by Polis Loizou
After the wake, he and his father washed the dishes. One dusted, the other hoovered. Kostas put the Pyrex-loads of donated food in Tupperware or tin foil, to be kept in the spare freezer for as long as they needed it. Practicality was a shock, logic an offence. Yet, Orestis told himself, he had coped so well on the previous day, running errands and doing chores he’d never had to consider before as if his soul had switched bodies. As they sat in silence, sipping their cans of Coke to the night-time news, he felt a growing unease. It was just the two of them left: he and his father. A scenario he’d never expected and, to his shame, would’ve picked last out of any possible choice.
Five
It was only a matter of days before the Harmonia called. And with the flash of that number on his phone, the pain of waiting was gone. ‘Good morning,’ said a radio-voiced Cypriot woman from Human Resources, knowing it soon would be. He could hear her smile as she informed him the job was his.
Sputtering his thanks, Orestis assured her he could start as soon as they needed him. He was only working for his uncle, no notice required. He almost added that the wanker deserved no notice.
‘Don’t worry,’ said the woman with an airy laugh. ‘There’s no rush.’
Maybe not for her. When she ended the call, it was all he could do to keep from jumping up and down with joy or running out of the room shouting Gooooaaaal! as he used to when he was little. He messaged Eva, then ran to tell his grandma the news. And it struck him afresh. He shook his head clear. In the garage, his old man was replacing the wipers on a Fiat. When he told him about the job, Kostas only nodded and, with a simple ‘Bravo,’ brought two Cokes out of the fridge.
‘Now, you tell that uncle of yours to go fuck himself,’ he said.
‘You think I don’t want to? Until I get my first paycheque from the Harmonia, I can’t quit.’
‘Better to leave with your balls intact, instead of begging for money from that pimp!’
‘Yeah? And how would we eat?’
It felt good to spar with his father again, but they were cut short by an approaching Honda. Kostas smiled for the customer.
Eva’s response to his message was an eruption of text and smileys. She’d barely been able to contain herself when she’d heard the news from that gorgeous darling manager but she’d been sworn to silence for what felt like decades. Orestis felt the stirrings of something other than amusement as he typed a response, but he pushed it down. He’d take her out for lunch, that kalamari she’d mentioned. It was the polite thing to do. But, from her exclamation-marked reply, he knew he’d be taking Paris as a buffer.
They met her at a restaurant by the Castle. Orestis thought it best for him and Paris to arrive together. On seeing the snap in Eva’s expression, he wished he’d informed her beforehand. As always she was friendly. She adapted her deflation into baffled surprise, kissing Paris as if she’d missed him terribly since they’d last crossed paths. Sunlight stretched across the road, vacuum-packing the shops and cafés and bodies within it. They settled down at an outside table with a view of the minaret and ordered three frappés. It seemed to Orestis appropriate that they kept their shades on, for their eyes to be obscured from one another.
‘This is how he thanks me for getting him a job,’ Eva complained to Paris. Orestis’ heart lurched. ‘With food!’ And she spread her hands in disbelief as if it hadn’t been her who’d made the suggestion.
‘What,’ said Paris, ‘is kalamari not good enough for you anymore?’
‘Re! I’m nearing thirty! I want a marriage proposal, not a squid.’ She indicated her naked ring finger.
Orestis laughed, but the words stuck like burrs. Marriage. He drew a blank on forming the right sentence. Thankfully, Paris stepped in. ‘What are you going to do with this loser? Can’t your dowry get you something better?’
Eva waved him away. ‘That’s all finished. My dowry’s gone to that Russian whore who married my father. Me? I’m left on the shelf, the wretch.’
‘A fallen woman?’
Orestis shifted in his seat. Paris was pushing it as if unafraid of causing offence. He even lit a cigarette in his casual manner.
Eva looked unfazed as she lit her own. ‘Fallen to sewage. I’ll be left with nothing. A couple of Russian godchildren probably, God have mercy.’
‘Wow, you were right. Wretched.’
‘So come on, Paris! Write that philosophical bestseller and make my father an offer. The clock is ticking.’
Orestis’ shoulders loosened. He sank back in his chair and imagined again what it might be like to be with Eva. Hot mornings in bed, on a Greek island, looking out at the Aegean. Drinks on the deck of a yacht, where days rolled on without end or purpose. But then an opposite urge reared up: survival. Eva was born with money, her wish would be his command. Prada purse in hand, she’d build the walls of his life. Golden, but walls all the same. And what he wanted now, more than anything else, was the sky. Freedom or death: the mantra they learned in school.
He sat mute through most of the meal, focusing on the rub of the squid at his knife. Eva carried on squeezing a near-depleted lemon over her chips as she talked of the hotel. She gave a run-through of the clients and staff – not the waiters and cleaners; there was too big a turnover to keep up with all those East-Asian, East-European names, she couldn’t even understand them let alone pronounce them. Then, out of nowhere, she said to Orestis: ‘You’re going to need shoes and trousers.’
So they’d been discussing him. That genteel manager must’ve said to her after the interview, Nice boy, but needs new clothes. Or worse, he’d said nothing, and Eva was acting alone. Her protégé was to start with the right equipment. In truth, he owed her that. His hands trembled, so he kept them under the table, but his burning face was out in the open.
Eva offered to take him shopping, right now, after lunch, why not? His instinct was to refuse, to pretend he’d already bought new clothes. It even occurred to him, the idiot, to say he’d been shopping with his girlfriend. But then Paris would ask what girlfriend and the game would be up. It was time for logic, not emotion. As a teen, he’d pictured his head-heart conflict as his mother’s genes overriding his father’s, like a cowboy breaking a horse. It was a comforting thought, to be genetically wired to take the reins. Eva was right. Might as well cut to the chase, he needed new clothes. Well-tailored suits and crisp shirts, ties of the correct hue. Quality came with its own palette. And it was easy, when you developed your eye, to identify what was cheap, what was a brand, and what was better than both. But he wasn’t naive enough to think he could get there on his own.
‘Sure,’ he said, ‘let’s go shopping. But I’ll need another man around me in case you make me look like a fag.’
Paris threw his head back, ejecting a puff of smoke into the air. ‘Go fuck yourself. As if I’m going to follow you around the Mall, dressing you up like a Barbie.’
Orestis felt a hollowing-out. He tried to laugh it off. ‘Don’t you want a new scarf for your poetry readings? A beret?’
‘Leave the socialist alone,’ Eva said. ‘Paris has his own “image”; St John in the cave of Patmos.’
Paris wouldn’t budge. Not even when Orestis asked him seriously. At the change in Eva’s smile, he dropped it. He excused himself to go to the bathroom, where, alone, he washed his face with cold water, slapped it, and stared himself out in the mirror.
When the waiter brought the bill, Orestis took out his wallet. Eva rebuked him, insisting she would pay. Paris raised his hand to end the discussion, tossing his credit card on the little metal plate. Exhaling his smoke, he said, ‘Congratulations to Orestis for his new job… and commiserations to Eva for remaining on the shelf.’
✽✽✽
Before they got to the business of shopping, Eva pulled over at a newsagent’s for a couple of Chinos. A welcome plan; the slushed-ice caffeine got them through the heat, remorseless even with the top down in her BMW 3-series convertible. Stretching ahead was an afternoon of boutique after boutiqu
e, in each of which the manager greeted her by name and kissed her cheek. While Orestis was allowed to choose his shoes and trousers, Eva would leap at a pair of cuff links or a tie or patterned shirt she simply knew would complete the look. ‘They’re giving me a uniform shirt,’ he would say, but she only shooed his words away, fingernails the size of roof tiles. Whenever he’d complain about his figure, the kilos crowding around his waist, she’d shut him up by pointing at her own. It was a boost to his ego that his physique compared favourably to hers.
‘A! What do you think you’re doing?’
He felt a mix of sadness, shame, relief and pride when she once again batted away his credit card.
On the drive home after their shopping spree, she sang along to one of Anna Vissi’s traditional-lite ditties on the radio. This could be it; everything he needed, here in this person. Would it really be so bad to have everything handed to him? So far in life, he’d worked to get nowhere. With Eva, hard work would be a foreign language, a thing he’d once known but at some point forgotten.
But no, not yet. Independence first, complacency later. Freedom or death.
‘Are you excited to start?’
‘Are you kidding?’ The next words paused on his lips. ‘To be honest… I’m surprised I got the job at all.’
‘What are you talking about, you idiot?’
‘E… Let’s say I wasn’t in the best frame of mind that day. My grandma died. I was on my way to her funeral.’
Eva spun her head, never mind the vehicle she was driving, the road, the other cars.
He laughed, only a little out of nerves. ‘Kori! Watch where you’re going!’
‘Re! What are you telling me? Why didn’t you say anything before, are you insane? They could’ve moved the interview.’
‘I didn’t want them to move it. I’m gonna be working for them, not them for me.’
Eva shook her head, a cocktail of sadness, disbelief and admiration. ‘You’re an absolute moron. Listen: stick with me a little while, and see how you get others to work for you.’
Guilt and pride stabbed as one.
‘And my condolences about your grandma. I was besotted with mine.’ She sucked on her cigarette and exhaled into the blue. Though she was still wearing her sunglasses, he could tell from her voice that there were tears in her eyes as she squeezed his knee. ‘Well, one of my grandmas. The other one’s crazy.’
Six
Because he wasn’t a bastard, Orestis continued to work hard at the taverna. In his last weeks, he was fuelled by the shock on his uncle’s face when he’d handed in his notice. There’d been no rebuttal from the man, no attempt to persuade his nephew to stay. What could he offer: his old salary? Every table Orestis cleared was a countdown to that bright new life awaiting him at the hotel. There were moments, while picking up bits of food and plastic dumped by kids on the floor, or carrying dripping refuse sacks to the dustbins out in the back, when his resolve would weaken. Even if he believed, deep down, that he was more than this, he’d be gripped by a sudden terror; of being out of his depth in a five-star hotel, too intimidated by the top rung to start the climb. He’d made a mistake in going for that job. This position, this life, working in his uncle’s taverna and living above his father’s garage, was the one he was born into, the extent of his world, the extent of his rights. His abilities amounted to resting one plate on his palm and another on his fingertips. This was where he belonged. Ambition was for the favoured. But the moment would pass and he’d shake the doubts away. He would take a few breaths. He would repel negative thoughts. Then the doubts would fly right back at him. It took nerve to go up.
His mind was still reeling on the morning he turned into the staff parking. In his daydreams, he’d arrived immaculate, a tailored copy of the soft-spoken manager who’d given him the job. In reality, he was wrapped in a suit that begged to be worn by someone else. For now, it would have to do. But he’d return to the gym and Pavlos’ training, and in no time at all, he’d be trim and fit again. Those protein shakes and supplements, just sitting in the kitchen cupboards… The money he’d spent on them.
There was another expense he had to earn back: his new car. If a battered Honda bought from an acquaintance of his cousin could be called new. When Orestis had gone to pick it up, the man had bragged about buying property in Romania. ‘Dirt-poor country,’ he’d said. ‘easy to buy there. Fix them up, rent them out. I’ve made enough money to buy a Porsche, I could send all six of my grandkids to university. That’s why I can afford to be generous with you.’ The money he’d demanded for this tin can was on the wrong side of cheap to be called generous. But Orestis had bitten his tongue and counted to twenty. At least he wouldn’t require lifts from his dad anymore.
In the hotel lobby the portly receptionist, that Scandinavian-looking one who’d taken him up to his interview, instructed him to wait on a sunlit sofa. When the manager came to collect him, his warm smile went some way in easing Orestis’ nerves. ‘Welcome to the Harmonia,’ he said, shaking the new recruit’s hand. The manager was just shy of his height, and Orestis wasn’t very tall. But though a good ten years his senior, the man was in better shape. Trousers belted to a flat stomach, tie draped over a sculpted chest. There was a brightness in his eyes that came from eating and sleeping well, and his coiffed hair was a healthy black with smart dashes of grey at the temples. This was a man who jogged and drank smoothies. ‘Call me Thanos,’ he said when Orestis greeted him more formally. Having briefly introduced the new recruit to the Front Desk manager and a couple of other colleagues, all of whom greeted him as they might a VIP, Thanos took Orestis on a personal tour. Was he receiving special treatment, as a friend of Eva’s? He felt a twinge in his stomach.
‘I like to get to know my staff as individuals,’ the manager said as if to reassure him. ‘And it gives me a chance to further explain our company before you start.’
And so he did, taking Orestis through the panoply of features at the Harmonia. First, there was the hall and adjoining ballroom, with their long buffet tables, a disco ball above the dance floor. Then the restaurant with its enormous mirrors and chandeliers; the kitchens and laundry rooms; the conference rooms; the turquoise mosaic-tiled café, pastries and patisserie; the squash courts, gym and locker-rooms; the infinity pool; another swimming pool and its bar, adorned with bamboo and a cluster of salmon-skinned tourists; the sauna, which the manager recommended with a smile; the meditation room; the multi-faith chapel; the lounge; the offices and utility rooms; and finally, the bedrooms themselves.
These ranged from tasteful but snug single rooms to lavish sea-view suites. Though Orestis, the peasant, knew nothing of interior design or architecture, the rooms made an instant impression. Every detail had been considered, from the coordination of greens on the bedspread and curtains, to the stain of a wooden headboard, to the flecked glass of a pull-switch handle. The jasmine outside the windows. This was it, what separated people; a thing beyond class, beyond status, money or schooling: the quality of detail. The manager not only wore good suits, but he also matched them to his colouring. He accentuated them with his own physique because it works both ways. And the man must have seen the hallmarks of quality in Orestis, for he watched him with naked interest. Orestis’ nerves had been unfounded, potentially ruinous. He belonged here. The knowledge of it thrummed within him, electric.
Conscious that his fingers were caressing a bedside-table lamp, Orestis withdrew his hand. It made the manager smile, and Orestis met his gaze, smiling back.
The rest of his shift was swallowed up by the usual first-day admin. A woman from Human Resources – the same one who’d called him, Angela, middle-aged – photocopied his passport and gave him forms to fill out with a black biro. ‘What are you more comfortable reading in,’ she’d asked, ‘English or Greek?’ Orestis took offence but hoped it hadn’t shown. It took him back to his schooldays. Charlie frothing at the mouths of other kids, giggling from the back rows at his English readings in class. A middle finger f
rom his mum across the sea. He swallowed. There were a video and paperwork on Health & Safety, a demonstration of the fire exits and meeting points. He was booked onto a first-aid course. A man escorted him to the staff locker-rooms, where he was issued with a coded padlock and work shirts. Nothing had escaped the attention of Thanos, and he wondered, thinking of the manager’s perfect suit, if the man was meeting the hotel’s standards or if the Harmonia was meeting his.
In the little time left over, Orestis was taken back to the front desk, sporting his new work shirt, tie, and badge, and reintroduced to his colleagues. The Scandinavian-looking one was actually a Ukrainian called Svetlana. She felt free to chat and joke now and had a mouth full of mischief. Yiorgos, the Front Desk manager, talked him through the Opera system and assessed his tech fluency. To his relief, Yiorgos was unbothered by gaps in Orestis’ knowledge. If anything he seemed confident in the new boy’s ability to learn.
‘You have a way about you,’ he said. ‘You care about making a good impression.’
It was the kindest thing another man had said to him. ‘Thank you.’
‘See?’ The man laughed and slapped his back. ‘It’ll serve you well.’
✽✽✽
A breeze lifted the palm fronds along the seafront. Orestis turned the volume up on the radio and, powered by a mix of relief and excitement, sang along. He pictured himself in a BMW 3-series convertible, top down in the lilac evening. He would message Eva to thank her again. It wouldn’t even matter if she read too much into it; if she dolled herself up to leap off that shelf.
He parked at his uncle’s taverna. It would only be a couple of hours every evening till he got his first Harmonia salary. What were a few more weeks in the chart of his life? Calves throbbing, he went in to start his late shift.
