Good Will Come From the Sea

by Christos Ikonomou

Who’s going to work the kitchen?

  How about live music?

  Will you serve coffee, too?

  Are you looking for waiters?

  Anyhow, you two are lucky, said Frankie, a wimp with a ponytail and earring who threw his own eighty-year-old grandfather out on the street so he could turn the family home into a bed and breakfast. There isn’t too much paperwork in the restaurant business. We ran around for three years trying to get our permits.

  I don’t believe it, said Artemis. Three years?

  He’s not exaggerating, said Asi, the wimp’s wife. Three whole years. The house is in a traditional settlement and pretty well preserved. The Ministry of Tourism, the tax bureau, fire inspectors, city planners, archaeologists – they bounced us back and forth like a ping pong ball. To this day, the thought of it makes my blood boil.

  Not to mention all the expenses, and grease for the wheels, Frankie said.

  Of course, said Asi. Not to mention all that.

  And then there were the snitches, in the beginning, and the fines.

  There was that, too.

  Snitches? Artemis said. Who would snitch on you guys?

  The other two looked at one another and laughed. Frankie tamped down the gauze on his forehead and poured a little whiskey in his glass and Stavros’s. Then he turned away and swallowed a pill he had in his hand. Asi stopped laughing and nudged him with her elbow. She took Artemis’s glass and filled it with wine. Her hand shook.

  You poor thing, she said, wiping her eyes with a pinky finger. Seems to me you guys still haven’t realized what it’s like around here. Do you have any idea the kind of shit that goes on? The only thing we’ve got more of than squealers is rats. Really, who would snitch on us? You might as well ask who didn’t. First about the septic tank, then about the sprinklers, then the solar panels on the roof – every week we had a new set of complaints to deal with, they were like a dog with a toy in its mouth. They even went online to register complaints, pretending to be customers, that the rooms smelled like mold, that they’d seen roaches or mice, that we stole their money or took stuff out of their suitcases – it was madness. Eventually they lost interest and stopped, but until then, we spit blood. I’m telling you, blood.

  I’m not so sure, Frankie said. There might be even more squealers than rats. Either way, you should watch out.

  Watch out for what? Artemis said, looking at Stavros, who was sitting there silently, head bowed. We’re on good terms with everyone.

  Maybe. Maybe you are on good terms with everyone, but everyone might not be on good terms with you. We were cool with everyone too, but apparently they weren’t cool with us back. That’s why I’m telling you to watch out.

  Guys, what’s going on? Artemis asked. What’s that look for?

  Tell them, Frankie said to Asi. Come on. Spit it out.

  Let’s just calm down, she told him. It’s eleven and you guys are already on your second bottle. Calm down, OK?

  Then she turned to Artemis and started to speak. She said that for a long time lots of people had an eye on the restaurant, and about once a year they would ask the German if he would sell, so they could turn it into a club or coffee shop, or knock it down and build some kind of lodging for tourists. Two or three years ago, rumor had it that the German finally decided to give it to that trigger-happy guy they call Jaguar, who owns half the places down by the water, but then he got cold feet, and ever since then Jaguar really had it in for him. And when he found out that the German rented the place to Artemis and Stavros, he hit the roof, you know how these things are, guys like that go apeshit if they don’t get their way. I mean, he and his cousins were partners for years, and when they decided to split up the partnership a few years ago they almost ended up dueling with pistols in the street. And sure, you’ll tell me those guys are dealing with millions, they’ve got everyone on the payroll, mayors, cops, tax officers, no one gives them any trouble. But the little guys? They’re even worse, they’ll sing like a canary for a handful of change. Didn’t that sneak from Corinth go and set up his canteen down on the beach in Charos and within two days they’d torched the place? Didn’t they beat those young guys almost to death down at Magou just for selling loukoumades and watermelon to tourists on the beach? And you think I could forget Astrinos, who left behind a wife and two kids? That poor guy. They drove him nuts, and he went and blew his brains out in the cave. Those bastards are the worst, guys like Xellinakis or the Ikariot, they’ve got no limits, no shame. That son of a bitch from Ikaria hung a banner outside the shacks to advertise his Russians and now all the dregs of humanity go and fuck girls their daughters’ age and the fucking cops turn a blind eye whenever they pass by. They’re all pieces of shit, all pimps and stool pigeons, the whole lot of them. Every single one, from first to last.

  Artemis listened with her hand clamped tightly over her mouth as if there were something inside struggling to get out. She kept throwing glances at Stavros, who sat there rotating his glass with his hand and seemed to be listening only to the glin glin of ice cubes rattling.

  I don’t believe it, she said at last.

  What part?

  Any of it, Asi. Come on, that sort of thing can’t be happening, it doesn’t make any sense. There’s so much tourism on the island. So many restaurants, cafés, tavernas. How did they all get built? There’s no way. I don’t believe it.

  Don’t fool yourself, girl. It’s not 1990 anymore, or even 2000. It’s a war zone out there. It’s life or death. The fewer of us there are, the better. The guy next door isn’t going to let you just waltz over and grab the food off his plate. Look at what’s happening around you. You think the locals are all just thrilled we’ve shown up here? They’re at each other’s throats as it is – you think they’re going to welcome us with open arms? I mean, why do you think they call us foreigners? You think that’s a good sign?

  Asi filled their glasses with wine and set the bottle back on the table.

  Whatever, she said, I didn’t say all that to scare you. We just want you to have your wits about you, to watch your backs. Come on, let’s talk about something else, you look like you saw a ghost. Have some wine. You need some courage, girl. And don’t be afraid of fear. Only the dead aren’t afraid.

  Is it true, though? Frankie said. What I heard about the prices. Are you really going to serve a set menu for ten euros?

  For a minute no one spoke. Frankie looked at Artemis and Artemis looked at Asi, who was looking at Frankie as if she wanted to climb over the table and put out his eyes. Only Stavros was still staring at his glass, as if he’d made some bet with himself that he wouldn’t look up until all the ice had melted.

  We’ll see, Artemis finally said. We haven’t decided yet. We’ll see, I don’t know.

  OK, Frankie said. But if you want my advice, I’d say you should think twice.

  Why? Say we serve fifty people a night – fifty times ten is five hundred. We’ll cover the rent in a single day. What more do we need?

  That’s not how it works, Artemis. You’re opening a business, not a soup kitchen. You can’t just do whatever you want. You have to follow the system.

  What system?

  The system. It’s like me renting a double room for twenty euros a night when everyone else in my category charges a hundred. That’s not how things work. There’s a system. There are cartels.

  Come on, you guys are driving me crazy tonight, Artemis said. What are you talking about, Frankie? You’re telling me there’s an ouzeri cartel?

  There are all kinds of cartels, everywhere. Greece has more cartels than Colombia, didn’t you know? I mean, you can’t buy potatoes for, I don’t know, seventy cents a kilo and then pop them in the oven and sell a serving for a euro and a half if everyone else is charging three. You can’t even charge the same amount for a serving of sardines, but put fifteen on the plate instead of eight. In Athens things are differen
t, there are more people there, and more restaurants, so everyone does as they please. But that shit doesn’t fly down here. Here you have to follow the system. Otherwise, you’re asking for trouble. If the rats find out you’re undercutting them, they’re not going to let you just sit pretty on your branch. It’s simple, really.

  I don’t know, Artemis said. So far, at least, nothing’s happened. No one’s bothered us.

  And I hope no one does, said Frankie. But remember, these things are like earthquakes. You never know when they’ll hit, and when they do, it’s too late.

  Come on, enough already, said Asi. Enough, I’m about ready to throw this fucking bottle out the window.

  We want to do something different, Artemis said again. We have lots of plans.

  Frankie shrugged his shoulders and raised his glass.

  Okay, he said. Bon chance.

  Stavros drained the rest of his whiskey, then stood up and reached for his coat.

  Don’t get mad, Stavrakos, Asi said. We’re only telling you for your own good.

  I’m not mad, Stavros said. I’m tired. Are you coming or should I go?

  I’m coming, Artemis said. Go on, I’ll be there in five minutes.

  Stavros stopped in the doorway and looked at Frankie, who had collapsed face-up on the couch and was staring at the ceiling.

  What happened to your head? he asked Frankie.

  At the bed and breakfast, I was messing with some wires and fell off the ladder.

  You know the story about Gagarin’s scar?

  Frankie raised his head and fumbled at the gauze on his forehead, giving Stavros a blank look.

  Who the hell is Gagarin?

  The Russian astronaut, Yuri Gagarin. After he became the first person to travel in space, he totally lost control, went the whole rock star route. Parties, women, vodka by the barrel, the whole deal. Well, at some point he’s holed up in a hotel with some nurse, and his wife finds out, comes up to the room and starts hollering and pounding on the door, and Yuri panics, jumps off the balcony and lands on his head on the pavement. After that he had a scar on his forehead, right where yours is going to be, over the eyebrow. When people asked him about it afterward, he would tell some people that his daughter hit him with a rock, others that he fell off a ladder.

  Frankie sat down on the sofa and shot a look at Asi, who was listening with her mouth hanging open.

  What’s all this shit, man? What does that have to do with anything?

  Nothing, Stavros said. I just remembered. Anyhow, I’m off. Goodnight, or good morning, I guess.

  At the front door he heard Asi shouting and slamming things on the table. He stood there for a minute, listening, then put on his coat and stepped out into the street.

  * * *

  He drinks a tall glass of tsikoudia and smokes two or three cigarettes, then pulls over a stool so he can climb up into the crawl space. The kite is way on the other side, leaning against the wall. It has colored horizontal stripes and a long tail and a string several meters long. He pushes down hard and lifts himself through the opening and, crouching on all fours, pulls the kite over and lets it fall onto the floor, its tail trailing after. Then, kneeling there, he thinks about cutting off a few meters of the string, tying one end to the ceiling beam and the other around his neck and jumping out of the crawl space – jumping through the opening, and there, in that small span between floor and hole, ending everything, everything ending for good, once and for all, forever.

  A kite string tied to a ceiling beam.

  He knows it’s possible, he’s heard stories. One guy tied his neck tie to a hook on the wall, another used his winter scarf and a heating pipe, someone even used a shoelace and a doorknob. Tie, shoelace, scarf – whatever’s at hand.

  A kite string tied to a ceiling beam.

  Difficult, but not impossible.

  Once and for all, forever.

  Holding the ball of string he thinks how he’d like to have a foot in his brain, a steel foot wearing a steel boot so he could kick pain and bitterness far away, each time they came he could kick away betrayal, and despair, and bad people, harsh people, the kind of people who cut love to their own size and not to the size of love itself, people who say I love you on Monday and by Tuesday won’t give you a second glance, say I can’t live without you on Monday and by Tuesday say I can’t stand you anymore, on Monday say we’ll get through this together and by Tuesday say you have to stand on your own two feet, we all have to take responsibility for ourselves, on Monday say I want us to live together forever and by Tuesday say what do you mean I came into your life, fucked everything up, and now I’m leaving like nothing ever happened, what do you mean, I don’t understand – you think I misled you or something? – people who say you’re my forever person on Monday and by Tuesday say you’re getting too clingy, you’re asking too much, don’t text me anymore, don’t call, people who laugh with all their heart while yours drips blood, who watch TV calmly at night until they fall asleep without a care in the world, while you stare through the window at the darkness and feel that darkness swallowing you up, people who forget you overnight and spend their days and nights with friends in cafés and bars, while you remember everything – each moment, each word, each kiss, each night, each day – you remember each whisper, each cry, each embrace, each smile, each laugh, you remember, remember, remember, and you struggle, your hands dipped in blood, your heart soaked in blood, your eyes soaked in clear, crystalline blood, you struggle, every hour, every moment, every morning, every night, to eradicate everything you remember from your body and heart and mind, to uproot everything your body and heart and mind remember, you struggle to douse with blood the blaze that consumes you, you struggle not to remember, you struggle to forget the sweetness in those eyes that gazed into your eyes, the taste of that other mouth when it kissed yours, the smell of that other body tangled with yours, you struggle not to remember, to not remember. You struggle to learn to not remember. And you’re afraid. You’re afraid you won’t manage, afraid that one day you won’t be able to bear it anymore and you’ll make the biggest mistake, you’ll close your eyes and take a deep breath and take out your phone and call, or even worse, you’ll go and stand outside her house, outside his house, and it’ll be night and cold and raining and you’ll stand there for hours in the rain and cold, waiting, smoking, shaking, your eyes shattered, your heart shattered, your mind shattered, you’ll wait and wait until you see her coming, until you see him coming, and then you’ll toss your cigarette onto the harsh wet pavement and drag yourself over to her, over to him – and you know you’re capable of falling to your knees and crawling to kneel at her feet, at his feet – and you’ll say in your shattered voice, please, I’m begging you, listen to me, just listen for a minute, just one minute, I love you, I don’t care if I’ve lost my sense of self, all that matters is that I’m losing you, I love you, just give me a chance to show you how much I love you, how much I loved you, how much I’ll love you still, I’m begging you, I don’t care that I’m on my knees, I don’t care that I’m begging, just give me a chance, you can’t have forgotten it all, you can’t already have forgotten the nights we spent together, the Friday afternoons, that Tuesday when I bought you those sunglasses, the Saturday we went to the Hondos Center and you bought me perfume and afterward I gave you twenty cents so it wouldn’t bring bad luck, you can’t have forgotten, you can’t have forgotten the Sunday afternoon when you made pasta with shrimp, peppers, and feta and you primped and preened, so proud of how well it turned out and I said, this isn’t pasta with shrimp, it’s pasta with primp, and we laughed and went to bed, leaving the food on the table, and then took a shower together and splashed water in one another’s eyes and laughed some more and finally ate and drank the bottle of wine I brought and the profiteroles for dessert, you can’t not remember, just give me a chance, I love you more than I’ve ever loved in my life, more than I’ll ever l
ove again, don’t leave, please, don’t leave me. That’s what you’ll say, on your knees, and then you’ll raise your eyes and see the most terrible thing a person can ever see, a crippled person, a kneeling person in love – an unsmiling, harsh, tight face, which you thought until now was a mask hiding the pain, but just now you realize, shaking all over, that what you thought was a mask is the actual face of the person you love, the person you thought loved you, and you’ll wonder for a moment, the briefest moment, how it’s possible, how on earth the eyes that once dripped such sweetness as they gazed at you are the same eyes that are looking at you tonight so impassively, so indifferently – and then, shaking even harder, on your knees, you’ll hear the most terrible thing a crippled, kneeling person in love can hear.

  I told you, it’s over. What precisely don’t you understand? It’s over, we’re over. O-ver.

  Everything.

  Over.

  * * *

  The little mermaid is still perched on her rock, propped on one arm, legs bent to the side, still staring out to sea, hair gathered so the wind won’t muss it – the little mermaid stares out at the sea, and she isn’t so little anymore, or a mermaid, either.

  Before he gets out of the car, she turns and looks his way, and when he opens the trunk and pulls out the kite she smiles and gets to her feet and stands on the rock with her arms stretched out to either side, her face glowing as if suddenly lit by an invisible spotlight. Stavros holds the kite in one hand and the multi-colored tail in the other, and as he walks toward her he wonders if that smile is for him or the kite or something else altogether. The sky has cleared, the sun is shining as strong as two suns together, and a sweet breeze blows from the north, making the waves shiver.

  Everyone will think we’re nuts, he calls to her, setting the kite down on the pebbles of the beach and carefully laying out the tail so it doesn’t get tangled. Kites are for Clean Monday. No one flies kites in July. That’s it, they’ve lost it, they’ll say.