Goatly Goings On

by Katerina Nikolas

  “That will be ten Euros,” the woman announced with a frown, holding her head stiffly as she slammed two tall glasses of frothy lukewarm coffee down on the table.

  “What an exorbitant price for two coffees, yous didn’t even put any Metaxa in ‘em,” Nitsa complained, wincing at the foul tasting liquid. “It’s nothing less than extortion.”

  “Does I look like a taverna? Yous slick city types reckoning yous can just walk into my ‘ome demanding coffee, showing off in yous fancy clothes,” the woman snapped, throwing a disdainful look at Nitsa’s obviously shop bought dress and fishnet stockings.

  “So sorry to have troubled you, do keep the change,” Melecretes blushed, throwing a twenty Euro note on the table and dragging Nitsa out before she could put her foot in it even more.

  “Suckers,” the woman laughed, ripping the collar from her neck, stashing the note in her pinny and wondering how many more passing tourists she could rip off before the day was finished.

  Chapter 24

  Sleep Tight, Sweet Pedro

  After leaving the ‘Lemoni Spiti’ Koula shuffled head down back to Astakos, careful to keep out of sight. Passing the Pappas’ house she sneakily plucked a pocketful of clementines from his tree to snack on and a handful of lemons she had other plans for. Later Deirdre’s cast-off coat helped to ward off the cold as she stood with her nose pressed against the glass window of the taverna watching Prosperous Pedros tuck into his vegetarian lamb. “We will be so happy together, my one true love. It won’t be long now before we are together forever,” she whispered, following him home in the darkness.

  Koula slept fitfully in the harbour-side house which was empty until Thea could find someone to rent it. She was on tenterhooks in the morning waiting for Pedros to leave so she could make an elicit entrance by picking his lock and explore her future home. Koula was quite surprised to discover Pedros lived such a simple life in his small two-roomed cottage with an outside bathroom. In one room an iron bedstead with a thin mattress was propped up on bricks, with Pedros’ fishing paraphernalia stored neatly beneath it. A single cold water tap dripped incessantly into an old stone sink, with an old fashioned tarnished mirror dangling from a rusty nail above it. Koula was relieved to find Pedros kept nothing more sinister than dead fish in the chest freezer sited opposite the bed and under the barred window, next to a single gas burner and coffee pot. Rummaging through his utensils Koula noted he possessed a solitary mug, glass, and teaspoon. Obviously he wasn’t used to entertaining and there was no evidence of another woman to contend with.

  The second room was just as sparsely furnished, with an old television sitting atop a fridge holding nothing but a pot of yoghurt and a bottle of water. A chair was positioned opposite the television and musty history books were piled on top of a dusty dresser. Opening the drawers Koula breathed in the scent of Prosperous Pedros’ underwear and buried her head in his pullovers. She pondered how someone who had earned the sobriquet of ‘prosperous’ could exist in such an obvious frugal habitat, unaware Pedros maintained such a lifestyle on purpose, knowing full well it would deter any women determined to snare a husband. Unfortunately for Pedros, Koula was not put off so easily. His home may be simple but it was still an improvement on the cold, uninviting house in the high mountain village where she had grown up.

  Rolling up her sleeves Koula set to polishing every visible surface with a mix of vinegar and one of the Pappas’ stolen lemons. She stripped Pedros’ bed, replacing the pillowcases with ones she had spent the night embroidering with fish, presuming the fishy embellishment would appeal to a fisherman. Throwing herself on the newly made bed she imagined being held fast in his embrace, leaving the cloying scent of the shopping channel perfume she had discovered in the harbour-side house and used liberally, all over the bedding. Next she fixed the dripping tap and darned every last hole in his holey pullovers, before tackling his grubby outside bathroom.

  Prosperous Pedros’s plans to catch up on house cleaning had been thwarted by a series of busy events. Firstly he’d been side-lined by delivering Bald Yannis and the goat to Quentin’s house, and then he’d been obliged to thrash Moronic Mitsos at tavli while drinking coffee and avoiding his mother’s phone calls. He was happy to help Gorgeous Yiorgos with the oily business of tinkering with his boat’s engine, even though it left no time to hand wash his bedding and run it through the mangle. After such a busy day all he wanted was to sluice himself down with the hosepipe over the outside toilet and climb into bed for a welcome siesta.

  Heading into the outside bathroom Pedros failed to notice the rusty nail he deposited his towel on had been replaced with a pastel pink hook, as he was too distracted by the gleaming toilet. Jumping to the erroneous conclusion that some passing animal had stopped in and licked the porcelain clean, he wrapped himself in his towel and sprinted across the garden into the cottage.

  His olfactory senses were immediately assaulted with the pervasive smell of a cloyingly sweet perfume, wafting in the air in marked contrast to the usual distinct aroma of fish. Sniffing suspiciously Prosperous Pedros examined the fitting on his heater’s gas bottle, but everything appeared to be in order. “I must be imagining things,” he muttered, throwing back the blankets to climb into bed. The sheets felt cool and starched, with a floral scent emanating from what appeared to be ironed pillow cases. Pedros jumped up to examine this strange phenomenon since he didn’t even possess an iron, scratching his head in perplexment as he couldn’t remember buying fish embroidered bedding. Looking around the room everything else appeared to be in order. His fishing paraphernalia was neatly in place beneath the bed so he shrugged off his suspicions and settled down to his siesta, unaware he was being observed by an obsessive stalker ogling him through the bars of his window with a glazed look of adoration on her face.

  “Sleep tight, sweet Pedro,” crazy Koula whispered, blowing him a kiss.

  Chapter 25

  Steaming Up The Car Windows

  “What a sight for sore eyes. Yous ‘ave an uncanny resemblance to my dear dead Granny,” Melecretes declared as Nitsa waltzed into the kitchen wearing a rather smart orange skirt and matching jacket she’d borrowed from Hattie. Nitsa had chosen to pair the formal suit with a purple floral blouse, a woolly pink bobble hat and black pop socks, revealing a good few centimetres of hairy leg.

  She’d spent the afternoon in the beauty parlour having her hair coiffed into a ridiculous orange beehive. Recalling the agonising pain of her last moustache wax she’d refused the treatment, instead persuading Evangelia to dye her hairy upper lip orange to match her new hair colour. The kaleidoscope of garishly clashing colours hurt Melecretes’ eyes and he reached for his sunglasses even though darkness had fallen.

  “I thought I’d make an effort as Fotis is takin’ me to meet his old mother down in Gavros,” Nitsa preened.

  “Do yous think he will pop the question?” Fotini asked, selfishly hoping he wouldn’t as she enjoyed living with Nitsa. Nitsa was excellent company, particularly as she considered her own husband was most inattentive. Fotini still laboured under the delusion her husband had gadded off to Athens on business even though he’d been in his grave for over a decade. She had no idea it suited Pedros to keep up the pretence his father was alive and kicking.

  “I think he will go down on one knee tonight,” Nitsa said.

  “That could be dangerous at his age, he might not be able to get up again,” Hattie warned.

  “Ooh he ‘as quite flexible parts,” Nitsa reassured, thinking the twinkly eyed fisherman was in remarkably fit shape for an octogenarian. “That must be ‘im now, he’s such a gentleman coming to collect me,” she said as a horn tooted outside. Nitsa hadn’t seen Fotis since she left for Idaho and was brimming with excitement at the prospect of their reunion.

  Fotis’ horn disturbed the goat grazing in Quentin’s garden. It hated loud noises and set off a litany of plaintive bleats. Quentin was yet to convince Deirdre the goat was a necessity. She’d spent the morning complaining
the smelly creature had chewed up her best blouse and he’d only just managed to calm her down when the goat devoured the contents of their vegetable patch, eating its way through the broccoli and spinach plants Deirdre had so tenderly nurtured.

  “There, I told you it would be a great asset as a guard goat,” Quentin gloated at the sound of the goat bleating. “You won’t need to worry about squatters sneaking into the house now Deirdre. The goat will alert us.”

  “I suppose so,” Deirdre reluctantly conceded, voicing her concern the goat had been disturbed by the pathetic squatter she had turned out of the house, perhaps looking for somewhere warm to spend the night.

  “No, the goat was unnerved by a car pulling up next door,” Quentin said, peering through the window. “I can’t tell who it is because its windows are all steamed up.”

  Nitsa and Fotis’ passionate reunion was the cause of the car’s steamed up windows. “I ‘aven’t ‘alf missed yous Nitsa,” Fotis confessed between sloppy kisses, unravelling her beehive with his wandering hands.

  The frigid February night air soon pervaded the car. “Ooh that draught is a bit of a passion killer. All the ‘airs on my chest are standing on end.” Nitsa complained. “We’d better hurry up and go, we dont’s wants to keep your mother waiting when I want to make a good first impression.”

  “She will love yous as much as I do,” Fotis assured Nitsa as the car hurtled towards Gavros. He fervently hoped Nitsa and his mother Kyria Moustakos got along well. If they hit it off he planned to propose to Nitsa and move her in so she could take over the burdensome task of looking after the decrepit one hundred and eight year-old biddy. It would be Nitsa’s wifely duty to tend her mother-in-laws every need, freeing Fotis up for more manly pursuits such as hanging about the kafenion drinking coffee and playing tavli. Having flirted his way through every woman in Gavros without finding anyone willing to take on his mother he was now quietly desperate.

  “Mother I’ve brought someone special ‘ome to meet yous,” Fotis called out, leading Nitsa into the house he shared with his mother. “This is my girlfriend Nitsa, Nitsa this is Kyria Moustakos.”

  “What’s that yous say?” a shallow voice croaked.

  “This is my girlfriend Nitsa,” Fotis bellowed.

  “There’s no need to shout, I ‘ave my ‘earing aid in now.”

  Nitsa peered through the candlelit gloom at the black clad skeletal figure sitting upright in a hard backed chair by the flickering fire. Only the old lady’s hairy moustache prevented her grimacing toothless head with a hairless scalp from looking like an exhumed skull. Nitsa immediately wondered if she could get the nylon toupee back from Soula as Fotis’ mother was a much more deserving case for the second-hand wig than the hardware shop’s dusty shelves.

  It was so dark in the overheated room Nitsa tripped over an assorted collection of discarded bottles and fish bones. “’Ave yous ‘ad the power cut off,” she asked.

  “No, mother is extremely sensitive to bright lights,” Fotis explained, gently propping his sunglasses on his mother’s nose when he saw her wincing at the neon glare emanating from Nitsa. “She likes it kept dark at all times.”

  “’Ave yous forgot yous manners Foti? Pour yous girlfriend a glass of raki,” the skeletal figure instructed, waving a grimy glass in a claw like hand under her son’s nose. Downing in one the raki he poured she said, “Fancy yous bringing a girlfriend ‘ome, I was getting worried yous was a bit past it and no one would ‘ave yous.”

  Peering closely at Nitsa, Kyria Moustakos whispered to her son “that’s a fine moustache she ‘as, does yous think she could be related to us?”

  Without waiting for an answer she started rummaging round in a musty mildewed handbag. Producing a packet of painkillers, under the mistaken impression they were condoms, she presented them to Fotis, advising, “Now dont’s go gettin’ ‘er pregnant unless yous plan to marry ‘er, we dont’s want the neighbours talkin.”

  “I’ll be careful mother, no babies until we make it legal,” Fotis assured her, pouring them each another generous measure of raki.

  “Is yous mad? Does yous seriously think I want more babies at my age?” Nitsa hissed at Fotis, trying to remember just how many years she’d sneakily discarded when she’d lied to him about her age. Even if he thought she was twenty years younger than she actually was it would still put her well over sixty.

  “I’m just humouring mother, I know yous is old,” Fotis assured, not sparing her feelings with his cack-handed insult.

  “’Ere Foti, give me a light,” Kyria Moustakos demanded, shoving a cigarette into her toothless mouth. “I bet yous cant’s believe I am one hundred and nine,” she said to Nitsa before being nearly floored with a hacking cough.

  “Now mother, don’t exaggerate, you know full well you aren’t one hundred and nine until your next birthday.”

  “Can we ‘ave a big party Foti, yous knows how much I loves a good shindig.”

  “Well if Nitsa says yes to my wedding proposal there’ll be a big party before your birthday mother,” Fotis said, throwing himself down on one knee. “Nitsa, you would make me an ‘appy man if yous marry me and move in with me and mother.”

  “Foti, get up off the floor. I need a hand gettin’ to the outside toilet,” Kyria Moustakos commanded, ruining the less than romantic moment with her interruption.

  “’Old your horses, I’m still waiting for Nitsa’s answer,” Fotis shouted, wishing Nitsa would hurry up and answer before he seized up on one knee. With no concern for niceties Nitsa grabbed the raki, taking a generous slug straight from the bottle to mask her confusion.

  Much as Nitsa had fantasised Fotis would propose marriage, she hadn’t thought beyond the moment she could flaunt a flashy diamond engagement ring on her finger. Fotis’s proposal not only lacked an ostentatious ring but came with the horrifying assumption she would move into this gloomy house in Gavros to live with him and his skeletal mother. The prospect of moving away from Rapanaki held little appeal as she was having the time of her life living with her second cousin Fotini and their American houseguest Hattie. She revelled in being close enough to torment Bald Yannis and embarrass the hapless Americans next door.

  Nitsa’s reverie was interrupted by Fotis putting his foot in his mouth, saying “I can see yous and mother will get on like an ‘ouse on fire. When you moves in yous can give up driving yous taxi an’ we can sell it to supplement our three meagre pensions. We can save a bit too ‘cos yous can look after mother while I’m out fishing, meaning I wont’s ‘ave to pay the woman what comes in and does for us.”

  “She’d be daft to turn down an offer like that,” Kyria Moustakos beamed toothlessly. Extending a withered claw like hand towards Nitsa’s shoulder Kyria Moustakos leant forward, hissing “He’s a bit of a catch, always ‘as been, I’ve had to look out for gold diggers.”

  Nitsa moved out of reach of the bony hand, repulsed by her foul fetid breath, rank with fish, raki and stale cigarettes, emanating from the old woman’s toothless mouth. Her sudden movement left Kyria Moustakos with nothing to grab onto and she toppled from the chair, wailing “Foti, ‘elp me.”

  “’Ow many times ‘ave I told yous to put a bit more padding round yous? Yous knows ‘ow brittle yous old bones is,” Fotis yelled over the distinctive crack of yet another of his mother’s old bones breaking. “Ere Nitsa give me an ‘and to get ‘er up, we’ll ‘ave to take ‘er to ‘ospital. I think she’s gone and broken ‘er arm. Nitsa. Nitsa?”

  Nitsa stood frozen in shock, horrified by the tableau of her future life unfolding before her eyes, running round after this living cadaver if she tied the knot with Fotis. She adored the freedom of driving her old Mercedes taxi and deplored the very notion of giving it up to be effectively housebound with Fotis’s corpse like mother.

  Stepping wordlessly outside Nitsa retrieved her mobile phone from the depths of her bloomers and made an emergency call to her nephew. “Thoma, it’s yous Aunty Nitsa, come and get me. I am stranded in Gavros. Fot
is ‘as deceived me, he ‘as only been courting me to get an unpaid nursemaid for his ancient mother.”

  Chapter 26

  A Matter Of Life And Death

  Still smarting from his taverna humiliation the Pappas was determined to get hold of Iraklis’ mother to persuade the young defector to come to his senses and return to his churchly duties. As she didn’t have a new-fangled telephone he finally had the bright idea of telephoning the Pappas in Iraklis’ home village of Aprositos, named for its inaccessibility, persuading him to carry a message to Kyria Sisyphean saying she must travel urgently to Astakos as a matter of life and death. He craftily hung up before his fellow priest could extract any extraneous details about Iraklis’ supposedly dire situation.

  Kyria Sisyphean immediately jumped to the erroneous conclusion her son Iraklis must be at death’s door if she was so urgently summoned. “My only child, we must pray for him,” she implored, hastily making the sign of the cross.

  “The Pappas in Astakos stressed there isn’t a moment to lose, you must pack a bag and leave at once,” the local Pappas advised. The colour drained from Kyria Sisyphean’s face at the challenge of leaving the remote village of Aprositos. She hadn’t set foot beyond the confines of the village since her husband abandoned her with a mewling baby more than twenty years ago, escaping from a life of pious misery by running off with a loose floozy who had turned his head. Kyria Sisyphean considered the land beyond Aprositos to be a veritable Sodom and Gomorrah full of godless heathens whom she had sent her only son to save from their wicked and shameless ways.