by Gary Cleaver
The shed smelled of dust and age. There was also a faint odour of rotting leaves and olives. He checked through his equipment. There were plastic rakes, ground sheets for catching the fallen fruit, ladders to reach the higher branches and a large, ancient sieve. Happy that everything was in order he went back outside. He pushed his hand into his trouser pocket and pulled out a battered mobile phone. He looked at it for a moment. The world made less sense to him with each passing year and here he held another symbol of that. Reaching a decision he jammed the phone back into his pocket and walked down to where the yard gave way to a rough track. Here stood a symbol of simpler times, his old green Mazda pick-up truck. He had bought it with the little money his father had left him in 1983, it had not been new even then. The driver’s door groaned in protest when he opened it, the cabin smelled of oil and, more dangerously, of gasoline, the seats were cracked and ripped. In the middle of the dash the single dial lied that the top available speed of the vehicle was one hundred and sixty kilometres per hour. The odometer also lied, it said that the truck had covered twenty eight thousand two hundred and eighty kilometres. In truth it had said that ever since it had stopped working, eighteen years previously.
Christo placed the key in the ignition, pumped the accelerator pedal three times, as he always did, offered up a silent prayer to the automotive gods and twisted. The starter cranked wearily for a few seconds and then the engine coughed and sputtered into life. “A daily miracle” he thought.
He drove the three kilometres from his home to a long, low concrete building on the outskirts of the village, the olive press. The owner of this facility, Spiro Karamis sat in his dingy office, behind an old, dark oak effect desk, smoking his twentieth Marlboro of the day. He was fat, entirely bald and had no time for small time growers like Christo. In return Christo did not have time for fat, bald crooks who ran olive presses. They dispensed with each other as quickly as possible.
“I need a slot,” said Christo, shortly.
“Fine” grunted Karamis “one week from today?” Karamis made the titanic effort of turning to look at the calendar on then wall. Christo looked too. The picture on the calendar was of a beach and the sea. In the sea was a very large rock. He recognised the image. It was in Cyprus and legend said that if you swam around the rock three times at full moon, you would have eternal youth. He thought that the ancients must have been a bunch of peasants to believe such garbage. Karamis revolved, like a small planet, back to face him. “That’s ok, time?”
“Two thirty?” said Christo.
“Good” said Karamis and looked down at the log book on the desk. He began writing. The conversation was over as far as he was concerned. Christo wished him good day and left.
He spent a miserable evening in the little living room as Irena cackled at the endless, stupid game shows on the television. By nine o’clock he’d had enough. He got up and announced he was going to bed early in preparation for an early start. In the bathroom he looked at his reflection in the mirror. Eternal youth? Well it might be fun, for a while. But the deepening lines on his face told him that he would never be young again. He looked at the backs of his hands. The growing number of liver spots told the same story. He slipped into bed and fell, almost immediately into a dark, dreamless sleep.
He woke at dawn. After washing, shaving and dressing in rapid time, he went out into the grey morning and looked up. It was cold, dry and still. No better weather for the work was possible. He collected his equipment and piled it into the truck. Coaxing the Mazda’s engine into life, he reversed to a small clearing, roughly in the middle of the grove. He set up the sieve on its four rusting legs and fitted a sack to the bottom. He gathered the ground sheets in his arms and walked over to the largest of his trees, the one he always picked first. He spread the sheets on the ground around the base of the trunk, leaving a strategic gap. He hauled over the longer of his two ladders and propped it against the tree, the ladders feet were placed neatly in the strategic gap in the ground sheet. Back at the truck he donned his olive- picking gloves and selected his favourite rake, he walked back to the tree and without breaking step, continued walking up the ladder until he found himself at the very top of the tree. He looked around for a prime specimen. Having selected the olive, he grasped it between thumb and forefinger, plucked it from the branch, kissed it and let it drop. The olive hit the sheet below with a satisfying “THOCK”. “Alright” Christo said aloud “We begin!”
For the next six days, Christo Alexiou worked slowly and steadily almost rhythmically. He stopped each day for breakfast, lunch and a coffee mid afternoon, but otherwise kept up his even pace. As each hessian sack became full he hefted it on to the back of the truck. All this time his mind was a virtual blank, it was the closest he ever got to serenity. And he was happy, not deliriously so, but filled with quiet contentment. In the early afternoon of the sixth day he reached the last tree. It was the smallest of the twenty eight and he always left it until last. When only a single branch was left to strip, he ran the rake down it deliberately leaving a single olive behind. With thumb and forefinger he plucked it and let it drop. “THOCK”. Christo smiled.
“It is done,” he said.
With its tailgate almost scraping the tarmac the Mazda wheezed along the road to the press. Behind the wheel Christo was so happy he was actually singing, it was not a particularly sweet sound, but when a man is happy, talent is not important. At the press Karamis’ two, thuggish looking, sons swiftly unloaded the sacks and sent the olives rattling down the chute into a large hopper. From there, the machinery shook them to take away the excess leaves and stalks, before washing them and sending them on to the press itself. At the end of the line the oil came out of a long tube, down into big white plastic containers. They looked like milk churns and each held fifty litres. Watching the golden stream of oil fill each of his six canisters, Christo contemplated the next part of the ritual, which would fill the whole of the next day.
Christo Alexiou and Costas Stefanis had been friends since serving together in the army. Costas now kept a taverna in the region’s largest town of Nafplio. ‘Stefanis Taverna’ was one of the most popular in town, the food and the ambience were celebrated and every year he bought his oil, having no land or trees of his own, from Christo. Every year it was the same, Christo would turn up unannounced, the two men would agree a fair price, money would change hands and wine would be drunk. They came together at other times, but olive oil day was special.
The next morning, still suffering with a few aches and pains from his exertions over the past week, Christo drove the ever faithful Mazda the forty five kilometres to Nafplio. It was eleven o’clock when he arrived at the taverna and the place was almost empty. Costas met him just inside the door, they embraced.
“As ever I bring you the best your money can buy” Christo was at his most ebullient “it is in the truck and ready to work its magic”.
Costas was looking uncomfortable, “I wasn’t expecting you”.
Christo chuckled, “Of course, you never expect me, that is how we do things.”
Costas managed to look even more uncomfortable. “Look, Christo my friend, I am very sorry but I can no longer make the price, I’ve decided to go with Erimanthos this year.”
Christo was thunderstruck. “Erimanthos? You’re going to buy from Erimanthos? But it’s factory oil, it’s muck!”
Costas looked nervously around at his few customers, Christo was in no mood to notice, he was furious.
“How can you do this? You don’t even know the price yet!”
Costas placed his hands out in front of him in a placatory manner. “Christo, the price does not matter”, he swallowed hard before continuing. “The truth is, I have already bought from Erimanthos.”
For a moment Christo was speechless, when the words finally came, they came in a hurry.
“You buy from Erimanthos and you do not tell me? How can you do this? How can you buy this … this GOATS PISS?! You are no longer my friend, I ca
nnot look at you! We have been doing this for …” he paused to do a quick calculation. “Twenty eight years, twenty eight years and ...”
He stopped, something had sounded strange, something he had said. He shook his head as if to clear it of some obstruction. Costas took this opportunity to try and calm things down, he took Christo by the arm.
“Look my friend, come and sit down, I will get us some wine, let me explain this.”
Christo wrenched himself free. “Do not touch me!” he spat “I do not want anything from you, we are no longer friends!” He walked straight out of the front door and practically ran back to the truck.
He sat behind the wheel, breathing hard. How could this be happening? All the work, all the care, the love! For this? He banged his fists on the dash. She hates me, my sons hate me and now my best friend forsakes me. Why? What have I done? What have I done?! He became aware he was sobbing, it was a lost, wretched sound and it disgusted him. He looked up, something had caught his eye. A young girl, about sixteen, walked past the truck. She was neither pretty nor plain but her face was not what caught his attention. She was wearing a dark blue sweatshirt with a huge, white number on the front. Twenty eight. Dully he wondered if he might be losing his mind.
When he felt calmer he started the engine, wiped his eyes and threw the truck into gear. On the way home the weather turned bad. The wind came up and drove slanting rain against the screen. The Mazda’s wipers were almost as old as the vehicle itself, they were virtually useless against the deluge. After a while he was barely crawling along, peering through the murk. It was nearly two in the afternoon when he pulled off the road on to the rough track that led to his house. The truck splashed through several small puddles before reaching the end. He turned off the engine, got out and walked through the rain to the kitchen door. When he opened it the top hinge gave way completely and the door twisted sideways. He looked at it without emotion, sighed and went in. He stood in his simple kitchen deflated and defeated. There was a note on the table, he picked it up. Irena had taken the bus and gone to see her sister in Ligourio. He was not to worry, as her sister would bring her back in the car at seven thirty. He looked at the bottom of the note. It said “Irena”. He balled the scrap of paper in his fist and tossed it into the garbage bin.
He went out to the second and larger outbuilding, fetched screws and tools and fixed the kitchen door. When it was done he stared out at the trees for a long time. He wondered what to do about the oil. He didn’t want to take it back to the press to sell, Karamis had already overcharged him for the pressing, the fat old toad would take the greatest pleasure in ripping him off for the oil. Finally he threw open the newly repaired door and went out into the grove. The wind tore at his jacket and the rain ran through his thin hair and into his eyes. He stood among his trees and shouted
“Tell me, tell me what to do! I don’t know what to do!” and he heard a voice, quiet but perfectly clear in spite of the storm. “Take them to Elenis”.
He sat, dripping at the kitchen table with his head in his hands. Now he was hearing voices! He must be losing his mind. He made himself a strong coffee, drank it quickly and felt slightly better. He tried to put the voice from his mind, but the memory was persistent. Elenis. He didn’t know anyone called Elenis. But the word kept repeating in his head. He began pacing the kitchen, saying the word over and over. Who could it be?
“Or where could it be?” He said. It came to him at once. On the highway between Katsimila and Corinth was the small seaside town of Loutra Elenis. There were shops, Gas stations and quite a few tavernas. It was very much a summer town, it would be quiet as the grave in January. The idea was totally crazy, but Christo thought that he was, so why not try it?
When Irena arrived home he told her of his day, at least the sane parts. She was disappointed but made it clear she expected no more of him. He told her that he had fixed the kitchen door.
“Good” she said “let’s hope it lasts this time.”
With that she walked through to the living room, leaving him standing alone. He heard the television come on. He shrugged. It was the last act of a terrible day, with his head bowed he sloped off to bed. As he lay in the darkness, listening to the wind, the rain and the loathsome television, he reached a decision.
By next morning the weather had cleared and the sun shone, albeit weakly. Christo rose early and went out to the truck. While he was checking the straps holding the oil canisters in place, he looked beyond the low, loose stone wall that separated his property from the olive grove next door. The land and its forty trees belonged to Dimitris Lambakis and the man himself was standing there, looking at one particular tree.
“Good morning, Dimitri”
Lambakis turned and walked over to the wall. “Good morning Christo. You are well?”
“To be honest” said Christo “I’ve been better.”
He told Dimitris about the previous day and the treacherous Stefanis.
Lambakis made a face. “That’s too bad Christo, particularly” he gestured toward the truck “as your product is so good.”
Christo tapped the side of his nose with an index finger. “I have other ideas to try yet.”
They exchanged pleasantries, asked after each other’s families, the usual things that neighbours do, but throughout it seemed to Dimitris that Christo was agitated, anxious to be elsewhere. He decided to end things.
“Well, I must be getting along, I would wish you luck with selling your oil, but I don’t think you need it.” Lambakis went back to his tree.
Christo took a deep breath and climbed into the Mazda.
The highway was wide but torturous; he drove slowly trying to keep the truck in the correct gear and his mind in neutral. The farther he got from home, the harder it became to resist cursing himself for being a fool. With each passing kilometre the urge to turn around and go back became stronger. But the vision of fat, bald Karamis with a stinking cigarette corked in the corner of his mouth gave him the strength to push on. After an hour and a half he drove past the blue and white sign that told him he was entering Loutra Elenis. He drove slowly through the virtually deserted town, the shops and gas stations on his left, the sea to the right. Now he really was cursing himself for a fool.
“Well” he said aloud “what now?” His old, faithful pick-up supplied the answer.
The engine coughed, momentarily regained its unsteady rhythm, then died. Christo swore and hauled off the road. Coming to a halt he found himself on a stretch of beach where the grey sand gave way to a rocky outcrop. On top of this was a low, glass clad building. Steps had been cut into the sandstone leading to the front door. At the bottom of the steps was a steel archway from which hung a wooden sign. One of the rusting hooks had given way slightly and the sign hung askew, the paint on its surface was cracked and peeling but it was still possible to make out the words ‘TAVERNA APHRODITE’.
Christo had already realised that the hated mobile phone was lying useless on the kitchen table at home. He decide to find out if anyone was in and willing to let him call a breakdown truck. He climbed the stone steps to the front door and tapped on the dingy glass. He waited and then tapped again. He tapped a third time and then turned to leave. Behind him the door opened.
A soft voice said “Good morning.”
Christo turned back and began a short speech he had practised on his way up. “Oh good morning I…” he stopped short.
Standing before him was a woman. He judged her to be in her mid thirties, but it was hard to tell. She was the same height as him and was looking directly into his eyes; she was extraordinarily beautiful. Her hair was jet black and almost waist length, her eyes were large and the darkest brown. Her golden olive skin reflected the thin winter sunlight and it seemed to make her glow. She was wearing a simple shift of black and gold and her feet were bare, Christo cleared his throat, it was possible that the shift was all she was wearing.
She was smiling.” You have oil “she said.
He immedia
tely forgot about the truck. “Yes I am trying to sell it, there is nearly three hundred litres.”
Her smile broadened showing white, even teeth. “Very good, a place like this, well you can imagine. May I sample?”
Almost in a trance, he led her down to the truck. He wound the screw top from the nearest canister. Without pause she stuck a finger in, pulling it out golden and dripping, she put the finger slowly and deliberately into her mouth. Christo held on to the side of the truck as he watched her. She withdrew her finger, the smile returned at once.
”Wonderful” she whispered, Christo’s grip tightened.
“Come” she said “We must get these inside, then we can agree a price that will make us happy.”
She laughed briefly, a sweet musical sound, and they set to work. They each took a handle and carried the first canister to the top of the steps, leaving it just inside the door. The process was repeated with the other five. By the time they had finished Christo was breathing heavily and perspiring freely, she, on the other hand showed no sign of having made any sort of effort.
“This way” she said. “I think you could use a drink.”
She led him to the small bar area, removed a bottle of dark red wine from a shelf, fetched two glasses from under the counter and poured a generous measure into each. They touched glasses and drank in companionable silence.
When they had drained their glasses, she tapped one long, unpainted fingernail on the bar top and said “Now, to business.”
She led him through the door at the rear of the bar, he had expected to find himself in the kitchens, but instead there was a rectangular room approximately four metres by three and empty, save for a low, single bed covered by a plain grey blanket. The walls were almost, entirely bare, almost. Above the end of the bed was a cheap print in an equally cheap looking plastic frame. Christo looked at the picture and began to feel a little dizzy. The picture showed a beach, the sea and a rock; and if you swam around the rock at full moon… Her voice brought him back.
