Being Enough

by Sara Alexi

‘Er, well …’ Rallou starts. ‘He’s loving, and patient and …’

  ‘No, I need to know what he looks like.’ Anthea doesn’t laugh at her. Everything about her seems to want to be helpful.

  ‘No, yes, of course. Tall, broad-shouldered, but lithe … Well, almost skinny, I suppose, although he has muscles … So yes, lithe.’

  ‘His face?’ Anthea’s head leans to one side slightly, the smile still there, still genuine.

  ‘Right! Straight nose, always a day or two’s stubble, which has patches of white. Er … really nice smile, a full bottom lip. Oh, and one eyebrow is slightly higher than the other. And if he is concerned or worried, that one lifts up in a sort of arch. His hair is short. Well, no, it needs a cut actually. It is over his collar at the back and there is always this bit that breaks free and curls backward on his forehead, sort of thing.’ Rallou struggles.

  ‘He sounds pretty gorgeous to me.’ Anthea laughs. ‘But, unfortunately, no – no one of that description has been here. I think I would have remembered.’

  On the one hand Rallou is very pleased that he has not spent time with this woman. Anthea is far too attractive and vivacious, not to mention slimmer than her. But on the other hand it would have been nice if he was staying here as she feels drawn to Anthea’s company.

  Anthea offers Rallou coffee and when she declines she gives Rallou a tour of her rooms-to-rent instead, of which she is quite rightly very proud. When there is nothing more to see they wander round to find Ilias.

  Rallou considers whether she would have enjoyed Anthea’s situation: to have spent her life running rooms for rent or a small hotel – to have something that she had built up and of which she was proud. Maybe, but Christos would have hated it. Besides, it does seem like a lot of work with all those beds to make, floors to sweep and mop, and thirty breakfasts to cook each morning; when would she ever be able to take a break? At least Lori, Ted and the boys are only five people and they are only on Orino in the summer.

  ‘Perhaps you should try the Hotel Atlantis. Your Christos might be there,’ Anthea suggests. ‘It is directly opposite the port, so anyone who does not know Corfu and just wants somewhere cheap, that is the place they would go. Of course, it is not as reasonable as us – nor, I think, as pretty – but, well, you could try.’

  ‘Good luck,’ she adds as Rallou remounts the bike, and with a wave they set off rather jerkily before they quickly change into second gear and return the way they came.

  Sitting side-saddle offers such a good view of the sea on the return journey. There are pink-skinned children diving in and out of the waves, shrieking and laughing. When Rallou was that age the sea was a good walk away, but it was all downhill and they would run in the heat, eager to reach the cool of the water. The beaches on the south of Orino Island, down the back, were sheltered from wind and wave and there was no way to get to them from Orino town back then unless you had a fishing boat or walked up and over the top through Korifi. Now a pleasure cruiser offers lifts there and back every day in the summer months. Some days, if the wind is in the right direction, the sounds of the bathers laughing and shouting drift up the hillside. Occasionally she feels a slight resentment at the intrusion, but she knows of another little cove a bit further along that is too small for a boatload of tourists, and, although she rarely swims these days, it is comforting to know she still has her own private place. She might swim once or twice in the summer when she is visiting her baba, but only in August when the temperatures soar. There is a freedom in floating on her back, weightless, thoughtless, with the water lapping over her chest and stomach every now and again as the gulls float high above her until the world drifts away and only she remains. And when she has had enough of that, she will turn onto her stomach, allow the water to splash over her face, before kicking up and putting her head under to swim to the bottom, to watch the little fish that scatter as she approaches, the sand on the bottom that is rippled by unfelt waves, the starfish bright orange against the pale background. She would like to do that now, and even toys with the idea of getting Ilias to drop her off so she can explore this little bit of coastline. The only thing that stops her is the crowd of people already on the beach and her growing need to find Christos.

  The journey back seems shorter, but just as she thinks they are nearly there they stop abruptly outside a large, and rather dull, concrete building.

  ‘The manager is very nice. He has worked here for twenty-nine years,’ Ilias says as they stroll into the Hotel Atlantis. Rallou finds herself following his lead, literally walking behind him. He greets the receptionist with his lop-sided smile, and adds a boyish but seductive shyness that has all the traits of being fake. The receptionist responds and leans over the desk towards him, and hers is an encouraging smile. The manager, erect, bald and suited, comes out to talk to Rallou. Ilias is right, he is a lovely man and obviously takes pride in his role, but that does not make it any easier to explain that her husband is missing and that she is hunting him down. She tells another lie about Christos taking a break to be here but this time the imaginary aunt is ill back home and she has come to find him to relay the news. Her own lies sound hollow on her lips, and the manager says no one of Christos’s description has stayed with them recently. He suggests they try another hotel, the Molto Bene. Ilias, having completed his conversation with the receptionist, overhears this part of Rallou’s conversation and he looks up to see if she wants to go to this next place.

  ‘You must have things to do other than driving me around, Ilia,’ Rallou says, but Ilias glances back at the receptionist and it is clear that what he is doing suits him very well.

  It turns out that he knows the receptionist at the Molto Bene as well, but this girl is less receptive to his charms. The hotel she in turn suggests has no one fitting Christos’s description either, and nor does the pension next door, nor the apartments a little distance away, by the beach. Each of the owners is very kind and suggests another establishment that she might try, but it is beginning to feel like a hopeless quest. ‘Enough,’ Rallou says to Ilias as they climb back on the bike for what feels like the hundredth time. ‘You have been very kind, Ilia, but we are just blindly following what everyone suggests. We could do a tour of every place on the island like this, when all the time he is sleeping on the beach or up in the hills.’

  Ilias shrugs.

  ‘But I do thank you, Ilia, for driving me around.’

  ‘You are welcome,’ he replies cheerily, but he has a glassy look in his eyes, as if his mind is still on one of the receptionists.

  Back at Toula’s house, Rallou finds all of a sudden that she is very weary, but also rather uneasy. This last emotion has something to do with spending a large part of the day following directions that were mostly delivered carelessly and with little consideration. It is an uncomfortably familiar feeling, and it also feels as if the whole world knows her business. Just the thought of this brings a flush to her face and neck and she looks away, avoiding eye contact with Bobby as they pull in. Although she is grateful for all the help that has been extended to her, what she would really like right now is somewhere she could go, to shut the world out and spend a little time coming to terms with the events of the day and the uncomfortable state it has left her in.

  Ilias has pulled the bike in and parked close to the kerb, and he walks around to help her dismount as she slides from her pillion seat.

  ‘Careful!’ he shouts as she steps down, but he is too late and a burning pain sears across the back of her lower calf. She pulls at her foot but it won’t move, stuck where it is between the bike and the pavement. The pain increases. Ilias and the other boy, Bobby, scramble to help.

  ‘Ow! Move the bike!’ Rallou is shouting now. She has no choice; the pain is burning into her flesh. Ilias kicks the motorbike off its stand and leans it away from Rallou, carefully rolling it forward so as not to make the situation worse. Bobby stands near her, arms out, ready to hold, or pull, or catch, whatever is needed. The moment her leg is free sh
e turns around and sits heavily on the pavement. Bobby’s hands are now supporting her, trying to take her weight.

  ‘Oh, that hurts – oh my goodness, that hurts!’ She wants to wrap her fingers around the offending part of her leg but instinct tells her to not touch.

  ‘What have you done, lady?’ Ilias asks.

  ‘Rallou? Is that you?’ Toula is hurrying down her steps, her shoes clicking on the steps’ edges.

  ‘Don’t touch!’ Rallou demands as she draws nearer, frightened that someone, out of concern, will go near the pain.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Toula demands, shuffling quickly towards them, apron on, dishcloth in hand.

  ‘I think the exhaust has burnt her leg,’ Bobby says, concern on his young face.

  Rallou turns her foot so she can see the damage. A huge blister has already swollen up and she cannot remember the last time she had such a dramatic-looking injury, but mostly she cannot get over how much it is hurting. As she watches she can see the blister is getting tighter.

  ‘You should pop that,’ Ilias says. ‘Release the pressure.’

  ‘No, leave it, get some ice, cool it down,’ Bobby says.

  ‘No, ice will burn skin even more. We should bandage it,’ Ilias replies.

  ‘I feel a bit sick,’ Rallou says. The pain is making her feel a little dizzy.

  ‘Take her to the hospital,’ Toula says. ‘Don’t touch it, Rallou. Go to the hospital, get it treated, then come back. I will have lunch ready, and you can have a mesimeri sleep and by then everything will feel better.’

  ‘I love the way you make everything sound so easy,’ Rallou says and then closes her eyes and pulls a face against the pain. She does not care what she looks like.

  ‘Okay, get back on.’ Ilias is looking very worried.

  ‘Don’t be a fool,’ Bobby says. ‘Go borrow the car again.’

  ‘Perhaps I’d better get a taxi,’ Rallou says. The pain is growing worse and she does not want to wait for anyone to borrow anything.

  Finally a taxi is called, and the boys, one on either side, propel her efficiently but respectfully towards the waiting car. Quite a crowd has gathered by now, but by this time the pain is so all-consuming that Rallou hardly cares that once again she is the centre of attention and that everyone on the island appears to know her business.

  ‘Burnt your leg, eh? Bike exhaust?’ the driver says, looking down at her ankle. The way he does this, with a sneer and no pity, makes Rallou wish she had sat in the back. ‘Happens all the time! Welcome to Corfu. They are usually a lot younger than you though. Younger and stupider, and usually not Greek.’ He closes the conversation.

  Ordinarily she would take offence at his rude tone but right now the pain in her leg demands all her attention and renders his behaviour insignificant. She bites her lip and looks out of the window. They are by the port where she arrived and, as they pass the line of ships, Stephanos’s parting words on Orino Island come to mind. ‘Turn right where the boat lands you.’ That is exactly where the taxi is taking her now: right at the dock!

  Images of young trainee nurses flood her mind and she feels dizzy all over again.

  ‘Here you go,’ the driver says, more kindly now, as they come to a stop.

  Thankfully the journey was only short, and despite feeling woozy, she insists that she get out and hobble to the hospital door unaided. The driver makes no great effort to convince her otherwise.

  The hospital is big and modern. Through the automatic main door is an open area that is clean and bright, with rows of empty chairs. She hobbles to one and sits down and waits, unsure what else she should do. There are no people, no one to help, but there are noises coming from a closed door behind the reception desk, and voices from another door marked Staff.

  What if Christos’s girl is here? What if she treats the burn? But how would she know? They have never met. The pain blanks out her thoughts.

  ‘I am Yiatros Pharmokopolous.’ A man in a white coat is suddenly beside her. ‘And you have a nasty burn.’ He squats by Rallou’s side and examines her leg critically, without touching. ‘But let us not fuss. I will bandage it and give you a depon to ease the pain so you can be on your way. Can you walk this way all right? Yes, good, sit here.’ He draws green curtains around them and, taking some gauze, he oh-so-gently bandages her leg. ‘There. Now, here are two depon. You want water for the tablets, or …?’

  Sometimes it is better to remain hard, to take control of pain and her soft side. And she has tried, tried very hard, to remain composed, but after the gentle care and concern the doctor showed her she is not sure she can stand.

  ‘I feel a little dizzy,’ Rallou says.

  ‘Really? When did you eat breakfast?’

  ‘I haven’t – well, not yet, I–’

  ‘So. Best you go to the cafe. Look, you see those doors? You go through there, turn left. The food is good, so eat something before you take the painkillers. If you want to change the bandages tomorrow you can come here, or do it yourself, but try not to pierce the blister. Here, let me open the door for you.’ They have reached the doors he was talking about and he indicates the way she should go but there is no need, as a delicious smell drifts down the hall. With a hand on the wall, she shuffles towards it. The cafe must have large windows because the sun is streaming across the corridor. As she draws level, she sees that the windows, as she anticipated, are large – floor to ceiling – and they look out onto a grassed area with benches. Outside are three nurses sitting on one bench, all about her age, smoking.

  ‘Rallou!’ a familiar voice calls.

  Chapter 26

  ‘Rallou! I’m glad you managed to get here so soon!’

  Rallou’s head spins, her eyes lose focus and she staggers. Arms are around her, a chair is pulled to the back of her legs and she is eased into it.

  ‘Put her head down between her knees if she’s dizzy,’ a passing voice says.

  ‘No, I’m fine,’ Rallou manages to say. The speaker keeps walking, and she watches their feet, in white slip-on shoes. Until she understands what is happening she does not dare look up.

  ‘Are you all right?’ The arms are still around her, secure and tender.

  ‘Dizzy. No breakfast.’ Keeping it brief, she finds she is released, and now she dares to look up to watch his familiar back, the ease of his stride, his broad shoulders rocking as he walks away to the counter: all the things that excited her, attracted her, made her fall in love as a girl. He places an order and returns with coffee and cake.

  ‘Here.’ Christos smiles, but there is a crease between his eyes, a look of concern.

  The cup at her lips gives her reason to stay silent. Why was he expecting her? An avalanche of thoughts jumbles in her head. Adrenaline courses through her system to help her; she reasons, filters and orders, ideas spinning into focus, receding, to be replaced by other notions. Nothing becomes clear, there is no understanding, no sense can be made of it. She cannot help herself, and looks around for the nurse who might be the girl he once knew. Everyone else in the cafe is involved in their own conversations. The only nurses in sight are outside the window, smoking, talking.

  ‘I’m so glad you came so quickly. She is fine, just fine, but guess what?’ Christos is clearly excited.

  Taking a sip of the hot liquid, more thoughts come, but these are more like memories, snippets of their life together, encounters she holds tender, a collage of all the magical moments that confirm love, care, respect, but they are all one-way, from him to her. She looks him in the face. He is shining, his tanned face positively glowing. It makes the whites of his eyes appear even whiter and the browns of his irises even darker. She has not seen him look this happy, or so full of vitality, for years and years. It fills her with yearning, and she wants to see him always look that way, and for her to be the cause of such passion. She also wants to feel that animated herself. Her chest is hard-pressed to contain the joy she feels to see him so charged, looking so stimulated by life. But the joy is tainted wi
th a bitter twinge of suspicion, or rather knowledge, that she has not been the partner he deserved. She can change that. Right now she can make up for every wrong she has ever done him, by being selfless. Whatever is making him so animated, she cannot – will not – stand in the way of it, not even if it is another woman. This may lose her her husband but at least she can win back some self-respect.

  ‘Rallou,’ he says, taking her hands, and she knows he is about to share with her why he is so fervent. ‘Rallou, we are grandparents!’

  The coffee covers most of the table as well as her chin. Some of the liquid goes down the wrong way and she coughs violently.

  ‘Easy – easy, girl,’ Christos says, laughing, pushing his chair back a little and grabbing paper napkins to clear up the mess she has just made.

  ‘Natasa is fine! A little tired, of course, but just fine, and the baby, such a koukla! Wait till you see her. She is so beautiful, and they are taking really good care of her.’

  ‘But …’ Rallou manages and then tries to work out dates in her head, counting her fingers. ‘What month are we in?’ she asks. She must have her weeks confused. Maybe the cicadas are not singing early, and instead time has just slipped by her. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  ‘A little early, obviously. They would not have been here on holiday if she was due. But not very early.’ Christos’s grin grows even wider, his heels tapping as he fiddles with her wedding ring. He can hardly sit still in his seat, and just for a fleeting moment Rallou is back at Korifi. Her baba is sitting at the kitchen table on the porch, Christos in a chair next to him asking for her hand in marriage. She was sitting close to Christos, just like she is now, and he was fiddling with her fingers, his heels tapping. They were in an almost identical position.

  ‘Us! Grandparents!’ Christos sighs and continues to stroke her fingers, shaking his head gently as if this status is beyond his expectation. The reality of his words sinks in for a second.