Where the Bougainvillea Grows

by Gary Cleaver

  Spiro coughed politely, “OK then, I should be going”, he wound in the cable, lowered the flat bed back to the horizontal position, folded the tarpaulin and strapped it down. Throughout he would occasionally pause and look meaningfully at the proud new owner, for there was the unspoken question of the tip. When it was obvious that he would get nothing, he hoisted himself back up into the cab and started the engine, he waved briefly, but Theo wasn’t looking, it took Spiro over two hours to drive back to Athens and he cursed Theodoras Bakoyannis the whole way.

  Theo had no time for peasants like Spiro, “Peasant” was one of his favourite words and referred to anyone he felt was an underling; employees, assistants, most members of the general public, Romanian pool-boys and definitely ex wives were all peasants. He looked down at himself, T shirt, shorts, and flip flops this would not do, for his first trip in his new toy he needed to dress properly for the occasion. He went up to the master suite and selected the correct items, Gucci loafers, black cotton Ralf Lauren slacks, and a pristine white hand made linen shirt from Squires of London. From a drawer he took a gold Rolex the size of a small carriage clock and clipped it to his wrist, as a final touch, a pair of Adidas aviator sunglasses. He looked at himself in the full length mirror on the back of the door, crouched slightly, pulled out an imaginary six gun and fired off a round at his reflection. He smiled, and then frowned and went off to the en suite bathroom to brush his teeth.

  He almost skipped down the marble steps and out into the drive, the Ferrari waited patiently, graceful, poised and yet somehow hunched, like a predator preparing to strike. With a bit of a grunt and a heave he managed to squeeze himself in behind the wheel where he sat for a moment smiling contentedly, time for the shake down cruise and God help any peasants who got in the way. He turned the key and the dash lit up like a nightclub, there was a black button in the centre, he pushed it and an electric motor started to hum, the soft top arched upwards before sinking smoothly into the slot behind the seats and sealing itself with a soft clunk. Theo took a breath and pushed the red button marked ‘Start’, there was the high tinkling of the starter and then the great motor exploded into life. He had his foot down on the accelerator already and the rev counter leapt immediately to seven thousand, the Ferrari bellowed its loud, sweet music, sounding like a coffee grinder gone mad.

  He motored slowly through Katsimila heading for the main road out of town intending to take the highway to the next town of Ligourio with its swooping bends and occasional fast straights. He took it slow through the village for two main reasons, first, the local peasants had a habit of walking out into the street without warning, second and most importantly whilst driving slowly he could be admired by them for his wealth and good taste. But it was siesta time and the streets were almost deserted, most of Katsimila’s residents preferring to stay out of the sun and take things easy for a few hours. Rounding the sharp bend marked by a Cyprus tree and a little white shrine he gunned the engine and the Ferrari flew up the hill; it was only a back road in rural Greece, but in Theo’s head it was Monaco, the Mulsanne straight, the Nürburgring and Schumacher was half a lap behind, eating dust. In seconds he had crested the rise and was thundering along the flat fertile valley beyond, halfway along the needle on the speedometer tipped one hundred and fifty but the car stayed smooth and steady, seemingly effortless. He glanced to his right and noticed a small brushfire on a hillside roughly two kilometres distant, he quickly made up his mind that it could not pose any threat to the house so he ignored it. An old dark blue Mercedes passed, heading in the opposite direction, it prevented Theo from cutting the next bend, and he cursed the driver under his breath.

  The Mercedes continued its steady progress toward Katsimila, behind the wheel George Karamis reached out and snapped off the radio, he had seen the fire too, it was small and as the day was almost entirely windless, gathering strength slowly, there was very little smoke which rafted straight up into the clear sky. He reached over to the passenger seat, picked up his mobile phone and keyed in a number, a fire in July even a small one was not to be taken lightly, whatever brushfires lacked it was not ambition or potential.

  “Mariopoulos” said George, he explained the fires rough location and size, “So get your lazy arse up here and take a look, though it seems to be a long way from the nearest track, you might need help from above”.

  He pushed the red button on his Motorola and set it back down, as he reached the village he waved to Christos Mariopoulos, Katsimilas one and only full time firefighter on his way out to the site. When Mariopoulos arrived he took out a small pair of binoculars and studied the blaze, it covered an area of about five hundred square metres and even though there was no breeze to drive it, it was growing steadily. However, George had been right, it was too remote for trucks, Christos got on his radio to the fire plane base. Forty kilometres away on a twisting mountain road on the far side of Ligourio, Theo Bakoyannis sailed on without a care in the world.

  An hour later a blue and yellow Canadair C415 floatplane approached Katsimila from the north east, at the controls were Nikos Suvari a seasoned pilot and firefighter, and Pavlos Filipos a junior officer on only his second serious mission, it was Pavlos who was flying the aircraft. On the way out from base they had been arguing good naturedly about basketball, but now they grew quiet as the serious business of their day began. Pavlos set the aircraft gently down on the mirror calm sea, as they cruised across the surface Nikos opened the scoop under the fuselage to allow water into the large belly tank, a klaxon sounded when the tank was full, Nikos closed the scoop and Pavlos grunted as he hauled the heavy plane back into the air. The Canadair flew like a tractor at the best of times, now fully loaded it took a lot of effort to make it behave. As they approached the site of the fire they mixed the sea water with flame retardant foam from a separate tank; Pavlos focused on keeping the aircraft straight and level, they were now only three kilometres from the drop point, on final approach.

  After stopping at a small ceramics factory, where he had been rude to both the shop girl and the manager about their prices, Theo was now guiding the Ferrari back toward Katsimila. He came round a tight bend and found his way blocked by a slow moving pick up truck, he dropped a gear, floored the throttle and blasted past, not forgetting to shout “peasant!” as he did so. Next to him on the passenger seat, wrapped in thin white paper was a ceramic dish, its outer rim decorated in the classical manner and in the centre a hand painted Satyr with proud and overstated genitals. He thought it would look good on the desk in his study and he would ignore Chantal’s sarcasm when she saw it. He sped on.

  Two hundred metres up in the fire plane Nikos and Pavlos had a problem, a warning siren began to shriek on the flight deck, it did so a mere second after Nikos’ twenty years experience and sharp pilots instinct had told him all was not well. His eyes went immediately to the section of the instrument panels which displayed information on the two engines, he found what he was looking for at once - the oil pressure gauge for the port motor was sinking fast.

  He spoke rapidly but calmly “Get us back to the ocean, we may have to put down, I’ll cut the engine and drop the cargo”.

  He cancelled the siren and powered down the motor, by the time he reached for the lever to release the water Pavlos already had the aircraft in a slow left turn and had increased power to the remaining engine. Nikos pulled and three thousand kilos of water and foam headed downwards with only gravity to steer it.

  Theo noticed from the corner of his eye a strange white cloud, slightly in front and off to the left, if at this point he had accelerated all would have been well, but his instinct told him to brake, he hit the pedal hard and the car slowed, putting it in more or less the perfect spot. It wasn’t a surprise that the water hit the Ferrari, what was truly amazing was how little of it actually missed. The impact was huge and rendered him momentarily senseless, luckily for Theo his foot was still on the brake pedal and the car slewed to a halt, the great thoroughbred engine, totally drowned,
chopped briefly and then died. There was a long terrible silence, punctuated only by the muted hiss of bubbles bursting and the ticking of the Ferraris rapidly cooling motor. Theo cleared his smarting eyes and stared out through the windshield, he was immersed in sea water up to his shoulders, the doors did not leak at all, a tribute to the coachmakers at the factory in Italy, but of little comfort to him. His toupee was draped across the top of the steering wheel, he looked in the rear view mirror, there was a blob of foam the size shape of an orange in the middle of his shining head. He reached under the water and found the door catch, water gushed out on to the road and the level dropped, it revealed the ceramic plate which had survived the deluge although minus its wrapping paper, it was only his imagination but the Satyrs mighty penis appeared to be drooping slightly. Next to the plate, and roughly the same size, was a purple and brown jellyfish, which pulsed occasionally. Theo squeezed himself out of his one hundred and twenty thousand euro Jacuzzi and stood in a puddle, he scooped up his toupee and slapped it back on his head, sea water ran into his eyes once more.

  Nikos and Pavlos stayed low to the sea all the way back to their base, Pavlos keeping a nervous eye on the one good engine as they went. Arriving back they made slow, careful approach followed by an almost perfect landing, as the aircraft came to a halt Nikos reached over and slapped him on the shoulder,

  “Well done” he said.

  Pavlos grinned and by the time they had clambered out they were arguing about basketball again. A reserve aircraft had already been despatched, it made three accurate passes in less than half an hour and extinguished the fire.

  It came as no surprise that the car would not start, the Ferrari had been very hot and had received a vast amount of cold water, the damage beneath the hood was likely to be horrendous; it was also not surprising that his mobile phone, still clipped to the dash was similarly dead. It was twenty minutes before the next car came along, the driver promised to send Dimitri Stamos from the garage with his tow truck. It was another hour before Stamos turned up, stripped to the waist, with his overalls tied round his middle, his bare muscular torso shining with perspiration and a stinking cheroot hanging from the corner of his mouth. He looked Theo up and down, and then shifted his gaze to the Ferrari; he shook his head.

  ”Did you not know that it was going to rain today?” he threw back his head, clenched the cheroot between his teeth and roared. He then looked at Theo again, his expensive clothes shrinking on him as they dried in the baking sun and his hairpiece slightly askew on his pate and laughed harder, holding his sides with greasy hands.

  Theo regarded him dully “I wish to go home” was all he could think of saying.

  When Stamos had regained some kind of control he hooked up the Ferrari and with Theo sat next to him in the cab of the truck, made off slowly for the coast. By the time they reached Katsimila it was six thirty and siesta was over, there were many people on the streets now and they all stopped to stare as Stamos, Theo and the still dripping Ferrari made a slow and forlorn procession through the village streets. Back at the house Stamos released the car and reversed the truck back down the drive, as Spiro had done just a few hours before, Theo watched him go, noting miserably that the peasant’s shoulders were still heaving with barely suppressed mirth, then he went upstairs to change out of his rapidly diminishing clothes.

  As the long shadows of the mountains crept across the sea, Theodoras Pericles Aristotle Bakoyannis sat on the upstairs terrace above the Doric columns in a silk bathrobe, sipping a very large brandy. His lap top was open on his knees, he clicked up the internet and while he was waiting for it to load he stared down at the brooding, salt streaked Ferrari. It wasn’t ruined, of course, he would have it taken back to Athens and fixed, but it would have to go, if nothing else it would always remind him of this wretched day and the peasants mocking laughter. When the Google box appeared he typed in ‘Aston Martin dealerships’. The telephone on the glass top table by his elbow began to trill, he picked it up, it was Chantal. When she had finished with her trivial news he told her about the car and his day, when she had stopped hooting and sobered up she gave him the benefit of her considered opinion, the car was worthless junk and he should never had bought it in the first place, he should take taxis like sensible people. Before she hung up she also told him that the boy who kept the gardens tidy needed new shoes and she would be taking him into town tomorrow to act as interpreter. Theo sighed and picked up the laptop, he cancelled the car search and after a moments thought typed in the words ‘Singles Clubs.’

  Thirty Friends

  In the middle of the string of islands that make up the Saronic gulf group lies Poros. It is virtually not an island at all, separated as it is from the mainland by a stretch of water in places no more than three hundred metres wide. Across these narrows little blue and white water taxis ply their trade taking workers and tourists to and from the mainland Peloponnese. In the summer months they are seldom short of passengers. The island is rightly famous for it’s many gift shops and boutiques, as well as its sandy beaches and quaint main town. Like almost every Greek island Poros is at the same time achingly beautiful and hideously commercial. On the mainland side of the narrows is the small town of Galatas, which fittingly looks no more than a poor relation. By the concrete wall on the front a taxi named ‘Anastasia’ lay set to go, her engine running and seven passengers already aboard.

  “Yota do hurry up or we shall have to wait for the next one, we do not have all day”. Panayiota Lambakis, thirteen, pretty and splendid in yellow shorts and a white T shirt which featured a green alligator in shades and a sombrero, had no time for her mothers trivial problems, she had after all, just fallen in love. The tiny black and white kitten was trying, without success, to hide under a chair in the waterfront snack bar. It had no idea it was dealing with Katsimila’s number one cat fancier.

  “Oh but Mama she is so beautiful” Yota looked closer, “Also she is very thin, we should take her home and care for her.”

  Gabriella Lambakis turned back to her daughter, folded her arms. “Yes, why not? What a splendid idea, because as everyone knows, our little town has a terrible shortage of cats. I believe at the last count we were down below seven hundred!” Yota poked out her tongue, she made a last desperate lunge for the kitten, which shrank back further beneath the chair.

  “Bye bye little one, Mama wishes me to leave you here to die, but I want you to know that I love you.”

  “Come ON Yota!”

  ‘Anastasia’ chugged across the narrows while her skipper Iannis entertained his passengers with his favourite song, delivered as always in his strangled tenor voice. His brother George, whose taxi was approaching from the opposite direction, would sometimes tell Iannis he sounded exactly like Jose Carreras, before adding quietly “If Carreras were being beaten on the soles of his feet with an iron bar”. As they crossed the brothers waved to each other, Iannis never pausing from his song. At the stern Yota was also singing and for anyone who cared to listen it was a very different experience. In her sweet soprano she was singing the aria, “Ebben? Ne andro Lontana” from Catalani’s opera “La Wally”, it was her father’s favourite, he had an old vinyl of it performed by Maria Callas. It was of course in Italian, but Yota had been so enchanted she had painstakingly learned it and would sing it whenever the mood took her. Gabriella smiled down at her, her daughter would never be Callas, but a mother could dream.

  Mother and daughter thanked Iannis as they stepped ashore in Poros town. They picked their way carefully across the road through the seemingly endless procession of cars and recklessly driven motorcycles, breathing a sigh of relief as they reached the quieter back streets. The purpose of their trip was simple enough, the following Sunday would be Gabriella’s mother’s name day and they would search for a suitable gift. In Greece a “name” day is more important than one’s actual birthday, it is the day that commemorates the saint whom you are named after. The selection of this gift however, turned out to be rather more
complex. Yota’s first suggestion was a somewhat garish wall clock, Gabriella side stepped this by saying that perhaps a seventy eight year old lady would not take kindly to being constantly reminded of the time.

  Yota in her turn had been much more prosaic when shown a small marble bust of Socrates, “It’s awful” she said.

  And so they went from shop to shop, suggesting, vetoing, sometimes just arguing, until they reached the last gift shop at the southern end of town. Here Gabriella, somewhat half- heartedly, held up a glass dish. It was bright red and adorned with hand painted black flowers.

  Yota smiled broadly, “Yes Mama, it is lovely, it is perfect, Yaya will adore it!” Gabriella looked at her with pursed lips, “You are thirsty?”

  “Yes” said Yota quietly.

  On the harbour front they selected a café and sat down heavily, it was thirty five degrees and the long slog through the narrow streets had left them both drained. Gabriella ordered iced coffee for herself and an orange juice for Yota. When the order arrived Yota consumed half of the juice in one big gulp, she sighed deeply and dramatically.

  “Mama.”

  “Yes, my darling.”

  “Mama, there is a boy in my class at school …”

  Gabriella knew this moment would come one day; never the less she peered uncertainly over the rim of her glass at her daughter.

  “His name is Pavlos, I hate him of course, he is horrible.” She thought for a moment, “And boring. But he will not stop bothering me, he is always teasing me. He says that my hair is too long and that my clothes are dull and unfashionable, he really is disgusting, why does he say such things?”

  Gabriella paused to let a particularly noisy motorcycle pass by. “He likes you Yota.”

  “He has a very strange way of showing it.”

  Gabriella took a deep breath and ploughed on, “It is what boys do, they tease you because they cannot bring themselves to say what is really on their minds, you should not worry, besides you are too young for boys.”