by Sara Alexi
Meanwhile, it is not unreasonable for her to take a little holiday. Yes, that is what she will call it: a holiday. And she will send a postcard accepting their offer to return to America with them as soon as she can. Meanwhile, being away from Orino might be the balm she needs. She yawns again and, as her eyes half close, the unspilt tears squeeze out.
A small lizard runs as fast as it can across the empty road and then, safely across, hides, so very still, in a small pile of browned olive leaves.
She does not see the bus coming and its horn startles her. The door hisses open and the driver waits, one hand on the wheel, one on the gearstick. Brushing the tears aside, Rallou realises that this is it: she has to decide to go somewhere – but where?
Chapter 21
‘Ella, kyria, are you coming?’ The bus driver asks, his words drawled out in a manner that suggests there is no hurry at all.
Rallou looks behind her, down the lane that leads to the boat and back to her island. Somewhere on the hilltop is her baba. It’s likely that he is no longer alone, surrounded instead by woman and children sent there whilst the men stay in town to rebuild their damaged houses. Baba surrounded by women and children – he won’t complain!
Rallou steps up into the bus.
‘Patra?’ the driver asks.
‘No, only Saros.’ Saros is far enough if she is just taking a little holiday. She swallows as she pays for her ticket, a little tension in her throat, wondering if making the choice to only go as far as Saros means she has given up on Christos. But there is still his second cousin Theo, in the village near Saros. She will find Theo in his kafenio, discover if he knows anything, without drawing attention to herself. She can use the same lie, about a sick aunt. No, Theo will know all his aunts … Perhaps it can be a sick friend in Corfu. Yes, that’s better. She will say that she is following Christos, and she will ask casually if he passed by, and just see what Theo says. If he knows nothing then he will say so and she will leave, keep it all vague. If he does know something, then – well, she will decide what to do depending on what he has to say. She will cross that bridge when she comes to it.
There is only one other passenger on the bus. Swaying slightly as she moves up the aisle, Rallou notes that the flimsy curtains that are drawn down one side of the bus do little to keep out the brightness and the heat, and she sits on the other side, in the shade. Her fellow traveller, two seats behind, has a big, red chicken on her knee, just sitting there. The old woman’s bent fingers stroke its head and it blinks.
The sudden movement of the bus pushes Rallou forcefully back into her seat. The motion is not like that of a donkey, and it seems to sway more and is noisier than she remembers from London. It is just a little bit frightening, but how marvellous it would be if there was a bus from Orino town up to Korifi. How her baba’s life would change then! How her life would change! It would mean she could live on the hilltop and work in the town. Others would return too, as they could do the same. Maybe she can have a word with the mayor when she goes back.
After a few minutes, the swaying of the bus begins to make her feel ill. Perhaps it is better to stick to walking on the island, after all, and suggest to Baba that he get another donkey, one like Dolly. She hopes Tolis is taking good care of Dolly at the boatyard if Yanni has not returned yet.
The other passenger gets off at the next stop, clutching her chicken, and Rallou has the bus to herself. She was enjoying a sense of freedom as the road spun past under the wheels of the bus, but now, with the vehicle completely empty, she starts to feel very alone and, with the movement of the bus, a little bit nauseous. Row after row of olive trees fly past the windows.
Back when she first returned from London she had delighted in being able to roam amongst the olive trees again. The leaves, blue on one side, silver on the other, spun on their stems with the slightest breeze, rustling gently. The thick, twisted trunks were reassuring in their timelessness. She realised that the olive groves were the one thing she missed the most – after her baba, of course. Her courtship with Christos was largely played out in the olive groves, with Christos hiding behind them to jump out, climbing them, showing off. His family’s orchards abutted theirs, the trees merging with each other. To cut costs at harvest time, because each family had approximately the same number of trees, they combed them all together, helping each other, and divided the oil between them. It was the year she returned from London that they began to jointly buy in labour to do the job. The tarpaulins spread beneath to catch the crop were by now so old and patched that no one stopped to consider any longer which family they belonged to: they just belonged to the trees. Christos doesn’t go up there any more; certainly he hasn’t in the last three years or so, as far as Rallou is aware. Maybe he has arranged something with Vasillis, who still tends to his olives. Rallou has not seen any income from the olives over the last few years. She can remember asking the first year about it, and the following year too, but he made excuses and so she just gave up chasing and pushing him. So it is perhaps over four years since he last harvested the olives. What a waste.
The corners of her mouth pull down and she frowns. Not tending to the olives is so like Christos. He just never seems to get around to doing the things he should do and instead is too busy pretending to be a hunter up in the hills and only working the days he absolutely has to in town. When was the last time he built a wall or painted a door and got paid for it?
The whole topic depresses her more than she can bear and just in that moment she does not care that he has gone. Good riddance. But the tears come anyway. She presses her face against the relative cool of the bus window. The olive trees seem to go on forever, the leaves fluttering in the light breeze. Blue-silver. Silver-blue. She yawns and closes her eyes. She will feel better after a few days away. Maybe even just a day – stay a night and go back.
It is the stillness of the bus that wakes her. She opens her eyes and for a moment nothing makes sense. It is dusk and not even the driver is on board. The silent vehicle sits stationary at the edge of a vast area of black tarmac that is dotted with long articulated lorries in the half gloom. Men with dark skins and rough clothes are walking between them. They look like they are checking the rigs as they try handles and pull at the corners of the tarpaulins. It takes Rallou a moment to realise these are illegal immigrants, like the ones she has seen on the television.
This is not Saros!
Gathering her bag and her wits she trundles down the aisle to the front of the bus, down the steps and outside. It is still warm but she has no idea if the sky is cloudless because the orange glow of the street lights blocks all visibility of the stars.
By the lorries there is what looks like some sort of entrance, and beyond that the moonlight flickers, reflected, telling her that there is water there. This is a dock, and it is brightly lit and rather shabby-looking.
There are barriers at the entrance to the port and drivers have to stop their vehicles whilst a person in the booth checks their tickets before waving them on. Only one booth is staffed at the moment and the girl in it is distracted by a man in a port police uniform who leans against her booth door, chatting. The whole area is lit up with overhead lights, a pool of yellow in the dark expanse of tarmac. Rallou hurries past the lorries, alert for the immigrants, her sights set on the lights.
‘Excuse me,’ she says, slightly out of breath, to the man in the white port police uniform; the girl inside the booth is counting coins and putting them into little plastic bags.
‘How can I help you, kyria?’ he asks, and grins widely, with a smile that is not for Rallou but designed instead to impress the girl in the booth. ‘You are looking for your boat?’ he asks, and seems to think he is funny. There are many ships lined up at the harbourside, some with internal lights blazing, and others quite dark – hulks in the gloom. Rallou looks at the girl, who is making a point of ignoring the exchange, continuing to count her coins.
‘Where are you going?’ he asks. ‘There for Bari.’ The port
policeman points to a big ferry alive with people milling around on every level. ‘Here for the non-stop to Venice.’ He points to another that looks just the same as the first, with maybe a few more lights. ‘And that one is the overnight to Corfu, and it does not stop at Zakinthos, Lefkada or Cephalonia. Where do you want to go?
There is a hum of activity, and the occasional shout, from the ships. The air smells salty but is tainted with the aroma of dirty oil.
‘Is this Patra?’ Rallou asks. The bright lights and unfamiliar surroundings make it difficult to judge what time it is, and just hearing the name ‘Corfu’ sends her off balance and leaves her on the verge of tears again. The girl looks up from her coins, her mouth slightly open, when Rallou asks where she is. She slides her gaze to the port policeman, perhaps wondering if this woman in front of her booth is crazy.
Rallou is aware of what is going on but she does feel a little crazy. No, not crazy, but maybe a little confused.
‘Yes.’ The port policeman laughs the word gently. ‘This is Patra.’ His eyes flick to the girl. ‘All the boats sail overnight. Do you have a ticket yet? If not, I would strongly recommend that you take a cabin.’ He checks that the girl is listening, and when he sees that she is he continues. ‘I took my mama once to Lefkada with only a deck ticket, but the seats were too upright and she had a very bad night. Besides, I found out afterwards that a cabin on the boat is as cheap as a hotel room, but you wake up somewhere else.’ He seems to find this very funny and laughs to himself, or maybe just to impress the girl.
‘The same as a hotel room?’ Rallou asks for clarification.
‘Well, maybe a little bit more, but then you would expect that.’ The radio that he wears hooked over his shoulder clicks and hisses and a muffled voice speaks, but he ignores it. ‘So, can I help you with your bags?’ This is said in a more genuine manner, not to impress the girl but because he has a mama of his own. He looks back at the bus she came from.
‘I have no bags.’
The man frowns under his white peaked hat and the voice on his radio becomes more insistent. He turns slightly and speaks into his shoulder.
‘Well, if you are all right, yiayia, then I must go.’ He grins again, taps the frame of the door to the booth, nods to the girl, and walks away.
‘Yiayia, indeed!’ Rallou mutters. Now the girl counting coins smiles to herself, but she does not look up.
The boats lined up in the harbour seem like forbidden fruit to her: vessels that transport people to foreign destinations, available for anyone to use, except her. Dismissing them, she turns the other way, hoping a small hotel will be just there, with open doors and cheap prices, leaving her with no distance to walk. Although she slept on the bus she feels very tired. She must have slept hard, all the way through Saros and across to Patra!
The ferry to Bari sounds its horn. That’s where Natasa lives now. A wave of adrenaline, or excitement, runs through her chest. She could go there, visit her daughter. She has never been to Italy. Ah, but she has no passport. It is under a pile of rubble that used to be home, along with her taftotita. She has no identification at all. Her bottom lip quivers. Her emotions seem to be changing every second. There is a clanking of chains and men on the dock pull ropes the thickness of her arm from around bollards, and the towering ship to begins to slide away from the pier and off to Bari.
Fancy the berths on a boat being the same price as a hotel room! From that point of view, if she did have her passport then she could have sailed tonight, spent the day with her daughter, and come back the following night. But the boat has gone now.
She looks around, hoping the hotel she yearns for has suddenly appeared, but of course it hasn’t. There are some rather grand-looking buildings beyond the confines of the port, but their entrances are small. They are not commercial places – private homes, more likely – and they are across a wide road. Rallou does not fancy dodging the traffic to find that not one of them takes paying guests. But, just to feel like she is doing something, she starts to walk, the lights of the boats drawing her closer. The tarmac lorry park, the wide road and the patch of park in front of the houses beyond are all so dark. Also, she can see people moving around in the shadows by the trucks. More illegal immigrants, no doubt, all hoping for the opportunity to steal across to Italy.
There is a sandwich board at the tailgate of each boat with the departure times written in chalk. Cars form a long snaking line, inching their way up the metal incline and into the hollow bellies of the ships, where men’s voices ring and echo. It all seems very exciting. When she went to Paris and London she took a plane, which seemed very quiet and controlled, sterile even, compared to this spectacle, which is alive and pulsing and rather thrilling.
‘Kyria, you need a ticket?’ a man calls to her. He is sitting behind a rickety wooden stand; a coloured perspex sign hangs on thin chains at the front, advertising destinations and prices. He holds out a leaflet. ‘On deck, shared cabin, two-berth cabin – although I think those have all gone – single cabin.’
She could! Go to an island tonight, not for Christos, but just because she can, and come back tomorrow.
This ticket seller also has a handheld radio and he talks into it, his accent strange to her. Maybe he is Italian. When he finishes talking on the radio he says to her, ‘The boat to Venice is full. So the overnight to Corfu? That’s all there is tonight, but tomorrow morning …’ He reels off a list of destinations, delivering his knowledge of what is on offer as if it should impress.
Rallou stands aside. Is she really kidding herself? Is she somehow making all this happen? Creating ‘accidents’ so she will end up on Corfu, chasing after Christos but allowing herself her pride?
‘Eight hours to Corfu, kyria, and the ship docks there for at least two hours so there is no hurry in the morning. Here.’ He tears off a ticket and holds it out to her.
Isn’t Corfu actually the last place she wants to be if what she needs is a day or two’s holiday? Knowing Christos is there will drive her to do something about finding him.
‘Er, I’m not sure, I just overslept on the bus, I hadn’t really intended to … not really, I just needed to get away. I thought Saros …’ Rallou jabbers.
‘Don’t go, Natasa!’ a voice calls, full of emotion.
At the sound of her daughter’s name, Rallou turns around smartly. A tall youth is addressing a thin girl who looks nothing like her Natasa. Her beating heart relaxes.
‘I am going, Spiro. My mama was right,’ the thin girl, this other Natasa, says.
‘Your mama knows nothing,’ retorts the youth. There is an angry edge to his voice, a little display of the middle-aged man he will become, perhaps?
The ticket man has put down his radio to watch the spectacle.
‘She knows men like you keep girls like me waiting and waiting until we lose our chances.’ The girl has tears in her eyes. She can’t be more than twenty, if that.
‘You are not waiting. We are waiting.’ His voice has lost its anger now, and he seems small, fragile. In appearance he is not much older than the girl. He runs a hand through his dark hair, and a steel ring on his thumb catches the orange overhead lights. Rallou thought only tourists wore those.
‘And what are we waiting for, Spiro?’ the girl spits back.
‘I was waiting for tonight! I was waiting because, tonight, before you got so full of yourself and bought yourself a ticket home, I was going to take you to that cafe by the shore where we met.’
‘And what difference would that have made?’ She takes a ticket out of her bag and steps towards the boat.
‘It would have meant I did not have to do this here,’ the boy replies, searching in his pockets; then, finding what he was looking for, he drops to one knee.
‘Bravo!’ the ticket man shouts, and the girl, who had set off for the boat, turns around. Her eyes are as wide as a startled hare’s. Her lover is on one knee, spotlighted by the ship’s tail light.
‘Oh,’ is all she can say, her hand to her th
roat.
‘Natasa, will you marry me?’ He holds out the ring, stuffing the box back into his pocket.
Several dockhands are now enjoying the spectacle and they fall silent at this moment. A group of Japanese tourists on the aft deck begin to take photographs, the flashes attracting more attention to the couple.
It does not take Natasa even a half second to run to him. The ring is slipped on, and he stands and kisses her, lifting her off her feet, spinning her around. The Japanese tourists, the dockhands and the ticket man all cheer and applaud; the couple briefly look around them as if they have only just noticed that they are in a public place, give a little bow and, arm in arm, walk away as if they are one.
Rallou stares after them.
When Christos proposed, he got down on one knee underneath an olive tree, at the furthest end of the grove. The ring he produced was so pretty and the reality of what he was asking filled her with such happiness she could not find any words with which to reply.
‘Is that a yes, then?’ he pressed. All she could do was nod her head and he slipped on the ring and stood and hugged her, then kissed her, then kissed her some more, and they whispered nonsense about how different they were from other couples, how they would see the world together, escape the island. Another of Christos’s unfulfilled promises.
But then, what has she done about it either? Here she is in Patra, with ships waiting to sail, and she can’t even make the decision to get on one. What happened? Did the moment she walked up the aisle take away her right to make decisions for herself? For them both? Or did she pass the responsibility for making decisions to Christos, and then become angry and stubborn when he didn’t meet her expectations?
