by Polis Loizou
If the approaching woman chatting on her phone was speaking Russian, he’d go for a drink with Paris.
She was, so he did.
✽✽✽
Paris was partial to a bar off the radar. They left his car in a dim lot overseen by a toothless old man, where he squatted to play with a litter of strays. Past the trendy spot around the Pantopoleion, every establishment heaving with smoking, chatting, dressed-up undergrads, they went into a café-bar in one of those vast old houses with high wooden doors and a courtyard; Paris’ choice for a coffee and a game of backgammon.
In the light of bulbs draped over a pomegranate tree, Paris did multiple things at once: he smoked, sipped an ice-cold frappé, pushed his glasses up his nose, stroked another stray cat and complained about neoliberalism without once taking his eyes off the game. He’d got first-class honours in Classics from UCL, and could spout whole swathes of The Iliad as he scratched his beard. As a teenager, he’d needed Orestis to stand by his side to talk to girls. But now he’d forged his own path, and the awkwardness of youth had transformed into a state of manly tranquillity. For the first time, Orestis felt the less attractive of the two.
‘How’s your sister?’
‘Leave my sister alone,’ Paris said, in that priestly drone of a voice.
‘How would I get to her? Isn’t she in London?’
‘Manchester. She’s fine, doing her PhD.’
‘Serious!’
‘Watch what you’re doing, re. I’m wiping the floor with you.’
‘E, you always win.’
Paris shrugged, smoked, and lifted the frappé to his lips. He moved another chip.
‘I saw Pavlos today. My cousin.’
‘In prison?’
‘No, you wanker, at the gym near the park. He’s working there now. He said he could get me in for free. I figured I should go, you know, do some exercise, lose a bit of weight.’
Paris didn’t take his eyes off the board. ‘Good for you.’ Behind him was a painted figure stretching up the stone wall. Shadows fluttered over it, the paws of the cat, spread to bat at Paris’ fingers. ‘If you want, there’s a great spot to shoot some hoops—’
‘Orestis!’ The voice had come from behind him. He turned, and Paris looked up from the game, to see Evangelina Ioannidou heading towards them. Teetering on four-inch heels, her body looked as simultaneously big and tiny as it had at school. She buzzed, erratic, her perfume splashing everywhere. ‘I can’t believe it, when did I last see you? Where have you been?’
‘E, what else? Working. You?’
‘Where do you think?’ she said. ‘The beach, the mall, the bar… How am I supposed to keep track? How are you doing?’
‘Fine, yeah. Remember Paris?’
‘Oh my God, Paris! I was standing here thinking, “Who is that Bin Laden over there?” What’s with the beard?’ Gripping their arms for balance, she bent at the waist to give each of them a peck near the cheek.
Paris squirmed at her volume. ‘What’s new, Evangelina?’
‘Cut that “Evangelina” nonsense,’ she said, ‘I’m “Eva” now. Haven’t you seen my Facebook? You have to, it’s a riot. I post selfies every day, and I use those filters where you look like a painting, or as if someone took it a hundred years ago. My mum says, “Kori! What next? Iconography? You on the ceiling of the Ayia Sophia?” Ooh, hang on!’ She answered her ringing phone. ‘Here, you dumbass. In the courtyard, come inside then out. Past the bar.’
Grabbing a chair from a nearby table, Eva sat herself down with caution. There was a tight black dress, bulging bust and fabric-pulling thighs to negotiate. Her body was a full cup of coffee carried on a tray over people’s heads. Though Orestis had felt a twinge of dread at seeing her, the feeling subsided. Eva liked him, or at least that’s what he suspected, even after he became too poor to attend their school. More than once he’d fantasised about her. Of course, he never told the other guys; she was fat, they would mock him. Well, those same people would be laughing about him now no matter what. So what if she’s fat? his grandma used to say. With her dad’s money, you could own a chain of hotels. The girl had a certain potency. A pull. And she made Orestis feel comfortable, desirable. Even now.
After about twenty minutes her friend arrived. Skinny, pretty in the usual way, she looked at Orestis, and especially at Paris, like an aristocrat among beggars. When Paris made a leftist comment against austerity, she dragged on a Marlboro and asked if he was a Communist. Her eyebrows were already painted arched. Orestis imagined her pinned to a bed beneath him.
At some point, they started arguing about the development of the old marina, when Eva interrupted to address Orestis. ‘Where do you work again?’ The drink had clogged her speech a little and lowered what barriers she may have had. She was eyeing him openly; his mouth when he spoke, the parted neck of his shirt as he scratched at his chest hair. For a moment, he wondered if she’d offer to drive him home. They could stop along the beach for a fuck.
He blinked the thought way. ‘At the taverna,’ he said.
‘Ou, that one, your mum’s brother, what was he…?’
‘Cousin. Yeah.’
‘But the pay sucks,’ Paris added.
Orestis shot him a look, which Paris ignored.
‘Why?’ asked Eva.
‘His salary keeps getting cut. It’s almost half what it used to be.’
‘Come on, re…’ He glanced at Eva’s friend. Face of a woman kidnapped by terrorists.
Eva held his arm. ‘Your own uncle would do that to you?’
Orestis tried to laugh it off. ‘It’s not his fault, prices are going up.’
‘Bullshit! There’s always money.’
Paris couldn’t help himself: ‘Not for everyone.’
‘Give me your number,’ she said to Orestis, slapping the table. ‘You know my dad owns hotels. Why didn’t you say something before? Give me your number.’
Orestis felt a chill on the back of his neck. ‘Don’t worry about it, kori…’
‘Don’t be a moron! Give me your number, I’ll get him to put you in somewhere.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Of course! I only ever call him when I want a favour, he’s used to it. Give me your number and give your uncle the finger.’ Sipping her Bacardi, she slapped the table again and laughed.
Paris looked down at the interrupted backgammon game and took a drag on his cigarette. It was hard to tell, but Orestis thought his friend was smiling.
Three
It had been a while, but Orestis felt the presence of God. This went against his new beliefs – that he had none – and the godless voice in his head, sounding something like Paris, mocked him. But the past few days had lifted the bonnet and exposed the machine-works of Fate. One thing had led to another and arrived at Eva; Eva whose father owned hotels and might be hiring staff. Orestis’ goals were lining up, waiting for him to shoot. A five-star resort on Amathountos Avenue. Corridors walked by men in suits, men who’d press tips into his palm. His wardrobe fatter, his shoes more resistant to holes. He might even buy a car. He’d work his way up to Manager, and watch his bank account climb above zero. No more fights with his dad about the garage. Instead, Kostas would come over to his house – two floors, two reception rooms, a roof garden – to roast lamb on a spit. His grandma bearing bowls of sweet rice pudding sprinkled with cinnamon. Watermelon on the veranda, chatter floating out to the hills to the sea. Orestis’ surroundings would finally rise to meet his taste. An oak front door opening to a skylit hall. Iron-railed staircase. Open-plan lounge and dining room. The floors, a cream-and-coffee-coloured marble. Not that speckled pigeon-shit tiling of his grandma’s house. Walk-in-wardrobes and spare bedrooms, each with its own en-suite. All that space. All that freedom to move, to grow.
Then he’d slap himself out of it. Dreams were for the rich.
Jaw twitching, he’d stare the promise into himself: one day things would change. When the chef at the taverna screamed at him, when a waitress
was late, when a kid was snotty, he’d allow himself to daydream. Things would change. They had to. They always did.
‘Your cover left,’ said the other waiter, Nassis, when Orestis got back from his break. ‘They only paid half the bill ‘cause they hated the food.’
‘What?’ Orestis heard himself yelling. ‘And you let them?’
‘What could I do?’
‘That’s gonna come out of my pay.’
Nassis shrugged, sad and helpless.
Orestis held his head, shut his eyes. He would never tell his dad of this.
✽✽✽
After hearing about Eva and the possibility of a job, his grandma baked a fanouropita and prayed to the saint. Before she allowed Orestis to have any, she would have to offer a slice to seven women only married once.
‘Not many of them these days,’ she said.
‘E, let’s pray anyway.’
There was still a chance Eva might’ve been leading him on. Who was ever nice for nothing? It wasn’t as if good things just happened to people like him.
A flash of youth in his grandma’s face. ‘It’s in His hands,’ she said and kissed her crucifix.
As was everything. When his mother left, it had been God smiling down on them to push her out of their lives. It had been the will of God that his grandma fall on the steps of the bank and shatter her hip. God decided when his dad received custom and how the books looked at the end of a year. God advised keeping the central heating off in the winter so they might save a few cents. And the Virgin had watched, wilting with shame, as Orestis had smoked that spliff. A sky full of saints had lamented his deeds in cars.
God had made Orestis, but it was Orestis who’d let himself go. By losing his body to his grandma’s food, chicken with roast-gilded skin, thick village bread with butter and honey. By succumbing to fatigue and sloth and his uncle’s taverna, where his dwindling salary sank him further down a well.
And now, a light had appeared. Follow it, a voice was saying – a different one to the usual.
✽✽✽
Pavlos’ tank-top and sweatpants were the dream but Orestis was a realist. Realism drew the line at sleeveless and figure-hugging. People were likely to stare. Shorts would be practical, keep him cool and reduce sweat, but they were also out of the question. His hairy legs out in the open for all to see? No chance. As for trainers, the only pair he owned was over six years old. Others would notice and besides, the soles would die on the treadmill. It shamed him to arrive with bad shoes, XL t-shirt, and a pair of mottled sweatpants, but the discussion was closed by his wallet. He’d packed his uniform in a bag predating the trainers and got his dad to give him a ride to the gym, which only happened after he threatened to call a cab.
‘Waste of money,’ Kostas said, slamming the horn at a car turning right. ‘Just do a hundred push-ups and sit-ups at home.’
‘It’s not the same. Anyway, Pavlos is giving me a discount.’ Orestis had increased that discount by an extra ten euro for his dad’s benefit.
They weaved around apartment blocks, bakeries and petrol stations, Kostas’ shortcuts that made nothing shorter. Orestis longed for his old Suzuki. They’d had to sell it a few years back to pay the plumber. His dad’s better customers began to take their cars to branded garages, the poorer fell behind on their payments. His grandma’s medical bills increased. God willing, she’d say, you’ll be free of me soon. Orestis felt a sting in his eyes. He rested his arm on the window of his dad’s Toyota and tapped along to the pop on the radio.
‘Enough of this shit,’ Kostas said, changing the channel when an English song came on.
If his appearance made his cousin think less of him, Pavlos hid it well. He assessed Orestis’ physique and prescribed a routine for workouts. He hovered for a whole hour, spotting bench presses, lat pulldowns, flys, lifts and, most awkward of all, the treadmill. He advised working on chest, shoulders and triceps on some days, back and biceps on others, a day on legs and glutes. He talked Orestis through diet and nutrients and wrote him a list of protein sources outside of meat. Pavlos was never supposed to amount to anything. Orestis had spent most of their lives regarding his cousin as a dropout, with a future only in suntanned lethargy. But at the gym, Pavlos spoke with clear eyes and firm hands. His arms were strong, his posture correct. Meanwhile, Orestis had wheezed himself to a near flatline. He’d also forgotten to pack either a towel or a deodorant.
‘Wanker,’ he hissed to himself. ‘Useless prick.’
‘Hey, hey,’ said Pavlos, hand on his cousin’s arm. ‘I’ve got spares of everything. Don’t worry.’
He sent Orestis off to a health-food shop to buy the essentials, a place that smelled of earth and wool. Muscle repair, muscle build, maintenance, substitutes, supplements, pills, bars, powders. Thankfully, Pavlos had written a list to hand to the shop assistant. The man was a weedy-looking Greek-Greek, a Kalamaras, so soft-spoken, so languid as to be almost admirable.
‘Yes, we have all of these,’ said the Kalamaras. ‘Please wait here.’
He returned with creatine, whey and vitamins, which he piled on the counter. Tangled cables of veins emerged in his pale arms. Orestis calculated the cost in his head. This was crazy. He ought to stop. Even with the low gym fee, this was a lifestyle beyond his means. He recalled what Pavlos had said about nutrition and refined sugars. Good food costs money. His grandma was right, health was for the rich. Like getting his own place, fitness was another thing that would simply have to wait.
When the Kalamaras ran up the total, Orestis went numb. He ought to say no, ask the guy to put it all back. Instead, he heard himself saying, ‘OK.’
‘Would you like a loyalty card?’
‘Yes, please.’
He watched his hand move to the card machine and punch in his PIN.
The purchase complete, the Kalamaras thanked him for coming. Orestis stood still for a minute, chilled by what he had done.
Back at the taverna, he sprayed and wiped the empty tables. What the fuck did he still care about their cleanliness? Why did he still give a shit about his uncle’s business? Let the place fall apart, they could all go to Hell. Set it on fire, fan the flames. Uncle and cousins with their D&G swimwear and holidays in France.
Nassis was chatting football with the barman. He and Orestis were now on the same wage.
Orestis took himself to the bathroom, locked the cubicle and slammed his fist against the door. There in the quiet, he zoned out, eyes locked on a wispy globe of dust behind the toilet bowl.
He never helped his grandma at home.
It wasn’t his fault, she wouldn’t let him.
He came out of the cubicle and washed his face in the sink.
The old girl would be watching her dubbed South-American soaps, every so often breathing out a Glory be to God. She’d walk around the house with a censer, to bless it with the smoke of burning olive leaves. Then she’d sit in her armchair, itself older than his dad, to reminisce about the days before the Turks invaded, before EOKA, before her husband’s death. Aniseed tea and a paximadi. Daydreams of a better life to come – thanks to that nice-but-fat Eva and her big-shot dad, who was going to offer Orestis a job, any minute now, in one of his five-star hotels. Orestis would be settled, might even marry the girl. May their troubles go away.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
Nassis walked in, hand on his flies. He stood at the urinal to piss and groan.
So now both waiters were off the floor. This place was a fucking joke.
* * *
His last cover had left without so much as a thank you. At least they’d paid their bill. As soon as his shift was over, Orestis dumped his cloth in the bin, threw off his apron and walked out. He took his bag from the staff cupboard and picked up the health-store purchases he’d hidden under his jacket. Out in the open air, he remembered his buzzing phone.
A missed call from Eva. New voicemail.
His heart was loud even against the noise of cars. Inhaling the night, he sat
on a low wall to wait for his dad. He stared at the screen for a whole minute, then dialled to play the message.
Re, what are you doing that means you can’t answer the phone? Working? Don’t shit me. Well, tell your uncle to go fuck himself, because they’re looking for receptionists at the Harmonia. Long story short, I got you an interview. You’ve basically got the job anyway because I told Daddykins to tell the manager you’re my very best friend and you saved my life on several occasions with your excellent phone-answering skills, so all you have to do is show up and they’ll ask you a couple of questions. And then thank me. Just so you know, I like kalamari…
There was also a text. She’d forgotten to mention the interview was at ten am in two days’ time.
He leant back, all breath gone. A breeze ran along his arm, making him spasm. He looked around in case anyone saw. The phone had melded to his hand. In his other was the bag of protein and creatine, the things he couldn’t afford – until a mere half-hour later, when Eva had made that call and left that message. No – at around the same time, when she called Daddykins to get him an interview. He ought to message her back, take her out for kalamari, it was the least he could do. But his head was full. An interview in two days. He needed a suit, a good suit, another thing he couldn’t afford. When his father turned up, he’d get him to drive to a supermarket, discount outlet, anything, he needed something, at least a good tie.
It made him laugh to himself, and shake his head: money. The fact that it took money to make money. That he should have done this years ago. Should have listened to his gut and leapt into life instead of dipping his toe, watching his step.
The Toyota turned the corner and slowed to a stop a palm-width from his feet. Through the windscreen his old man’s mood was clear. Customers.
