by Sara Alexi
She had not told the bus driver to stop. She was afraid to get off, to walk back to the village, the boys might still be there. But with each moment of her fear she was half a kilometre further from her home. She had walked half way back from town with the sweating cheese to her mother. The memory serves to remind her how young sixteen is, how dangerous the world could be. She crosses herself and prays for Abby’s safety - and forgiveness.
She watches for a long time and then the rain begins to ease off. The water stops pouring from the gutter above the shop, and the sky lightens a little. Stella steps into the shop and, from a peg on the wall at the end of the grill, she lifts a folding umbrella. Even if she drove to town Abby could be on the boat by now, gone to Saros. ‘Stella, you are a very stupid woman.’
Abby repeats Vasso’s name and mimes the roof of a house. Eventually the baker’s eyes shine and he grins. ‘Ah, spiti, Vasso. House Vasso.’
‘Yes.’ Abby feels relief. Facing Stella can come later. Her passport and her stuff take priority. As they pass the ouzeri Abby slips further down the car seat. She is dropped on the corner just as Stavros strides down the lane, shoulders hunched against the rain, passing her by Vasso’s gate. He says nothing and strides on. The rain becomes strong again. A gust drives the rain through her clothes. Abby shakes herself off on Vasso’s porch. The skies are darkening even more. The usual village choir of dogs has stopped barking. No cockerels crow.
The front door is unlocked, as always. Abby flicks the kettle on. She patters down to her room at the side of the house. When she sits up in bed, the view from the window is down towards the village. If she stands straight on to look out she can see the rows of orange trees in lines telling the seasons. Goats taking shelter from the rains trim the pale underside leaves, cats slide through the undergrowth trying to keep out of the rain.
Coffee in hand, Abby makes herself comfortable, propping her pillows up and listening to the sound of the water on the tiles, on the window and on the sloping metal roof of the tool shed in the garden. She has never seen a downpour so intense. It distracts her from reading. Even though she isn’t cold she puts on her jumper; it feels comforting. It is as if someone is on the roof pouring bucket after bucket of water down past the window. She gets up to look at the ground outside. Where is it all going?
The pale dusty garden has become a deep, rich, reddy-brown, the rain soaking in as quickly as it is falling. No puddles and no streams: the ground is a sponge. She sighs and returns to her seat on the bed, her coffee and her book. No sooner is she settled than the lightning shoots a flash across the valley, lighting up the room in high relief. She opens her mouth to count out loud the interval before the thunder, but she is not quick enough. There is a dark and menacing roll.
She switches on the bedside light. The room appears dull by comparison with the spectacle.
She wonders what to do about her passport, she could try talking to Vasso but they can barely communicate, she might ask Stella directly but she would have to know what mood she was in. Confronting Stavros himself is not a good idea, there is just something about him, a bit scary, and creepy. Perhaps she could ask the English teacher to help, she must speak Greek, what did Stella say her name was? She will ask Vasso, but she is not going out in this rain, she will wait until it stops or until Vasso comes home. Her little room is comforting, safe.
Part of her wants to watch the storm, witness the local weather, but the other part tells her a storm is a storm, and if she does find a way to stay on at school, all the reading she can fit in between now and September will be of benefit. Trying to forget about her passport she pushes on with the book on economics. It is a possible choice for one of her A levels. She got a grade A at GCSE.
The chapter on supply and demand is next. She can relate that to the ouzeri, maybe learn something she could have implemented. She skips the chapter she is on, bookmarking the page. The lightning sheets across the window and then cracks into jagged fingers down the darkened skies, lighting up twisted trees and angular buildings. The thunder rages again, louder than before, prolonged.
The light flickers. She watches it splutter once more and then die. She turns it off at the switch and wonders if she should check the rest of the house. The thunder crashes again in unison with the sheets and cracks of the light. Up in the heavens the blanket glow illuminates the clouds from above, showing layer after layer of heavy rain that will soon be falling, the forked lightning now being saved to spear the ground.
Stavros chucks the sodden newspaper onto the counter in the ouzeri and shakes off the rain from his legs and arms before pulling his tight T-shirt from his stomach and letting go, bouncing off the raindrops.
‘Why are you here? There will be no people,’ Stella says, not looking at him, still watching the rain, which is building again.
‘No bloody food in the house. You feed the whole village but not me,’ Stavros grumbles, mopping his bare arms with some kitchen roll.
Stella does not answer.
He takes a plate and loads it with half a chicken and five sausages, pouring lemon sauce liberally all over it. He takes it through to the restaurant area, pushes the blanket Stella slept under off the chair onto the floor and sits eating, using neither knife nor fork, just his bare hands and his teeth.
Stella cannot watch. She turns to look at the rain again. The gutter above the shop must be broken. The cascade is worse than before and the noise is loud and slightly frightening.
‘What were you and that woman cooking up last night?’ Stavros belches between mouthfuls, thick with saliva.
Stella turns to see if she has heard properly. Is he seriously asking her to defend her behaviour?
‘Vasso came for a drink. She was not at the kiosk talking to you. Which leaves the question what were you cooking up last night?’ Stella is alarmed by her bravery, and no sooner have the words reached his ears than she wishes them unsaid. Unsure of the possible reprisals, she takes a step backwards.
‘That is no business of yours.’ He rips some meat off a chicken leg with his teeth, grease on his lips, and pulls at the dangling tendons with his fingers.
‘Isn’t it?’ Stella feels the strength of Juliet behind her. Juliet would speak up, and so should she. ‘On paper you are my husband, which means if you are out with other women then it is my business.’
‘Who said it was women?’ Stavros laughs with his mouth open and Stella can see his half-masticated food.
‘The stink of perfume on you,’ Stella retorts.
‘That was his wife!’ Stavros sounds triumphant.
‘Whose wife?’ Stella asks, but she thinks she already knows the answer.
‘The bastard that took my money.’ Stavros throws his chicken bone onto the plate. It skids forwards across the ceramic surface and drops over the edge onto the table as he stands.
‘Took it? Or you gave it to him attached to a deck of cards?’ Stella says.
‘If our life is such that I play cards to entertain myself then you should be grateful it isn’t women, or drink for that matter.’ He pours himself an ouzo.
‘I am delighted, no ecstatic, that our money is “only” lost on cards, not drink and women. You must think I am an idiot, Stavros. I work here, slaving all day, every day, thinking I am making enough money to cover our outgoings, but the reality is I am covering your debts. So how much did you lose?’
‘If I had won you would not be complaining.’ Stavros lights a cigarette.
‘Gambling is a fool’s game. There is no winning. If you could win, casinos would never stay open. So how much?’
‘If I had won there would be more than just you fawning over me.’ He puffs on his cigarette at if it is a cigar.
‘Meaning what?’ Stella asks.
Stavros smiles to himself.
‘If you mean Abby ...’ Stella’s voice does not sound like her own and she is surprised by the force of emotion behind it, her throat tightens and she cannot finish her sentence.
Stavros turns,
a trail of smoke across his cheek with the speed. His blue eyes have a dark glow to them. His shoulder and hip follow his head until he is facing her.
‘Abby?’ he bellows.
At that moment the thunder crashes. Stella jumps. The rain is falling fast, in sheets. Behind Stavros the sky is so dark that lights are coming on all over the village, the road a swelling river. A car crawls past, its windscreen wipers on at full speed, making no impact on the rain sliding off the roof.
‘She’s just a kid!’ Stavros exclaims.
‘Exactly!’ Stella retorts.
The slap is so hard that spikes of pain run up her nose and her eyes water.
It doesn’t register as an action from him. It is just pain searing through Stella’s cheek bone. His blue eyes stare into her, making contact in a way he has not done for years, searching for her surrender. Stella’s eyes narrow: he isn’t having it. She pushes to get past him out into the street, but as her hand touches his shoulder he shoves her back with such a force that she stumbles against a table. Shock pumps adrenaline, and energy surges to her muscles. She rights herself and lashes out at him, fear and anger mixing into a pool of uncontrolled aggression. She catches him by his hair and pulls, bringing his face down to meet her, his bulging eyes wary and wild, like a captured animal. He pulls his head back up but Stella clings on, their eyes level. She can see all the red veins in his eyes, smell the chicken on his breath, the individual greying hairs of his unshaven chin. She is repulsed.
The air exhales from her body with a gush and she doubles over, his fist buried in her stomach. Her hand releases its grip of his hair, both arms covering her stomach, defending and protecting.
‘Sterile, dirty, gypsy, whore.’ She hears the words spat at her as another blow hits her shoulder and she drops to the floor.
Her rage shrieks though her limbs, her legs scuttering. She is determined to stand, to face him. She fights for balance. Each attempt is met with a savage blow, to her shoulder, her thigh. With each blow her body grows weak but her mind is strong and she will not submit. Determinedly she finds her feet, every hit taken as another chance to defy, submission not an option. She blocks the pain, stubbornly facing him. Denying defeat; she will not be crushed.
He reigns dominant over her. His body is alive with power, with the satisfaction of making good contact with each blow. The smack of fist against muscle, the pleasure of her cowering. The contortions of her limbs trying to protect her. He enjoys bruising, obliterating. Demanding acquiescence, he rages, unreachable.
She hits the floor again with force. With thoughts for survival paramount she tries to curl into a ball, but her limbs will not obey. In line with her face she sees the toe of his boot. She twists on the ground, her arm over her ear. The boot misses her face. The pain in her ribs refluxes her dinner and she coughs, but there is no mercy. The boot into her kidneys brings the message that she might lose her life. Does he know what he is doing? The blows land again and again, the impacts merging into one. Beyond pain, only reflex
Stella is no longer quite there. At last he falls, staggers back against the door frame in a squat and then, as if exhausted by all the effort, slides to the floor.
Stella lies still, wishes herself invisible. Between fingers she peeks at his face, his bulging blue eyes, shot red, staring at the floor. He looks spent.
Keeping noise and movement to a minimum, careful to not disturb his trance-like position, Stella uncurls. She rolls onto her knees and winces with the pain. Stavros does not move. Using a chair, she lifts herself to her knees, tries to focus. Her eyes are watering, thin strands of her hair stuck across her eyelids, over her lips. The table edge provides support as she tentatively stands. Finally on her feet she tips her chin up and looks down on Stavros, who remains motionless, panting, subdued.
With stiff limbs Stella walks past him. The lightning cracks and lights up the street. The rain has increased and the darkness is almost complete, the sun invisible. Stella steps into the street, the rain mixing with the tears of anger and pain, loneliness and loss, humiliation and degradation. The dirty gypsy.
She wants to run. The thunder grumbles before it cracks again and with a sheet of white lights up the molten, glistening village. Her legs will not respond. She feels as if she is moving through winter honey. She leans her weight forward to give some momentum, one foot scraping as she moves, the ankle not doing her bidding.
It seems to take hours to just reach the top of the square. She turns up her street past the shop. She glimpses Mitsos in the corner shop talking to Marina. She is glad he is not looking out, witnessing her humiliation. The lightning is on top of her and the thunder rages. Lights go out. The shop and the kafenio are in darkness.
Past the church into her lane, where Vasso’s house is unlit, Stella pauses and draws in breath. She wants to lie down. She wants to close her eyes.
Her legs are going to collapse. There is a panic in her chest. All she wants is to get home, to close the door and climb into bed. She urges herself on, willing her legs not to give up.
The porch steps seem insurmountable. Dropping to her hands and knees, she crawls up. The door is open, no need to lock anything in the village - until now.
She climbs the door frame back to standing and locks herself in, bolting both top and bottom. With renewed energy she slowly and painfully checks all the windows, securing all she can. The final steps to the bedroom seem almost beyond her. Once inside she locks that door too and sits on the bed, pulling the covers around her, then sinks to the floor. She curls up as tight as the pain will allow. Pushing against the floor, she slides under the bed and pulls the covers she has dragged with her around her and over her head.
Dark and warm.
Chapter 12
Stella can hear the nylon cover she had pulled under the bed creating static with her hair: tiny noises, little clicks, only just audible until the thunder crashes. The shutters are closed, and under the bed with the cover over her there is no light, the lightning belonging to another world. Thoughts stay dormant. Warmth and dark and silence prevail.
Without the light visions come, memories that endorse her situation.
Walking home that day when the children threw stones at her: only now, the stones that landed are the bruises of Stavros’ boots. The taunts in the school yard, the ring of girls and boys jeering ‘dirty gypsy’ until the teachers ushered them inside: the same words on Stavros’ lips.
Walking up the dried stream bed she had presumed was safe: it was little-used except by the farmers who used the land along the sides or sheep and goat-herders who channelled their animals to pasture through its dusty course. The stream had not run for years and the passing of animals and men had flattened the path, the hedges on either side cut back by yellow teeth. Stella, swinging her arms as she ambled, picked spring flowers for her mother. The white flowers grew in abundance, the purple ones less common and worth searching for along the way. The bunch in her hand expressed the joy of the season.
As she rounded a corner a familiar sheep corral came in sight, a structure of plastic grain bags, wooden pallets, discarded bed-ends, and paint-peeling doors. The scruffy white dog left to guard the goats came running at her, barking as it always did when the animals were in their pen, ankle-deep in their own faeces. The dog, she knew, was all bark and no bite, so she paid it no attention.
As she reached the enclosure’s makeshift gate a good-looking boy from school, Demosthenes, popped his head out.
‘Hey,’ he had chirruped. ‘We’re shearing sheep, you wanna see?’
Stella could hear other boys inside the covered enclosure.
‘Who is it?’ a voice from within demanded.
Demosthenes’ head disappeared back inside.
‘It’s Stella.’
‘What are you talking to her for? We don’t want her in here.’
‘Dirty gypsy probably thinks this pen is her home. One of these goats is probably her mother.’
Stella had begun to walk away. She hear
d the boys being shushed inside.
‘Hey!’ She didn’t want to turn but Demosthenes had not seemed unkind. ‘Don’t leave, they are just mucking about. Come and see us shearing.’ He lifted the metal shears, like a big pair of scissors, two long triangular blades sprung on a curve of metal. It was unusual for anyone to be friendly to her and his voice was very soft. To belong, to be one of them, to be accepted: his offer was tempting. She didn’t walk towards him, but she didn’t walk away either. ‘There are some baby goats, you should see. So cute.’
‘Why are you being nice to me?’ she remembers asking.
‘Why wouldn’t I be nice to you?’ He held his hand out to her to lead the way to the entrance of the pen.
Inside were three other boys, all of whom she knew from school. They were usually unkind to her. She pulled away from Demosthenes. His arm had swung around her shoulders.
‘Come see the baby goats. Nektario, show her a baby goat.’ The boy addressed looked about him until he spotted one and with a quick deft grab he had the goat’s hind leg in his hand, the kid bleating for its mother and its release. The mother goat pushed past another boy, concerned for her offspring’s safety.
Just as Stella was about to tell him he was hurting the goat he put an arm around its middle and lifted it from the floor and shuffled his way to Demosthenes. The ceiling of the pen being high enough for goats but not for people, he walked with knees bent, his feet sliding on the slurry of goat droppings and urine. Stella stayed were it was shallow but one of the boys stood ankle-deep.
