by Polis Loizou
‘What’s up?’
‘Get in, son.’ His father’s expression was more gloomy than angry, his voice that of a different man: raspy, soft.
Orestis pulled the seatbelt over his soon-to-be-flat stomach, and Kostas came out with it as if it was nothing: ‘Your grandma’s at the hospital. I’m taking you to say goodbye.’
Four
The old girl croaked just after midnight. The doctor, a woman, talked them through the motions. Her manner was both warm and businesslike. First came the certificate of the cause of death, on which his grandma’s stroke was stated with brutal distance. Then came the undertaker, who talked them through the funeral. Next, it was the priest who’d be conducting the service.
She’d died alone, while Orestis had been at that fucking taverna, scrubbing gum off tables.
People offered their assistance, even their homes for the wake. Andrikos, Andros and their wives came to gently cover the deceased’s hands with theirs, and give tearful thanks for the presence she had been in their lives.
‘Did you want me to call the relatives?’ Auntie Lenia asked Kostas, in a tone that said she’d do it herself.
‘I’ll call the florist in the morning,’ said Maria.
And in the centre of them lay the corpse. His grandma – no, mother; she had been that without question. More than once she’d called herself a burden. Better if I died. If she hadn’t been so old, so ill and so worthless, she could have helped them earn a living instead of sapping it from them. If only her medication didn’t cost so much. If only her trips to the doctor and tests at the hospital hadn’t been as frequent. Better dead and cost-free than alive and costly. Orestis’ throat was hard and full, his stomach light and empty. She’d had a point. Now there’d be one less mouth and fewer bills. All those glib statements he’d heard over the years, from people who knew nothing: the vacuous lives of the rich, the spiritual wealth of the poor. Idiots. An empty wallet made you long for the vacuum of death.
There, on that white abnormal bed, his grandma lay in a gown so thin he could see her nipples through it. Her bones jutted, another blemish in her weathered skin. He hoped she hadn’t been cold in her final moments; she’d often shivered at night, rubbing her arms. God’s blessing had passed her by. She’d lowered a young husband into his grave. She’d harboured her siblings’ children when their own homes were dark with sickness or violence. She’d spent hours at the sewing machine – before arthritis set in – to cut what little income she had. She’d been afflicted by cholesterol, and a heart murmur, and that corrosive fear and worship of money. There was never enough of it, not at any point. All she’d had were her God and His angels, and the saints who appeared in her dreams bearing news of hope and strength. Orestis heard the words priest and church and service, and he felt the ground tilt. How could he sit there, Paris at his side, and pray, or cross himself, to any of it? Religion, faith. A sham exoskeleton of no more substance than a hospital gown.
‘You OK?’
Orestis looked at his father, the new man in his place. His face, already sun-dried by the years, now looked bigger, heavier. Filled up by all those held-back tears, dragged by gravity. In the man’s silence, Orestis read the jumble of thoughts; arrangements, adjustments, the whole new way of life they would have to adopt and adapt to. As of today, Kostas was a man without parents. Orestis was all he had.
‘E… God willing.’
Both sky and highway were rose-gold by the time they left the hospital. Suddenly, the Harmonia interview had gone from ‘two days away’ to ‘tomorrow’. It was scheduled for before the funeral, so he and his father decided Orestis should take the Toyota. Kostas would get a lift from Andros or Andrikos. They and the cousins’ wives would take care of everything. All Orestis had to do was arrive at the service on time. Kostas had begun to suggest he call the hotel and reschedule the interview, but that only sparked a prickly energy between them. It was pretence. Neither father nor son felt the need to sustain it.
At home, a badly-printed notice apologised in advance for a three-day pause in business. The house felt vacated, like those blocks of refugee flats Paris had taken him to a couple of years back. Crucifixes hanging on half-doors, children’s exercise books congealing on the floor. What could Orestis find to say to his father now? What would their lives be? He switched on the radio, already tuned to his grandma’s folk-ballad station, and let the pining bouzouki fill the room. He took out a pan and tried to recall what the old girl did with eggs. On the counter sat a bottle of olive oil, a prompt. He poured the liquid onto the pan, flicked the gas to a sizzle.
If breakfast turned out well, they’d be OK.
The day felt inherently wrong; as if it was going backwards. After his meal, Kostas fell asleep on his armchair. A fan turned its head around the room, intermittently tickled his remaining hair. Orestis’ limbs and eyelids drooped, but he kept himself from falling.
He slapped himself awake. He’d been too hard; the jolt made his jaw lock.
An ice-cube from the freezer helped. Sleep would wait for night-time, he had to be sharp for the following morning. Bolstered by the adequate breakfast, he kept himself busy with chores. He did the washing up, murmuring along to the songs on the radio just as the old girl did. He pulled his and his father’s dirty clothes from the laundry bin, the ragged t-shirts and y-fronts, and felt a twinge of regret for what his grandma had had to endure. He made a list of groceries, pulses, rice and pasta, adding a note to shop at a bigger supermarket. Higher chance of discounts there. He responded to calls about flowers, food, and the offers of help and condolences from a ton of relatives, people he’d never even met. ‘Thank you,’ he said, pushing down the ‘leave us alone.’ He messaged Paris, who responded instantly. Orestis said nothing about the interview, in case his friend tried to change his mind or contact Eva on the sly. Next, he tackled the cleaning, spending almost an hour on his knees scrubbing cupboards and floors and counters. His face hadn’t been so close to a toilet since his army days. Caked in bleach, it made him gag. The sight of his own arm sweeping all his grandma’s medicine bottles into a bin bag made his eyes water. Deciding against a local supermarket lest he run into an acquaintance, he drove to a large one on the outskirts of Larnaka. There he wandered as if without purpose; as if hoping to be inspired or illuminated by whatever he found on whichever shelf he passed. When he got back home, Kostas was still asleep on his mother’s armchair. From the sofa, Orestis checked on him between glances at the TV. In the evening, they ate sandwiches in silence, watching a Greek sketch show they once found hilarious.
When the sun finally set, Orestis allowed himself to sleep. Settling in bed, he remembered to message Eva to thank her for what she’d done. For minutes, he deliberated about whether to mention his grandma’s death. Eva would react like a mother. She’d call the manager himself to reschedule on his behalf. Orestis couldn’t say a word to her. He had to make a good impression. He would simply have to do whatever he could to make this work, and give himself the best chance at getting the job. Even if – when – he got it, he wouldn’t relax; this was a career to work at. There would always be targets to exceed. He would make something of himself, his life would mean something. He would not lie down and get fucked as his grandma had, as his father had.
His head on the pillow, his mind finally tumbling into sleep, he thought of his mother and felt a sad, damp fury at her absence.
✽✽✽
He woke to a barrage of texts. All were from Eva, and all said exactly the same thing: You’ll slay!!! Followed by a more sober message, apologising for sending the text a hundred times. He smiled, and for a moment imagined her in bed with him, his hands on her warm naked tits.
His grandma was dead.
Wiping his eyes, Orestis focused on the bright new morning at his window. Voices below and the smell of warm pastry. It wasn’t even eight, but already his aunts and uncles were fussing about. They hugged and kissed him and sent him off to the shower, where he cried beneath the running wat
er till he pulled himself together, then out of the door with a pat on the back, after some tugging and tweaking of his jacket and tie.
‘God willing,’ said the stranger who was formally his father as he kissed his cheek, voice quieter than Orestis was used to. The man even had his hair gelled back, his collar pressed.
Despite two slow double-cabins in front of him, Orestis hit green lights all the way to the hotel. A good sign. He got to the Harmonia in twenty minutes, a third of the amount of time he’d allowed for. He turned into the visitor parking, hands trembling on the wheel. What was he doing here? The last time he’d been to a five-star hotel was for a schoolmate’s birthday party, probably Eva’s, in the years before his mother left. This wasn’t a place for people like him. He lingered in the car, the sun warming his thighs through the wound-down window, and stared up at the building. He counted to twenty.
If there was an odd number of interviewers, the job would be his.
Having forced himself out of the car, to kill time with an amble through the grounds, it struck him how suddenly his life might switch to a different one. Within weeks, he might be arriving at this very hotel on a daily basis. This landmark to everyone in Lemesos, routine. Noisy tourists exchanged for sophisticates with PAs and chauffeurs. The tacky signs of his uncle’s taverna replaced with the elegant script of the Harmonia logo, which turned a pleasing cream-white against the sunset. His paycheque would last a full month. His tips would be higher than his uncle’s hourly rate. Did people tip receptionists? Here, probably. The rich made their own rules.
Something got hold of him. His breath snagged. His legs gave way, but the only thing to grab was a hedge and it riddled his palms with pockmarks. He held his jaw so that whatever it was would stop; so that the shaking and nausea and fear would go. He thought of his grandma, breathed out, and out, and out, long breaths until at last he felt calm enough to go back to the entrance, and step through the revolving doors.
The Front Desk stood before a wall arrangement of wood and copper panels. Orestis slowed as he approached it and the suited people behind it. Possible future colleagues. His face flared up within the lobby’s marbled cool.
‘Excuse me… I’m here for an interview?’
He sounded unconfident. The staff might report these minor infractions.
‘Good morning. Name?’
A few minutes later, a stout woman, Scandinavian-looking, arrived at the sofa where he’d been instructed to wait and led him to the lift. They travelled up in silence. The woman’s hair was a white-blonde filigree at the edges of her face. Her buttocks stretched the fabric of her skirt. He looked away, tugged at his shirt. He adjusted the lucky blue tie he’d remembered, thank God, to buy at the Larnaka supermarket. And he cursed himself. The cologne he’d applied at home had been washed away by his sweat. What a wanker, rushing over like that when he’d had so much time. Another thing he shared with his mother: his punctuality. He ought to mention it in the interview. Or might they have noted it already? Out of the lift, the blonde led him down a corridor and into a boardroom where three suited men sat waiting. Each of them was tailored.
Three. Three men.
Having risen from his seat to shake Orestis’ hand, the hotel manager introduced himself. His smile was slick but friendly. Orestis shook hands with all three interviewers, noting the one on the right, who appeared to be gazing at something around Orestis’ middle. Orestis smoothed down his tie. He was a waste of their time, an indulgence of Eva’s charity. If it was up to the man on the right, the interview would be drawn at once to a close.
‘Please, help yourself to some water,’ said the manager, indicating a full glass on the desk.
‘Thank you.’ He gulped down half of it.
Orestis had worn a watch to look smart. Big mistake; it was a thing that begged to be glanced at. Ticked away the seconds to his grandma’s burial. The family would never forgive him if he missed the service. He would not forgive himself.
The manager ran through a speech about the importance of the Harmonia in its larger family, the VIP visitors it received from across the globe, the standards it aimed to uphold, all with seamless ease. Orestis did his best to nod when it was right to do so. He would be late to church. Relatives would ask his father where he was, and Kostas could only shrug. The manager carried on. He explained the need for a talented receptionist, someone to be the ‘face’ of the hotel. Someone presentable and reliable; able to build instant rapport with guests. A person with excellent problem-solving skills. While the manager talked, Orestis nodded. He hoped to show he understood what was required of him, that he’d rise to the challenge. But maybe the nodding was excessive. He ought to sit still. His grandma had been placed in a coffin. She’d been dressed in the baptism gown from her trip to the River Jordan. The undertakers were loading her into the hearse, where she slept in a bed of flowers.
‘So,’ said the manager. ‘Just so you’re aware of how this is going to go: we’re each going to ask you a few questions, and after we’re finished you’ll have the chance to ask us about anything we may not have covered. Is that all right?’ The sharp smile again. The man’s teeth were so white they made Orestis feel overly conscious of his own.
‘Of course,’ Orestis said. And, thinking of his mother, added: ‘Thank you.’
This seemed to please the man.
For the next half-hour, Orestis answered their questions. Of challenges he’d faced at work, the difficult customers he’d had to deal with, goals he had achieved and where he saw himself in five years’ time. ‘Manager,’ he replied without thinking and hoped it hadn’t caused offence. The man on the right, whose face had grown no friendlier, shot the toughest questions. He presented ultimatums: would he override instructions from management in favour of a guest’s wishes? Whatever came at him, Orestis answered with diplomacy and, imitating the handsome manager, a tone of calm as if nothing could shake his composure. The dryness in his throat would not go away. He refrained from drinking more water. He kept one hand on top of the other. The watch ticked on.
‘Do you have any questions for us?’
Orestis realised he’d zoned out. His mind had got tangled in routes to the church.
The men were watching. He ought to ask something, prove initiative, light a spark, reveal a brain, stand himself apart from the other candidates. He was so tired.
‘What are the languages spoken here?’
The interviewers blinked.
‘I speak English well, but I’d also like to learn Russian. I was… just wondering what you expect of the staff.’
‘English and Greek are the main languages,’ the manager said with a smile. ‘Well, mostly English, of course. But we’d encourage you to learn as many as you like. In fact, the company provides funding for courses relevant to the job role, and that would definitely count.’
The man to the right of the manager, still grim, scribbled a note on Orestis’ CV.
The watch ticked against the silence. Orestis’ eyes slid to it, but he pulled them back. He kept his smile, heart thumping beneath his new inadequate tie.
‘You’re Eva’s friend, aren’t you?’ the manager asked, out of nowhere.
The man on the left looked up, the one on the right narrowed his eyes.
‘E… yes,’ Orestis replied, with a warning pang in his gut. ‘We know each other from mutual friends. We used to go to the same school. But I moved to a different one. Ages ago.’
‘She’s a character, isn’t she?’
The manager kept his smile. All three men were still and straight.
‘Yes. She’s very passionate. Everything means a lot to her. She really cares.’
The other two men glanced at each other, but the manager was looking at Orestis as if he’d just completed a puzzle.
✽✽✽
The drive to the church almost killed him. If it wasn’t a Fiat in front of him turning right at a junction, it was a Kawasaki zooming past and missing him by a fingernail. His chest ached. If the ne
xt light was still green when he got to it, if the Renault overtook the Mazda, if the Mazda took the second left, families crossing the road, refuse trucks, one after the other, an obstacle course building before him…
He parked outside the church with six minutes to spare. On his way in, adjusting his tie, cursing himself once more for not packing his cologne in the car, useless prick, he caught a low-key greeting from Paris behind him. He swivelled for a brief hug. Inside the church, faces turned towards him from every pew. Andros and Andrikos with their wives, Pavlos in a tight black shirt, all steeped in sorrow. At the front, Kostas lifted the Bible off the space by his leg and Orestis took its place. The man’s hand grabbed hold of his son’s and remained fixed there throughout the service, breaking only for the sign of the cross on an amen. Bouquets of lilies flanked the altar. Just like the displays around the hotel, he thought. Ashamed, he lowered his head, to think of nothing other than his grandma.
The priest ululated Bible verses in a voice as strong as wine. It drifted upwards with the incense, climbed the pillars and the vaults, flickered the light of the chandeliers. His grandma had told tales of her father, a village candlemaker who’d been blessed by visions of saints. Now those tales would be buried with her, a pillow of words beneath her head. Behind him, he heard Paris sigh. Solemn, respectful, as the word of God filled the room and their bodies, he was a man who didn’t believe a thing.
At the cemetery, the priest chanted of sin and forgiveness. He broke a plate and poured olive oil onto the coffin in its grave. Nearby, a group of elderly relatives sobbed into their handkerchiefs. A body returned to the earth, to be swallowed by it, digested.
Orestis looked up to see his bastard uncle with his wife and kids. His hands became fists, his jaw clenched. Whether or not he got this job at the Harmonia, he’d be leaving that damned taverna, and erase any trace of a link to that family – that lesser half of him – for good.
