Goatly Goings On

by Katerina Nikolas

  “If Iraklis wants to leave the church that’s his business, he’s old enough to make his own mind up,” Masha joined in. “It’s not natural expecting ‘im to live a celibate life when he’s in his prime.”

  “Dont’s go givin’ the young chap any ideas about givin’ up celibacy Masha, yous knows he is besotted with yous,” that old fool Vasilis butted in.

  Iraklis blushed to the roots of his hair, clueless his crush on Masha was so patently obvious, yet deliriously happy Masha had so publicly defended him. He was equally impressed Gorgeous Yiorgos had looked out for him so paternally. He had never had a father figure in his life unless the Pappas counted, and he was immediately drawn to the fisherman as a fine example of the type of man he aspired to be now he had cast off the churchly shackles. Yiorgos had been especially kind and patient when giving Iraklis road tips for safe tricycling.

  “Yous should all be ashamed, sticking up for a Pappas that has turned his back on the church after making a commitment. Yous don’t see me chucking the towel in when the going gets rough,” the Pappas admonished.

  “It’s a wonder you ‘aven’t been slung out for all yous deplorable ways, you odious little man, always pontificating from on high when yous is nothin’ but a religious sham,” Gorgeous Yiorgos bellowed. “Yous isn’t welcome in ‘ere. This is a place for friends to gather and the sight of yous ugly mug is likely to make the vegetarian chicken curdle.”

  Drawing himself up to his full height the Pappas turned on his heel, storming out of the taverna without even bothering to settle his bill. Yelling his last word from the doorway he warned “Don’t think you’ve heard the last of this Iraklis, there will be consequences to face for your actions.”

  “Take no notice of the old wind bag, no one else does,” Mrs Kolokotronis said, giving Iraklis’ arm a reassuring squeeze. Grabbing the end of the paper table cloth she scrubbed at his face to dry his tears.

  “Don’t trouble yourself Mrs Kolokotronis, these are tears of joy. I am so happy the way you all stood up for me, it makes me feel part of the community in a way being affiliated with the church never did,” Iraklis gushed.

  “You lot dont’s even know the ‘alf of it,” Masha suddenly declared. “Yous remember when yous buried Vasilis an’ he wasn’t even dead. It was the Pappas’ blackmailing ‘im what put ‘im in the grave, demanding money to keep his trap shut that Stavroula was his secret love child.”

  By now everyone in the village was aware that old fool Vasilis was actually Stavroula’s father so Masha wasn’t revealing a dark secret. However the Pappas’ blackmailing role had been kept under wraps and Masha’s disclosure truly shocked her audience. Even Petula was unaware of the depths her estranged husband had sunk to and she knew his grubby secrets better than anyone.

  “I swear I didn’t know he was capable of such depravity,” Petula said in a quiet voice. “I kept his sordid secret about him carrying on with the rooster stealing Widow Christeas in order for him to agree to the divorce, but I fully intend to write to the Bishop and expose my soon to be ex-husband as a blackmailer.”

  “Sounds like there might be a job going begging in the church soon,” Vangelis the chemist suggested. “Aren’t you tempted to take it if the Pappas gets kicked out, young Iraklis?”

  “Not at all, I am excited by my new prospects in supermarket management,” Iraklis said, looking forward to helping Fat Christos build a display of stuffed microbes the next day. As for temptation it was smiling at him in the form of mail order Masha, but he resolved to stand up to temptation through inner resolve rather than biblical quotes, and find a nice suitable girl to court.

  “Well it’s certainly all happening ‘ere,” Melecretes observed. “I dont’s know ‘ow I’m goin’ to sleep tonight after so much excitement.”

  “Less comfortably than he imagines,” Prosperous Pedros whispered to Tall Thomas, inwardly amused at the thought of the airbed in his mother’s house slowly deflating.

  Chapter 22

  Cycling Goat

  “’Ere Soula, grab its front legs and stick its hooves over my shoulders,” Bald Yannis instructed his wife from his seat on the bicycle’s saddle.

  “Did yous ‘ave to pick such a big one?” Soula asked, grappling with the heavy goat as she attempted to hoist it over Bald Yannis’ shoulders, piggy-back style.

  “Well K-Went-In said he wanted somethin’ ferocious looking’” Yannis explained.

  “This fellow might be big an’ horny, but he’s as gentle as goats come,” Soula laughed. “It’s no use, I cant’s get it to stay in place, it’s too antsy,” she added as the fidgeting goat slid down Yannis’ back, puncturing the bullet proof vest he wore for cycling with its horns.

  “Get some rope and try tying the goat on my back,” Bald Yannis suggested, having already given up his efforts to get the goat to grip hold of the handlebars whilst sitting on his knee.

  “Are you sure K-Went-In wanted a naked goat?” Soula queried, being used to their flock prancing round in knitted outfits under the sponsorship deal with the Japanese.

  “Well if he wants it kitted out in a knitted jacket he’ll ‘ave to cough up more Christmas tinners,” Yannis pronounced as Soula finally secured the goat to his back with a thick rope.

  “Yous do ‘ave a lovely way with knots,” Yannis praised his wife, admiring the excellent constrictor knot she’d fashioned. “I’ll see you later,” he called out, pedalling off towards Rapanaki.

  Cycling along the coastal road Bald Yannis was waved down by Vangelis the chemist who had risen especially early in the hope of spotting Yannis cycling along with a goat on his bike. “Kalimera, it’s a fine morning for taking a goat for a ride,” the chemist called jovially, stepping out in front of Yannis with his camera to capture this totally ridiculous sight for posterity.

  “Ere, watch where you’re standin’ and remember there’s no goat pictures without coughing up two Euros,” Bald Yannis shouted, wobbling precariously as he swerved to avoid being captured on celluloid by the pharmacist until he opened his wallet. A driver heading along behind Bald Yannis tooted his horn to indicate he was overtaking, petrifying the goat who hated loud noises. The sudden jolty movement of the goat caused Bald Yannis to lose his balance. Falling from the bicycle he landed face first on the ground with the goat still tied on his back.

  “Say feta cheese,” Vangelis the chemist ordered, taking several snaps of the wretched cyclist sprawled on the floor beneath the goat, before even thinking about hauling Bald Yannis to his feet.

  “Now, ‘ow am I going to manage this?” Vangelis pondered standing over the two prostrate figures presenting a bizarre image of a compromising sexual position. Planting one foot on either side of the goat he gripped hold of the horny creature and yanked with all his strength, sending him flying onto his backside. The goat ended up sitting on the chemist, with Bald Yannis sitting on the goat.

  “I’m going to try and stand up and you’ll ‘ave to push the goat ‘ard from behind,” Bald Yannis stated, “but I can’t think of a way to get us back on the bicycle.”

  Fortunately for Yannis, Prosperous Pedros drove by, slowing down to laugh at the ridiculous road block. While he was quite tempted to drive past and leave Bald Yannis to stumble along with the heavy goat on his back, Vangelis the chemist shamed him into lending a helpful hand. Despite the best efforts of the fisherman and the chemist they were unable to untie the expertly knotted rope to release the goat, so ended up hauling Yannis and his piggy-backed partner into the back of the pick-up along with the now dented bicycle.

  “Malaka, the one time I go somewhere without my chainsaw and it turns out I needed it,” Bald Yannis complained as the goat licked his ear fondly.

  “K-Went-In is sure to ‘ave a knife, so we can cut the rope when we get to his ‘ouse,” the chemist suggested.

  “Mother ‘as an axe, but I’m not sure I’d trust ‘er to use it to cut the rope, she’d be more inclined to decapitate the goat,” Pedros laughed.

  “’Ow can yo
u even joke about such things, yous is supposed to be a vegetarian,” Yannis groaned.

  Pedros had been heading towards the kafenion for a coffee but now resigned himself to doing a three point turn and driving in the opposite direction towards the house next door to his mothers. Driving past his stone cottage he was just a fraction too late to clock crazy Koula picking his lock and scurrying inside.

  Chapter 23

  Slick City Types

  By the time Prosperous Pedros turned the pick-up into the ‘Lemoni Spiti’ driveway Fotini had been hammering relentlessly on Quentin’s door for a good twenty minutes. Quentin was in the kitchen pointedly ignoring her whilst tucking into a breakfast of Greek yoghurt, honey and walnuts, and Deirdre was enjoying what had been a peaceful lie- in. Determined to drown out Fotini’s frantic entreaties to get out of bed, Quentin plugged his ears up with kitchen roll. He’d endured quite enough of Fotini in Idaho and hoped once the ferocious horny goat was delivered she would be too fearful to ever darken his door again.

  Turning her attention to her son Fotini shouted, “’Ere Pedro, why ‘aven’t yous been answering your telephone?” Pedros cast a glance at the fifteen missed calls registered from his mother and cursed her persistence.

  “Poor Mel ‘ad a dreadful night, there’s a slow puncture in the airbed an’ he ended up sleepin’ on the cold tiled floor with only a shower curtain to keep ‘im warm. As yous couldn’t be bothered to answer yous phone to come and fix it I’ve been banging on K-Went-In’s door for the last half-hour, but the idle malaka must still be in bed,” Fotini complained, shaking her head at the slothful habit of foreigners sleeping in past dawn.

  “’Ere Pedro, hurry up an’ get a knife,” Bald Yannis called down. “I’m sweatin’ buckets under the weight of this ginormous goat.”

  Hearing Bald Yannis’ words Fotini peered up at the back of the pick-up, clocking the absurd spectacle of the hardware shop man roped into a piggy-backed embrace with a gargantuan goat. The goat was struggling to climb down from Yannis’ back and its annoyed bleating terrified Fotini who had a mortal fear of such creatures, sending her scuttling back at breakneck speed into the safe confines of her own house.

  Quentin emerged wielding a bread knife and was soon sawing at the rope holding Yannis and the goat together. “This appears to be a most excellent specimen of a guard goat,” he observed, delighted it had already successfully scared Fotini out of his garden. “Worth every one of those Christmas tinners.”

  The goat deliverers declined Quentin’s kind offer of coffee. Pedros wanted to make a quick exit before his mother started her demands up again, Vangelis needed to open the pharmacy and Bald Yannis hoped to make a killing flogging the Clean Monday kites he had bodged together for the upcoming holiday. Pedros tooted his horn in a friendly gesture as they drove off, unnerving the goat who hated loud noises. The goat gambolled over to Deirdre’s washing line where it promptly chewed up Quentin’s socks and Deirdre’s best blouse.

  “Blast Bald Yannis, the skinflint, he could have left the rope behind,” Quentin muttered, wondering what he had handy to tether the goat with. Grabbing the rest of the drying clothes before the animal could devour them he cut the washing line down, using it to tie the goat to the washing pole.

  “Ere K-Went-In, yous will ‘ave to get rid of that goat, it’s just not neighbourly. Yous know Fotini ‘as a mortal fear of em,” Nitsa shouted over the garden wall as she emerged from the neighbouring house arm-in-arm with Melecretes.

  “Really, I had no idea,” Quentin lied brazenly. “Still, it is my garden and I’ll keep whatever I want in it. If Fotini stays on her own side of the prickly pear fence the goat won’t trouble her.”

  “I think she might ‘ave somethin’ to say about that,” Nitsa threatened. Quentin found it hard to take any threats seriously when issued by an elderly woman wearing a hideous old lady dress paired with fishnet stockings, instead of her usual pop socks. Nitsa’s face was caked in a thick layer of orange powder and her eyelids were weighed down with a ridiculous pair of false eyelashes.

  “Are you off somewhere nice?” Quentin enquired, wondering if he’d been excluded from some important event in the Astakos social calendar as he could think of no other explanation why Nitsa was tarted up to the nines before nine in the morning.

  “Nitsa is taking me for a drive in her Mercedes to see the sights,” Melecretes volunteered. He was too sleep deprived after a night on the slowly deflating airbed to notice how ridiculous Nitsa looked, but hoped a drive in the fresh air and a strong coffee would quickly revive him.

  “Watch out for the exorbitant taxi fare she is sure to extort from you,” Quentin warned.

  Melecretes gave Nitsa a leg up onto the pile of old magazines she kept on the driver’s seat so her short body would be perched high enough to peer through the windscreen. The pair of them drove off with a jaunty wave to Quentin and headed into Astakos, where Nitsa brought the old Mercedes taxi to a juddering halt by driving into a concrete mixer positioned outside the hardware shop.

  “I just ‘ave to pop in ‘ere with a gift for Bald Yannis,” Nitsa explained, rushing into the shop to present Yannis with the potato adorned shower curtain she had carted back from Idaho. Melecretes followed close on her heels, extending a hand for Bald Yannis to shake, saying “Call me Mel.”

  “Ave yous missed me Bald Yannis? Look what I’ve got yous for a Valentine’s gift,” Nitsa gushed, fluttering her false eyelashes in her best femme fatale manner.

  “What am I supposed to do with that ‘orrible thing?” Bald Yannis sneered.

  “Well I know ‘ow much yous loves shower curtains an’ this one ‘as a lovely potato pattern.”

  “Yous is deluded, I ‘ave a shop full of the things. Anyway, why are yous giving me, a married man and expectant father, a Valentine’s gift, instead of that old reprobate Fotis? ‘As he come to his senses and dumped yous?”

  “I will be seeing Fotis this evenin’ if yous must know,” Nitsa said to Soula’s great relief. The stab of jealousy she felt when Nitsa threw herself so blatantly at Yannis receded when he pointed out he was taken. Gently chiding him Soula said, “Yanni, dont’s be so ungrateful, it will make a lovely waterproof floor covering for the goat pen.”

  Bald Yannis smirked, thinking if Soula liked the potato adorned shower curtain so much she wouldn’t object to bedding down on it in the goat pen when he rented their house to the misguided end of the world gullible fools.

  “I ‘ave somethin’ else for you too. Yous look lovely when yous ‘ave a full ‘ead of hair,” Nitsa announced, undeterred by Bald Yannis’ revulsion to her abundant charms. Groping round in her bra she yanked out the toupee she’d worn close to her heart ever since purloining it in the Potato Museum gift shop.

  “If yous think I am putting that revolting rug on my ‘ead after it’s been tucked in yous undies, yous is mad,” Bald Yannis mocked.

  “Nonsense dear, it will look lovely on yous when I’ve given it a good wash and it will stop yous ‘ead getting a chill. This is real quality nylon, Yanni,” Soula insisted, stroking the toupee which resembled a synthetic hamster.

  “Yous never said you ‘ad problems with me ‘aving no hair Soula, if yous feel that strongly about it I could always have another hair transplant.”

  “On second thoughts it will make an excellent duster,” Soula backtracked, desperately hoping she hadn’t hurt her husband’s feelings by implying he would be improved with a nylon wig. Even though he was yet to reveal his sensitive side Soula was convinced he had one. Just because he’d forgotten all about Valentine’s Day the previous week did not mean he didn’t have a romantic streak buried deep within him.

  “Time for that coffee,” Melecretes declared, dragging Nitsa out of the hardware shop. “I want to stop at some spot with real old world charm,” he added as Nitsa drove the taxi into the mountains. The road narrowed as they climbed steeply and Melecretes seemed enchanted with the stone houses abutting the road with no room for pavements.

 
“Let’s take this turning on the right,” Mel suggested just too late, as Nitsa had already missed it. Reversing wildly she backed into a ceramic plant pot full of colourful blooms, eliciting a screech of anger from a woman hanging out of an upstairs window who had carefully nurtured the flowers in the expensive pot which was left shattered by Nitsa’s incompetent manoeuvre.

  The fresh mountain air soon put Melecretes in a jovial mood and he gushed with delight at the beautiful views over the sea. Every old olive oil tin painted Greek blue and stuffed with seasonal flowers elicited a rapturous commentary from Nitsa’s seemingly fearless passenger who gave no thought to how close she spun the old Mercedes wheels on the edge of the hair-pin bends with their sheer drop into the sea.

  “This looks a likely place for coffee,” Nitsa announced, slamming the brakes on outside a scruffy looking stone house set back from the road in the village of Ankinara, named for an artichoke. As the pair emerged from the taxi a sudden rainstorm drenched them and they rushed to take shelter in what they erroneously presumed was a taverna.

  “Kalimera, two of your finest coffees please and do call me Mel,” Melecretes boomed to the scowling peasant woman dressed in an odd assortment of homemade rags. Her head was propped upright by a grubby unyielding surgical collar and she appeared to be rather taken aback by their entrance.

  “Oh this is so traditionally Greek,” Melecretes enthused, taking in the basic furnishings. An old fashioned kitchen containing a two-ringed gas cooker and a single bed took up one side of the room, while the other side was cluttered with a sofa, a collection of mismatched broken chairs and a wonky three-legged table. Throwing himself onto the sofa Melecretes was attacked by a recalcitrant spring rudely poking his posterior so he hastily adjourned to one of the wobbly chairs by the table.

  Glancing around he noted the soot covered cobwebs trailing from the grimy ceiling and the collection of children’s toys scattered over the floor. He couldn’t help but notice the filthy looks fired in their direction by the woman preparing the coffee and he belatedly surmised they had staged a home invasion in their pursuit of refreshment. “I don’t think this is actually a taverna,” he hissed to Nitsa. “I think we have barged into someone’s home.”