Where the Bougainvillea Grows

by Gary Cleaver

  Yota frowned, as far as she was concerned she had the situation under control and the fact that she found Pavlos more than a little cute, was her own affair.

  Gabriella paid for the drinks and they headed for home. The water taxi ride back to Galatas passed in relative quiet, the young man at the wheel was obviously not given to entertaining his passengers. They walked back along the wall to a small car park where Gabriella’s old silver Opel Astra twinkled in the early afternoon sun. It was now thirty seven degrees, but inside the car it was closer to fifty. She got the motor started and turned the air conditioning on full. They motored slowly out of town and on to the winding coast road; it was a short twenty kilometres to Katsimila. There was silence for a while, until Yota decided to push on with the subject that occupied most of her time.

  “You see, the thing with Pavlos is….”

  Gabriella took her right hand from the steering wheel and held it palm flat toward her daughter. “Enough, Panayiota Maria Eleni Lambakis, is enough.”

  Yota knew what the use of her full name meant and fell silent.

  After a minutes pause Gabriella continued, “ Be friends with this boy by all means, but Yota you should lavish your affections on kittens for the next few years at least, believe me it will be safer and you will be happier.”

  Yota brightened instantly, “So I may have another kitten?”

  “NO, for god’s sake….” She never finished, at that moment the Opel’s engine cut.

  They rattled to a halt beside a large pomegranate bush but they were the wrong side of the road for it to provide shade. Gabriella got out and lifted the hood, peered in. Yota joined her.

  “What is wrong Mama?”

  Gabriella sighed, “It is either the fan belt or the starter motor”

  Yota was impressed, “How do you know that?”

  Gabriella sighed again, “Because they are the only things I’ve heard of”

  Yota’s shoulders slumped. The road was empty and the only sounds were of cicadas rasping in the trees and the ticks of the Opel’s cooling engine. Gabriella picked up her phone, she called Dimitris but by the seventh ring she knew he would not answer, she got the same result from Stamos. She tried to think of an alternative, as she did a bright red shape, shimmering with the heat, appeared in the distance, it slowly grew to become a pick up truck. As it drew level she smiled her best “Damsel in distress” smile and raised one hand, the truck slowed and pulled in just ahead of the crippled Opel.

  It was an amazing vehicle, it’s shining red paint job was complemented by a varnished wood flat bed, here and there was winking chrome including the eight letters across the hood CHRYSLER. The truck was obviously very old, but in perfect condition, as if it had rolled out of the showroom only yesterday. The engine sounded heavy, powerful and the whole thing ran on four, immaculate white-walled tyres. The burbling motor cut and the driver’s door opened.

  “Well! Two lovely ladies in need of a hero, it must be my lucky day”.

  Gabriella found herself face to face with a stunningly attractive young man. His black hair, dark brown eyes and Errol Flynn moustache put her in mind of a younger Dimitris Lambakis, though he was nowhere near as tall. He bowed formally and Gabriella, aghast at her own forwardness, performed a girlish half curtsey in return. She felt Yota’s eyes upon her and straightened at once.

  “My name is Triantafillia Nicholopolos and I am at your service”

  Yota misheard him, “You are called thirty friends?”

  He laughed, “No little one, TriantifilliAH, thirty petals, like the rose.”

  Gabriella smiled, “We are very pleased to meet you, your timing could not be better, I am Gabriella Lambakis and this is my daughter Panayiota.”

  He bowed once more, “Not only is my timing perfect, but I believe I have the very thing for this situation.”

  He reached over the side of the flat bed and pulled out a heavy rope. He tied one end to the towing lug at the front of the Opel and the other to the rear of the truck.

  Slowly the little procession took to the road, Gabriella concentrating fiercely on keeping the rope taught, whilst at the same time watching for the brake lights on the back of the Chrysler. She was more concerned for Triantafillia’s beautiful machine than her old workhorse, she didn’t want to cause it any damage. Thus distracted it was several moments before she became aware that she was being stared at, she stole a quick glance to her right.

  “What is it Yota?” she said heavily.

  “You should be ashamed” hissed Yota. “He is not much older than Thassos and you were flirting with him!”

  Gabriella could feel her face starting to redden but was not about to give ground, “Yota, if you wish to be grounded for a month you are heading in the right direction” but she could feel her daughter’s smile of triumph.

  “You are blushing Mama, you know it is true”

  “Yota I am warning you…”

  There was a sudden thump from the front end, Gabriella’s eyes darted forward in time to see the truck and the parted end of the tow rope disappear round the next bend, the Opel ground to a halt for the second time.

  Gabriella got out of the car and waited for the truck to return, after a few minutes she gave in and after telling Yota to stay put she walked around the corner expecting to find Triantafillia examining the broken rope. But the road was empty. It sloped downward here with the sea close by on right beneath low cliffs. About two hundred metres down on the left side was an old “Jet Oil” station. She mopped her brow before making her way to where the two pumps stood like tired sentries. Beside them a man was sat on a bent wood chair under a tattered sun umbrella, she judged both man and chair to be around seventy.

  “Good afternoon, can you help me, have you seen a red pick-up come by in the last five minutes?”

  The old man shook his head once. Gabriella was confused; she went on to describe the vehicle in more detail, guessing that the man had forgotten. When she had finished he merely stared at her, then he looked at the ground between his feet. She thought he was not going to reply at all, but eventually he sighed and looked up, “Only one truck round here like the one you saw, come”.

  He got up from his chair, crossed the road and made his way down the hill Gabriella still confused, followed. They came to a slight curve where there was a short length of crash barrier, behind it just off to the left was an old wrought iron shrine. The old man stepped carefully over the barrier and went to the edge, when she arrived he pointed down, she looked. It was ten metres down to where the sea gently lapped against the rocks, she followed the outstretched arm to a point no more than three metres out, just below the surface it was possible to make out a vague shape. Encrusted with barnacles and wound with vegetation it took a concentrated look to recognise a blurred frame work, the shape of an “H” at one corner was something circular that could once have been a wheel hub.

  The old man spoke just above a whisper, “He was a friend of my older brother, young men should not be trusted with such powerful machines, but my brother and his friends knew better. His name was, let me see…”

  “No” Gabriella was surprised at the sound of her own voice which sounded cracked and strange, “I do not wish to know, I must return to my daughter, she is alone and I…” she was walking backwards and suddenly stumbled, she half turned and reached out for the nearest thing to break her fall, the shrine. She ended up on her knees before it, the box at the top level with her eyes. Inside was nothing, save a very old piece of card. A photograph so old it had almost faded to white. But a shape could be discerned. She leaned forward, her palms flat to the ground, and vomited. Black dots swam before her eyes, but beyond them she could still see the black hair, the jaunty moustache.

  Gabriella never knew how much time she lost. The next thing she was aware of was the old man helping her to her feet.

  “Oh my dear you should be more careful, I blame myself, I should not have brought you here, I am an old fool.”

  She pull
ed herself gently from his grasp, “It’s alright, do not apologise. I must get back to my daughter, thank you, I am fine now.”

  She left him and walked, unsteadily at first, back up the hill and round the corner. The Opel was exactly where she had left it and Yota was sat on a rock in the shade beside it.

  “Mama, what is the matter?”

  “Get in” Gabriella said stiffly, they got in the car. Without thinking she reached out and twisted the ignition key, the engine started immediately. Part of her knew it would.

  Yota clapped her hands, “Excellent! Now we will not need to be towed home.”

  Gabriella did not reply. They drove around the bend and down the slope, past the old man still standing beside the shrine. He raised his right hand; it was more a salute than a wave.

  It took only fifteen minutes to get back to Katsimila, Yota had questions and tried to ask them, but each time was told in an abrupt tone she had not heard from her mother before, to keep quiet. They pulled up outside the barbers shop at ten minutes after six. Dimitris had just opened up and was, as yet, alone. Telling Yota to stay outside Gabriella went inside to talk to her husband, she needed the person she trusted more than any other. His back was turned when she greeted him and he spoke without moving.

  “My dearest one where have you been?” he turned to face her and his steady smile vanished in an instant, “My god what has happened?” he looked over her shoulder at the empty car, “Yota?”

  She shook her head, “Yota is fine, Dimitri, everything is fine … except me.” She told him her story.

  When she had finished he looked at her for a moment and then went to the shelf below one of the large mirrors. He picked up his electric clippers and began cleaning them. “So” he began, “A long and tiring trip to the shops, the car breaks down and you go walking in the sun, for quite a time”

  She cut in, her voice barely audible, “I know what I saw Dimitri”

  He ignored the danger sign of her quiet tone, “My dear I merely suggest that, perhaps…”

  “I KNOW WHAT I SAW” she roared at him and then did something she had not done since she was eight years old, she stamped her foot. It was an empty, petulant thing to do and it made her even more angry. She put both hands on top of her head and shrieked an expletive he had only heard from her once before in all the years they had known each other. She turned on her heel, stormed through the door and slammed it behind her.

  Outside she took several deep breaths, holding on to a streetlight to steady herself. Then she looked around for her daughter. Yota was ten metres away, sitting on the kerb, Inevitably she had found a new playmate.

  “Look” she said brightly and held the tiny ginger kitten up for her mother to see, “Can I keep him Mama, please.”

  Gabriella looked at her, then back at the shop, “Sure” she said “Why not” she managed a thin smile.

  Yota was almost as pleased as she was amazed. The three of them got back into the car, as they pulled away Yota announced quietly, “I shall call him, Triantafilli, after all, a poor little thing like him needs all the friends he can get.”

  A Beautiful Game

  The last day of August and there had been no significant rain since June 12th, the grass was beige and so dry that it broke into dust underfoot, here and there in Katsimila were occasional small patches of green where wealthy weekend visitors could afford to regularly water their lawns. By far the largest area of green was behind the last bar on the seafront, “Blissters”, this measured ninety metres by forty, but its bright colour was not the product of irrigation and care, it was entirely due to technology and cash, when old Dimitris Levendakos had died six years previously, as well as providing for his family, he had left a large sum to one of his greatest loves, AFC Katsimila, the local football team. It had enabled them to buy floodlights and to cover the old gravel pitch with Astroturf, there was enough left over to purchase new kit and even to have individual players names printed on the backs of their shirts, although it was deemed wise to wait until the two current centre backs, Costas Papadopoulos and Dimitris Giannakopoulos had hung up their boots for good.

  In the centre circle, hunched and with hands in pockets stood Costas Capellas, small, balding with a generous belly hanging over his belt buckle, he had been team coach for twelve years, the disappearance of his hair and the spreading of his midriff stood testament to the stress and loneliness of his job, true, he was in charge of a team of amateurs playing in an amateur league, but football had been a serious matter for Costas his entire life. He had first pulled on the blue and black striped shirt at the age of seventeen and had been the star of the Katsimila eleven for more than fifteen years thereafter, his exploits were still talked about by the small faithful band of villagers who turned up on winter weekends to watch and support, but he had been retired for a long time now and the glory days of his past were receding fast. Now if he was honest he found himself in charge of a rabble, it wasn’t that they lacked the desire to be good, they were simply inept, he taught tactics and thought them sound enough, but when the whistle blew they would instantly forget, they would run, chase and tackle. Giannakopoulos in particular was a ferocious competitor, as his seven yellow and three red cards in the previous season testified, but they could not pass or build any kind of move to save their lives. Last year they had finished bottom of the league for the second successive time, their record, and a record it was, played twenty eight, lost twenty five, drawn three, and not a single victory. Dimitris Stamos in goal had performed his usual flamboyant heroics, but had been forced to retrieve the ball from his net ninety six times in all; in return his hapless teammates had scored just twenty one.

  Costas retraced his footsteps back to the northern end of the field; here there was a gate in the fence that surrounded the playing area, behind were two low brick buildings that served as the home and visitors changing rooms. Entering the one for the home side he picked up an old red plastic broom from the corner and brushed away the dust and dead insects. On the wall at the end of the long, narrow room was a blackboard which still showed faded chalk diagrams of his expectations, they were always in vain, he had drawn up that particular plan before the last home game back in April. The opposition that evening had been from Galatas, twenty kilometres to the south, the only other club in the league with an artificial pitch so they were well accustomed to playing on the surface, a fact they had proved by winning 6-1. Beside the board was a fly blown, framed photograph, sixteen smiling faces in two long rows. In the middle of the front row sat the younger, fitter Costas, slim and hirsute, between his feet, a large silver trophy hung with blue ribbons, underneath the caption read, AFC Katsimila, eastern Peloponnese league, champions 1986/7. Sixteen grinning immortals, he thought and sighed, second from the right in the back row stood Andreas Katselos the youngest player in the squad confident and indestructible like the rest, when the picture was taken he had less than a year to live. Costas kept meaning to take the thing down, most of the current team were short trousered snot noses at the time and it was meaningless to them, but it was one of the things that kept him going, proof that there had been glory once, and hope that it might come again.

  When he had finished with the changing rooms he switched on the floodlights, the last training session before Sundays opening game was due to start at eight o’clock, at six minutes to eight the first of his squad arrived, predictably it was Victoras Mitsotakos on his old Vespa scooter. Mitsotakos was a utility player, usually this referred to someone who could play in any position, but in Vics’ case it normally meant that wherever he went on the field, disaster was sure to follow, but at least he was enthusiastic. One by one the others drifted in, Costas had decided that the entire squad should play an eight a side practise match; this plan died upon the appearance of Iannis Petelas, the club hypochondriac, he arrived limping and wincing. Every small time club has one of these, thought Costas, the one who reads too many football magazines and in particular the sections that deal with the many, techni
cal sounding injuries that big name players receive, once last season he had reported in with what he called “An exploded Achilles tendon”. This time he was more prosaic,

  “Pulled a hamstring” he explained before taking a seat on the wooden bleachers that ran the whole length of the west touchline.

  So now he only had fifteen, there was nothing for it but to play himself, as he was pulling on his training shoes he noticed that, along with the wounded Petelas, there was someone else watching from the bleachers, a young man, not very big with an unruly mop of blonde hair, he would do. Costas called to him but the boy seemed not to understand, nearby Andreas Koutsis, the headwaiter at the Artemis hotel was watching, he called to the boy in English, again nothing. Andreas tried German and the boy smiled. Andreas interpreted for Costas, yes the boy played and he would be happy to make up the numbers, before they started Costas called Giannakopoulos over,

  “If the boy leaves this field with so much as a scratch Dimitri, I will see it to it personally that you will be leaving in an ambulance, do you understand?” the big defender nodded but his leering grin told another story.

  The boy told his seven new teammates that his name was Rudi, they were all pleased to meet him and happier still that his name was easy to pronounce, the game started with Costas as referee. Sure enough, the first time the ball came to Rudi, Giannakopoulos was immediately on the case, he homed in on the lad preparing to make one of his signature full frontal assaults, Rudi watched his approach carefully and at the right moment deftly side stepped, taking the ball with him, Giannakopoulos ended up on his backside, his club mates laughter ringing in his ears. The boy took off downfield, shrugged off two more challenges before chipping the ball neatly over Stamos and into the net. There was a respectful round of applause from everyone and a few calls of “bravo”, the Katsimila players were deeply impressed, Costas too nodded his approval and decided to have a word with the lad at the end of the session.