The Explosive Nature of Friendship

by Sara Alexi

  ‘I'm talking about the donkeys.’

  Mitsos was not sure how to reply to this and so stayed silent. He did his best to look innocent.

  ‘Get home to your mother, and you, Manolis, go back to where you came from and leave my son alone.’ The big man turned to mount the few steps into the kafenio and took his usual place by the window in the front corner, his look-out post.

  ‘Catch you later,’ Manolis said, with a big grin. Mitsos did not answer, but his grin was just as broad.

  Chapter 3

  The baby begins to make a discontented noise.

  ‘Your old Uncle Mitsos has to agree, we have been lying here far too long for comfort, but I took it by your silence that you enjoyed that piece of village history.’

  Mitsos takes his time to stand. He shakes out his legs and straightens his back. The baby begins to cry, just softly.

  ‘Ah, you young chicken, what does that noise mean? Are you hungry?’ Mitsos looks in the bag and takes out the piece of paper and reads. He checks his watch. ‘Yup, food time.’ He slings the bag over his shoulder and picks up the baby-seat.

  He doesn't realise how warm it has become outside until he is in the comparative cool of his kitchen. He places the baby-seat on the bare wooden table and turns to the camping gas burner, by the old stained marble sink, which he uses to make Greek coffee on. He sets some water to boil.

  The baby's noises are becoming more insistent. The car seat looks so unfamiliar in a room that has not changed since his first memory. He was born on the day-bed in the corner, as were his brothers.

  ‘Now, now, little man. Let's be having none of that. This is hard enough for your uncle without a chorus from you. It seems you stay quiet for the stories, but you are an impatient little chap when you have nothing to entertain you.’

  The water is taking forever to boil, or so it seems to Mitsos, and, with twisted mouth, the baby's cries are becoming full blown, his little nose wrinkles and his innocent eyes screw up. Mitsos looks around the room, but apart from the table and chairs, day-bed, pictures of his long-gone mother and father, grandfather and grandmother, and his shepherd's crook for the goats leaning by the door, there is little in the room. Certainly nothing that would entertain a baby.

  ‘Ok, ok, I'll tell you another story, but you must agree to be quiet.’ He manages to unscrew the top of the bottle, clasping it between his knees. The process of filling it and testing the temperature is nowhere near as tricky as he had imagined.

  However, picking the young lad up with one arm is the struggle he thought it would be, but in the end, once sitting down, Mitsos manages to get him nestled on his lap and offers the milk, which the little boy drinks greedily. They are both content for a while. The gentle sucking noises soothe them both as the baby finds a rhythm to his sucking. Lulled, Mitsos stares around the room and his gaze lands on the envelope. He wills the contents to be to his liking. The baby pulls away from the bottle to breathe before latching back on, breaking Mitsos’ concentration.

  ‘Ah, my friend, you look so content. I remember a time when I was content …’ The milk is all gone and the baby looks sleepy.

  ‘Unfortunately, what starts with fun and laughter – and there was much fun and laughter at that age, I can tell you – can often lead to more serious places.’

  Mitsos is aware that he is using the opportunity to voice all his worries but feels no shame. He has been silent so long, the same stories rattling round and round in his head. He needs to allow them to escape. This is the first person who has given him the time or the confidence to speak. Mitsos wonders what that says about him.

  The baby yawns, giving a small noise that makes Mitsos smile before he continues his soothing talk.

  ‘The donkeys were just a silly boyish prank, but what happens when you are so full of life that each step must outreach the last? That's when you need to take care. But when you are young,’ he sighs, ‘you do not see the path ahead clearly, you only see the next step.’ He manoeuvres the baby over his shoulder and pats his soft back. ‘Take Manolis’ next step,’ he whispers into the child’s ear. ‘Was it over the line? Did it foretell things to come? Would we have acted any differently if we had known where our path was leading?’

  ‘Here, give us a hand …’ Manolis said.

  ‘What are we doing?’ Mitsos’ heartbeat had increased and there was a fine sweat on his brow. His spine felt cold. They were up to mischief again, and God was watching this time.

  ‘… with this,’ Manolis said, as he ran to the centre of the nave and grasped the brass font with both hands as if to lift it. ‘Come on, I can't do this alone.’

  Mitsos was horrified. He imagined bolts of lightning coming through the church roof at him, the voice of God bellowing through the high domed ceiling. His feet stayed glued to the spot where he stood and his jaw hung limply open. Manolis beckoned him over, but Mitsos hesitated as the icons glowered at him from the walls.

  ‘Come on!’ Manolis shouted. Mitsos was sure shouting in church was a definite sin and hurried towards him to stop him shouting out again.

  ‘Shhhh.’ Mitsos hissed. But Manolis’ words were no longer a request and Mitsos found, in his fear of the shouting and of Manolis himself, that he lifted the font off its stand and the two of them, wobbling under its weight, carried it to the door. Together they tipped it up, pouring the contents over the mud and grass.

  ‘That's holy water!’ Mitsos exclaimed, as it was quickly sucked away by the cracked mud.

  ‘Ha! He can bless more,’ Manolis laughed. ‘Besides, he picked on the wrong boy to preach to this time!’

  The young trainee Papas was far too keen, and each Sunday he would pull aside a couple of boys.

  ‘You boys are nearly too old for school now. How old are you – ten, eleven?’

  ‘Nine,’ Manolis answered. He pulled at his shirt collar, uncomfortable in his Sunday clothes.

  ‘Look at the size of you! You should have been out working beside your Baba years ago. And you, boy …’

  ‘Mitsos, sir,’ he replied, standing erect.

  ‘How old are you – seven, eight?’

  ‘Nine and a half!’ Mitsos was wide-eyed with indignation.

  ‘Well then, you too should be out helping your Baba. "Αργία μήτηρ πάσης κακίας" – Idleness, mother of all evil. How often do you read your Bible?’

  On the subject of the Bible, on how infrequently the boys read it and on how far their behaviour diverged from that expected from a good Greek Orthodox Christian, there was seemingly no end. Mitsos and Manolis jiggled from foot to foot, trying to keep their attention on the priest, but it was a losing battle. The curls of smoke from the incense burner, the old lady lighting a candle, the reflective gold leaf embellishments on the icons, anything, well actually everything, was more interesting than the sonorous voice of this young trainee Papas.

  Presently a distraction was provided by way of a bee landing on the Papas’ kamelaukio. The bee began to crawl up the side of the tall black flat-topped hat that denoted his status, and the boys could not take their eyes off it. Manolis willed the bee, and indeed he actually prayed to God, for it to circumnavigate the black mountain and crawl down the Papas’ collar. Maybe then the trainee would stop droning on.

  To Mitsos’ horror, he had laughed and laughed when he bragged about his prayers after they were set free.

  Finally, the trainee Papas, who was too young to have grown a proper, full, official Papas’ beard, told them he was posted there for a month. He added that if he could help them with anything, anything at all spiritual, then they must not hesitate; it was his calling, his duty, his pleasure to be of assistance to them in their quest for Godliness.

  At last, he released them with a nod towards the door.

  The air outside the church that Sunday had never smelt so fresh; running into the square, their legs had never felt so alive. Manolis unbuttoned his best shirt at the neck and pulled it off over his head and knotted the sleeves round his
waist. It was hot, but more than that: to the boys, divesting themselves of their shirts spelt freedom.

  ‘Let's go up the hill,’ Manolis shouted, his bare feet already propelling him on his way.

  Mitsos also unbuttoned his shirt at the collar, but he dared not take it off. What if his Mama or Baba saw him, or someone else who would tell them? He wore shoes, too. He only wore them on Sunday, once the winter had gone. They were too big and they flopped and slapped when he tried to run. As he passed the low stone wall to the almond orchard, he sank to the ground on the dusty track and pulled them off and dropped them down over the wall. They would be there when he returned.

  Manolis was lying on his back in the shade of the pine trees, a dense clump of which provided a tuft of hair on the very top of the hill.

  Mitsos followed suit and lay looking up at the branches, listening to the hissing of the breeze through the needles. Such a lovely, lonely sound. He presumed that Manolis was listening too, and they lay there silently, time of no relevance, lost in the noises of nature and the scent of wild thyme.

  ‘Got it!’ Manolis sat up with a start.

  ‘Got what?’ Mitsos sat up too, just to copy Manolis.

  ‘What we are going to do to that trainee Papas. Ha! I’ll show him what reading the Bible does.’ And with that he leapt to his feet and did a little dance on the carpet of pine needles.

  ‘What are we going to do to him?’ Mitsos’ young brow frowned in alarm, an unpractised expression, his young forehead, still too soft to form creases, creating waves.

  But, as usual, Manolis would not tell. He just instructed Mitsos on the preparations he must make. He felt a fortnight would be long enough for what they had to gather.

  Mitsos was a bit put out that Manolis would not share the idea with him. They had been partners in the donkey prank, when he had more than proved his worth. He held no secrets from Manolis, and it only seemed fair that it should work the other way round too. The slightest splinter of resentment crept under his skin.

  Two weeks later Manolis announced that they were ready. Early morning prayers had finished and the congregation were leaving the church. The incense hung heavy in the air, and the gold leaf glowed and the brass chandeliers reflected the sea of candles offered up as prayers. The brass font, and its stand, had been moved to the centre of the nave ready for a baptism later. Manolis grabbed Mitsos’ sleeve and pulled him down to crouch behind the stall of unused candles. It smelt of beeswax and mice. Manolis was giggling, but as Mitsos still had not been told what the plan was, he just felt afraid. He was going to get into trouble again, he could see it coming; he might even be committing a sin, he didn't know. But Manolis' energy was so great, his attraction so compelling, that Mitsos felt weak beside him. He stifled the whimper in his throat and by force of will turned it into a giggle.

  It took time for the church to empty completely. Then all was quiet, the only movement the curling smoke of incense. The trainee Papas had gone back to the real Papas’ house for his lunch. No one would return until the late afternoon for the baptism.

  ‘Right, come on,’ Manolis said. Mitsos started at the loudness of his voice in the silent sanctuary. But Manolis was unafraid and he strode to the side door. The key was in the lock, he turned it and, with both hands, pushed it opened to view the rough ground at the back of the church. A donkey with soft brown eyes grazing there ceased chewing the short stubble and lifted its head to contemplate the boys briefly.

  It was then that they had lifted and emptied the font outside before replacing it on its stand.

  Mitsos was hopeful that the job was complete, but Manolis grabbed his sleeve and pulled. They ran out of the side door to the bush at the corner where for the last two weeks they had made their storage in a hole in the ground, covered with sacks and leaves. Manolis pulled off the sacks and tossed one to Mitsos. There was a stench of vinegar and goat. The odour was offensive and Mitsos tried to think of nice smells. He wondered what his Mama had cooked for lunch. His favourite dish came to mind: pastichio with cheese melting on top and a side plate of fresh tomatoes with that unmistakable just-picked-from-the-garden smell. He wished he was at home filling his stomach, with nothing to interrupt his afternoon but a long sleep. Instead, he was doing what? Manolis hadn’t even shared with him what his plan was. Mitsos’ excitement that had turned to fear was now on the edge of resentment.

  Manolis nudged him, and they filled the sacks and hauled them to the church, Mitsos dragging his, creating dust that tickled his throat and made him cough. Manolis laughed all the way but still would not share the joke.

  Once back inside the church, Manolis half-closed the door and put down the sacks.

  He took the first bottle from his sack and poured the contents into the font. Mitsos followed suit and the font began to fill.

  The smell from the brew became even more pungent as it mixed with the incense. There were also many fruit flies in attendance. The liquid stored in the goat skin smelt the worst.

  ‘Shall we try it?’ Manolis asked. But Mitsos pulled a face and wondered if he was going to be sick.

  Most houses in the village had a cask or two of homemade wine. Manolis and Mitsos had been turning the tap and letting it flow into any containers they could find over the last fortnight. Mitsos had not contributed much as his Baba had remarked on how quickly the cask was emptying. Besides, he didn’t like the smell. Manolis said his father hadn't noticed and he had filled bottles and jars. The old goat skin he had found in the barn, and he had filled it until it was fat with the rosy liquid. There must have been ten litres or more. It had felt terribly dangerous at the time.

  But pouring the liquid into the font felt worse.

  Mitsos, who was sure they had now finished, started for the door. He wanted to be at home.

  ‘Where you going? Now we wait.’ Manolis grabbed his arm, and pulled him to the back of the church. Mitsos sat stiff, frightened and just a bit bored. After a while, Manolis leaned back and put up his feet on the chairs, with the attitude of a man immune to the whole world. Mitsos copied, experimenting with how that felt. It gave him a curious sense of power, which he liked, and he began to relax and enjoy himself.

  As time passed the feeling of power faded and was replaced again with boredom. Manolis drew a crumpled packet from his pocket and took out a cigarette, trying to act casual.

  ‘You can't light that in here – this is the house of God!’ Mitsos was horrified, and chastised himself for putting his feet on the chairs and letting his guard down. He sat up straight. He should have left when he said he was going to. They were piling crime upon crime, sin upon sin. God was never going to forgive them.

  Manolis lit up and made a big show of drawing in a lungful of smoke.

  ‘Here you go.’ He offered the wet end to Mitsos.

  Mitsos wriggled on his chair. If he took it he would be smoking in the church, and he felt that must be a sin even if smoking itself wasn't. His Baba smoked, everyone smoked. If he didn't take it, Manolis would laugh at him and call him a baby. He refused.

  ‘For God's sake, they burn enough incense in this place. What difference will a herb of a different kind make?’ He was starting to scoff, and thrust the cigarette more firmly at Mitsos. ‘Don’t be such a baby,’ Manolis said, his face contorted with derision.

  Mitsos took it and hesitated again before taking a mouthful and coughing. But, as with all new things, a little practice made perfect, and a very short time later they were both puffing like old masters. They were men. They relaxed, and after a time they lay flat across the seats, end to end, their crowns touching, passing the cigarettes back and forth.

  A noise disturbed them and the boys sat upright: the sound of a door opening. Time had passed so quickly. Manolis took a last puff and stuck the glowing end into one of the sand trays for the candle offerings. The two boys then scuttled back behind the candle stall, waving their hands in the air to dissipate the smell of tobacco as they went.

  ‘This will be good,’ Man
olis whispered, as the trainee Papas, with an armful of papers, came up the nave towards the templon, his black robes hanging from his thin frame. He had to pass the font which stood in the centre of the church.

  As he passed, he briefly glanced at the font and then, with a slack jaw, stopped and looked again. Slowly and cautiously he took a step closer and with his free hand dipped a finger into the pungent liquid. He sucked the finger, and as his tastebuds confirmed his suspicions his eyes grew wide and he dropped his papers on the floor. He regained composure enough to cross himself several times and then ran to the church entrance. There he paused, looked back and then closed the doors behind him, and the boys could hear him locking them from the outside. His footsteps retreated at a run, and he called the real Papas’ name.

  Mitsos was rolling on the floor laughing but Manolis stood up and kicked him hard to get his attention.

  ‘Come on, we aren't finished with him yet.’ He beckoned Mitsos back to the font and assumed the lifting position again.

  ‘Why?’ Mitsos asked.

  ‘Don't be thick. Right now he thinks a miracle has happened.’

  ‘I know, it was hysterical.’

  ‘Yes, but we owe him.’ The boys lifted the font back to the side door, and as the wine seeped across the mud, turning it briefly the colour of blood, Mitsos considered what a terrible waste it was. But as soon as it was gone Manolis hurried him towards the templon with the clear intent of passing through to the sanctuary.

  ‘We can't go in there, it’s Holy.’ Mitsos was beginning to think the whole episode was more than he, or his soul, could bear. Tears were threatening to fall.

  ‘It's a room. Look, if that silly beardless Papas can go in there, how holy can it be? Besides, we won't touch anything. We just need some water. God would never deny us water.’ And with a pull of the brass bowl from his side they passed through the templon. Manolis filled the font from the tap. Mitsos crossed himself, had a good look around, was disappointed by the sparseness and asked for forgiveness for trespassing. When the font was full they took it back to the nave and set it on its stand.