Being Enough

by Sara Alexi

  ‘Ah, now, I didn’t know that.’ Her baba had been feeding the chickens and had the apron on, the string done up in a bow at the back, so this conversation must have been up at the house at Korifi. A different conversation.

  ‘But these cut-off systems also work against them. Like, after a shock donkeys tend to stop eating, so that is when they turn to their fat reserves, which is when they can get hyperlipaemia.’

  ‘Is it hard to pull them back from it? How do you know they have it?’

  ‘They get sad, they don’t want to eat. The only way to get them out of it is to make them eat so they have more in the system so the body no longer has to break down the fat.’

  ‘How on earth do you know all this?’ her baba had asked him, with a laugh behind his words, clearly enjoying the mental stimulus.

  Rallou returns her thoughts to the present. ‘You need to eat!’ she tells her koukla, her doll.

  The cove is lined with rock, and samphire grows everywhere. She grabs a handful and offers it to the reclining mule. It does not even sniff.

  ‘Come on, you have to eat.’ Her own stomach rumbles. The eggs will need boiling if she is to stay another night. Maybe donkeys cannot eat if they are lying down. That’s a possibility. Maybe what she needs to do is to make the animal stand, encourage it to the next stage. It would be a good idea to put the bridle back on now, then. This proves more difficult than taking it off. The animal’s head is heavy and is lying on the sand. The buckles have stiffened with dried seawater, which has left a fine layer of salt on the brown leather. But the donkey shows no resistance and, once the last buckle is firm, she strokes its nose to tell it she means no harm, and then she gently pulls the animal forward. At first there is no response, then its neck stretches and its head comes forward, and, as she continues to pull, it drags one front hoof from under itself and then the other, straightens them out as best it can and makes a feeble and shaky attempt to stand.

  ‘Well done, Koukla – go on, girl!’ She wonders if this is what it feels like to be a donkey man. ‘Come on, keep trying.’ She pulls harder and, after a final tug, the animal is on its feet, although rather unsteady.

  ‘Oh, you are clever,’ she tells it, and steps towards it and pats its neck. Now it is on its feet she knows she definitely recognises this donkey. There is something about the way it stands, the flick of its forelock. Of course! It is Yanni’s donkey.

  ‘Dolly?’ she says, hardly able to believe the situation. The animal flicks its ears. ‘Dolly, is that you?’ The animal makes no response. It has locked its legs but is swaying ever so slightly.

  As if knowing the donkey by name has given her power, she snatches handfuls of samphire from the rock faces and thrusts them under Yanni’s beloved animal’s nose. At first it responds tentatively, but soon with some relish. The swaying stops and the animal begins to look just like any other donkey, except for the gash on the leg, from which all the aloe vera strips have fallen now it is vertical. The viscous goo remains, however. Rallou gathers armfuls of samphire and places them in a heap in front of Dolly, then she gathers up her bags.

  ‘Right!’ she says. ‘There is no way in the world Yanni is ever going to shoot you, so I am off to tell him where you are.’ Dolly slowly lowers her head and takes a mouthful of the plump leaves. A frown crosses Rallou’s brow. What must Yanni think has become of his favoured workmate? Surely he was leading her, if she was on the coastal path? He must be distraught to think he has lost her to the sea. Poor Yanni.

  Her legs do not propel her fast enough and the coastal walk into town seems longer than usual. The sun is high in the sky and the heat is slowing her down. The calm waters along the coast are the most magnificent blue-green and so clear it is possible to see the bottom; the sands there are rippled and dotted with pebbles, small fish darting over their surface. The temptation to jump in and cool down is huge but there is no time for that. At one point, just before she is on the straight stretch into town, the track narrows, as if the ground has collapsed at this point. Maybe that is where Dolly fell?

  The first house appears at the smaller inlet and the path dips down and then back up the other side as she passes silent houses and tavernas. It is later than she thought, already mesimeri, and everyone will be sleeping the midday heat away. A rather red-skinned woman wearing a brightly patterned, see-through kaftan over a bikini and carrying her flip-flops is coming the other way. She is not Greek: German maybe, or English. As they pass each other, Rallou can smell her sun cream and a whiff of something else, a more complex scent. There will only be tourists about in town at this time of day. Shopkeepers will be hiding at the back of their shops, general workers will be at home, and there is a very good chance that the donkey men will be home too. Maybe one, or even two, will remain, hopeful of trade, looking out for tourists who want rides. But the one-day-tour ship that comes from Piraeus will have left by now so even that is not very likely. Those that wanted rides, or transport for their suitcases to their hotels, will already have been catered for.

  If there are no donkey men, who should she tell? The first name that comes to mind is Christos. Yanni will pass the back of the house, and Christos could let him know where Dolly is and that she needs attention. Rallou must get word to Yanni, but she must also get on with her life, change Greg’s sheets, make preparations for Lori and Ted’s arrival, and get back up to her baba’s before it’s too late in the day and she has to find her way in the dark. There are no street lamps in the hills. But asking Christos, her husband of twenty-nine years, to let Yanni know where Dolly is so he can properly attend to her wounds somehow seems like a lot to ask, even for Dolly’s well-being; there should be no question, and yet there is.

  Chapter 14

  The coastal path turns right and the view of the town opens up before her – the houses fanned around the port, from the water’s edge and up the hill, arranged in a semicircle facing out to sea, like an ancient amphitheatre, with the port itself forming the stage. Even though she has been up and down to her mountain home hundreds of times, that last turning into civilisation always affects her deeply. When she was a girl the town thrilled her, and when she first got married, too: it was to be their future home. She had expected the nights of passion that started on their brief honeymoon, taken at Mandraki, just along the coast from Orino town, to continue once they moved into their home. The excitement was mixed with fervor and she expected this feeling to trail endlessly into the future in this town. But the white of the wedding dress had all too quickly become the white of the first child’s christening gown, and the nights of joy that had once been theirs became a sleepless time of tending to and feeding the baby.

  As she turns the corner into the town this time, it strikes her how removed from nature town life is – her life too – and how that distance knocks people off balance without them even noticing. But no sooner has she had this thought than it is replaced with another. ‘What do you know?’ she says to herself. ‘Maybe there are some people who feel out of balance when they are in the country.’ But she does not believe her own words; even humans are animals at heart.

  Talking to herself is keeping her mind from her aching legs, however, and from her empty stomach. It is a relief to be in town now because she really needs to stop, catch her breath.

  There is not a single donkey man on the front. She looks down the right and left arms of the enclosed harbour. No, not one!

  ‘Gamo …’ She begins to swear to herself.

  ‘Yeia sou, Rallou,’ a voice calls out from the shady interior of one of the shops, its owner hidden in the depths.

  ‘Oh, yeia sou,’ Rallou replies, but does not slow her pace. Maybe the donkey men are at their favourite kafenio, but then why are the donkeys not tied up on the corner?

  ‘Yeia sou, Rallou,’ another voice calls. It is Aris in his jewellery shop. He was such a slim boy when they were at school together, and now he is like a barrel.

  ‘Yeia sou, Ari,’ she calls but keeps going. It is only when she
reaches the corner where the donkeys usually stand that she allows herself to stop. No donkeys at all. What is she going to do?

  From under the shade of an umbrella at the nearest cafe, a lean figure neatly dressed in cream linen stands and raises a broad-rimmed white hat in greeting. ‘Rallou!’ The man’s address is unhurried and he smiles as he speaks, his eyes glinting and a day’s growth of stubble giving an edge of ruggedness to what is otherwise a civilised and educated face.

  ‘Oh! Hello, Mr Greg,’ Rallou replies. This is bad timing.

  ‘Do you have a moment?’ says Greg. ‘There are a few problems in the house … Nothing big, just little things that I am sure you will solve in an instant.’ It does not sound like he really has any concerns about the house. His speech is slow and he lowers himself back into his chair. A bright slice of sun cuts through the space between the awning, which stretches from the building nearly to the water’s edge, and that of the neighbouring cafe. The cafe Greg is at is only two tables across, with blue-painted woodwork.

  ‘Well, I – actually …’ she begins, but as she speaks she realises that she cannot put the donkey first right now. There is no one to ask about Yanni. Nor is there anywhere for her to go. She has no intention of going home, not yet. Not until she is clearer in her mind. So maybe it makes sense to change Greg’s sheets and attend to the little jobs he is referring to. She can also sweep the Americans’ yard and water the plants. She has plenty of time until the donkey men are back. She can deal with Christos later, if she wants to deal with him at all.

  ‘Oh, you are busy – never mind.’ Greg picks up his frappé and sucks on the straw.

  ‘No!’ She takes a breath. ‘No, it is fine. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Well, I have just finished here.’ He stands again and pulls some euros from his pocket and drops them on the table. ‘Shall we go up to the house so I can show you?’

  She doesn’t answer, but she sets off in the right direction, up past the lace shops, where Kyria Anna, Kyria Georgia and Kyria Vetta are sitting outside their tiny emporiums, their fingers twitching and spinning the lace webs with hardly a glance at what they are doing. They each smile at her and wish her good day, and she feels their eyes follow her as Greg falls into step beside her.

  ‘I haven’t seen you around these last few days,’ he begins again after a pause. His pace is slow and after her determined march along the coastal path Rallou has to consciously reduce her speed. As she does so the sense of urgency that has accompanied her all the way to town diminishes slightly. Yanni will be told and Dolly will be treated well and she will heal. As far as the donkey is concerned, all is well in the world.

  ‘I went up to see my baba,’ Rallou says lightly, entering into the lightness of Greg’s mood.

  ‘Ah, good, how is he?’ Greg puts his hands in his front pockets. The tension that surrounded him when he first arrived on the island seems to have gone and he looks well rested. The creases around his eyes do not age him; rather, they make him look at if he is laughing all the time. The indentations either side of his mouth are so deep it is as if he is smiling even when he is not. All in all he looks a lot like his father, Ted, but he has Lori’s colouring, his blonde hair greying just above his ears. There is no way he could be mistaken for anything but an American. She wants to ask how he is feeling about his wife, or ex-wife, but she is not sure such a question would be appropriate. It is one she might ask of her closer Greek acquaintances, but he is not Greek, in any way.

  She is just about to answer his question and say that her baba is fine, but it makes her think twice and she wonders how he really is. She was so full of herself and her problems with Christos when she was up there that she avoided any serious conversation with him.

  ‘I think he is lonely.’ A lump forms in her throat.

  ‘Yes, I can imagine. Does he not want to come down here and live with you and Christos?’

  ‘There is a little – how shall I put it …? Friction. He does not like the town.’ Rallou says.

  ‘Hm, like father, like son-in-law,’ he quips.

  It does not make her smile.

  As they near the house she looks first across to her own whitewashed home to see the grey-blue, paint-peeling doors and shutters all shut tight.

  Christos will be sleeping, his snores echoing through the house, Arapitsa curled up in the shade on the floor by the back door, her chin on her front paws: resting, but with ears alert. A glance towards Harris’s house reveals that her windows are open, and a shadow, a silhouette of a person passes through the interior. Rallou hopes it is not Harris herself, to whom she would feel obliged to explain her recent absence. No, best not to be seen, not yet. In fact, she does not really want to be seen by anyone, greeted casually and asked how she is, where she has been, as if it is any of their business!

  ‘Here we are.’ Greg politely steps to one side for her to enter first through the tall wooden gate, a white slash in the grey stone wall. In view of the rumours, perhaps being away for a few days and then going straight to Lori and Ted’s house with Greg will look bad if anyone is watching. Maybe she can make an excuse to go home first, step into the house quietly, not wake Christos, be seen to be doing the right thing: be more discreet, as Christos puts it. She glances over again to Harris’s window and thinks she can make out the silhouette retreating deeper inside. She hesitates before entering.

  ‘Everything all right?’ Greg asks, the gate still held open.

  ‘Yes, fine.’ Rallou shakes her head. She will not be pulled into the gossipers’ games. She enters the garden and walks along towards the house. But there is something about the building that does not seem right, and for a second she cannot put her finger on it. Skipping through her mental notes she checks off all that she needs to do before Ted and Lori arrive. The sheets are done … Well, no, that is not true – there are the pillowcases that Christos trod underfoot, which will need washing and ironing again. For a moment she dwells on his behaviour, her breath shortening, but she stops herself and draws her attention back to the house. The plants all need attention, the dead leaves and flowers need removing and the soil raking out underneath. The balcony needs another good sweep and a scrub, and the kitchen – well, she has not cleaned all the cupboards yet and little insects will have crawled through crevices and made tiny homes or left little trails in the silent interiors. She told Greg she had not done this yet and he did not seem to care in the least.

  ‘Oh!’ Greg murmurs as they walk around to the front entrance. At the top of the steps the heavy double doors are wide open, the dark interior a sharp contrast to the bright white walls that reflect the sun outside. The vivid orange geraniums in their heavy terracotta urns either side of the door cast heavy shadows. Rallou puts a hand up to shield her eyes from the sun, to see if she can see anyone or anything inside. Just for a second – and she has no idea why she thinks this – she wonders if Christos has broken in, perhaps with the aim of checking whether the rumours are right!

  Chapter 15

  Rallou’s eyes adjust to the dark inside the house, and she blinks several times. Greg, slightly in front of her now, must be doing the same because he does not move. Inside the house, everything has been moved slightly; some of the cushions she carefully arranged on the sofa have been piled on the floor, but that could have been Greg. The blinds, which have remained closed since Greg’s arrival, are now pulled wide open, exposing the balcony and the view down to the port. Most notably, to Rallou, the Turkish chest that sits on the Chinese carpet is open, its lid thrown back.

  ‘I knew you would turn up sooner or later!’ There is no doubting the voice and both Rallou and Greg turn to see Lori coming out of the kitchen, whisky and soda in hand.

  ‘Mom!’ Greg breaks into a broad grin and loses all his adult mannerisms, rushing to her like a boy. When he reaches her, though, it is he who pulls her in, instead of the other way round, his arms around her protectively, her head pulled in under his chin as if she is the child.

  ‘M
y poor boy,’ she says, pulling away to study his face, and Rallou presumes she is referring to his divorce.

  ‘Ah, Greg! There you are!’ Ted is right behind Lori, also with a drink in hand. They shake hands and hug.

  Thoughts of the pillowcases that Christos stood on, that need rewashing, the flowers that need deadheading, the dust on the balcony and in the kitchen cupboards all rush at Rallou, and her cheeks flame hot. Her neglect of her duties is apparent and for one dizzy moment she wonders if Lori will release her from her position for her lax behaviour. If she were to explain why things have been left undone, that would mean divulging the state of her relationship with Christos, and the intimacies of her life with her husband are not something she has discussed with Lori. There is no doubt Lori would be understanding, and certainly supportive. But how would she explain? The words to describe how she is feeling do not come even when she takes the time to contemplate the situation. Besides, Lori’s world is not full of messy relationships, long-harboured resentments and unspoken anger. As far as Lori is concerned, Rallou is happily married to her childhood sweetheart, who is a fine hunter and one of the men on the island who can turn his hand to any job that needs doing. He has been employed by the dimos to mend public pavements and fix telegraph wires, and by locals to rebuild walls and replace window frames, and also by foreigners to paint their houses and fix all manner of problems. He has done work for Lori too, at Rallou’s request, but never in the owners’ presence. Their image of him is of a hard-working, rural islander. Blinking a few times, she wonders why she has considered this an image. Is that not who he is? Does everyone on the island see him this way? Everyone except her, maybe?

  ‘And Rallou!’ Lori cries, and her arms open in greeting. Her wide smile is full of warmth. It seems she has not seen all the things that need doing, or that she does not mind that they have not yet been done. That would be typical of her. Arriving earlier than anticipated, she would perhaps not expect the house to be ready at all, and Rallou is aware that she has had a little panic for nothing. It was her own harsh judgement that she reacted to and it has nothing to do with Lori’s generous nature.