he asked would not be ‘yes’, would it? He opens one eye, just a fraction, to see where she is, to see if she is looking at him, but her eyes are fixed on the paper, her finger tracing the lines of text.
‘I have been learning all these years, Cosmo. Very slowly, but I have been learning. I can make out the letters and these here say “Will you marry me?”. And my answer is yes.’
‘What?’
‘Yes.’
He stares.
‘You mean …’
‘Yes.’
‘Because you pity me?’
‘No.’
‘Because …’
She puts her hand on his and it shuts him up.
‘Because your heart is the purest of any I know, and the kindest, and the most sincere.’ Maria’s next action is one Cosmo has dreamt about, but never imagined would really happen. She leans over the table and kisses him full on the mouth.
