by Sara Alexi
The woman driving the car smiles. She has striking golden hair. Mitsos cannot help but smile back.
The immigrant opens the gates wider and Mitsos steps aside to let the car pass.
She is light on her feet as she jumps out of the car, and she puts out a hand towards Mitsos.
‘Hello, I am Juliet, welcome. How may I help you?’ Her Greek is fluent.
Mitsos closes his mouth, which he can feel has just opened a fraction at the enthusiastic welcome. He struggles to form his reply.
‘Hello, I am …’ He glances at the immigrant and does not finish his sentence.
‘Oh, excuse me, this is Aaman.’
Aaman puts out his hand to shake but Mitsos is very slow to respond and in the delay Aaman retracts his. Juliet turns to him and talks quietly of the plants she has bought and where to put them. Aaman takes the plants round the side of the house, out of sight.
‘So, Mr …’
‘Mitsos.’
‘So, Mr Mitsos how can I help you?’
‘I have some very private business I wish you to help me with.’ Mitsos looks towards the house. He is not comfortable talking about this in the open; you never know who is listening over the wall. He is keenly aware of this fact because once upon a time it had been him hiding behind walls … and Manolis too.
Juliet takes the hint. She leads the way and offers him a seat on the sofa. The room is entirely white, with a white floor, white walls, white sofa. There is a bookcase full of books, neatly arranged. It is alien to him but the place has a very calm feeling. He looks at Juliet, feeling he knows her a bit better for seeing inside her home.
‘I have a very personal, private document I wish to have translated. It must remain private.’ He chooses a hard-backed chair.
‘I see.’ Juliet reclines on the sofa.
‘Will you do it?’ Mitsos is not sure how such a conversation should be conducted.
‘Is it long or short? For one copy I have a minimum fee for anything under two thousand words, and if it is longer there is an additional cost per word.’
Mitsos looks blank. It had not occurred to him that she would charge a fee. He has no money on him and precious little elsewhere. ‘Er …’ He does not know how to phrase it. ‘It is just a letter.’
‘Oh!’ Juliet lets out a gentle peal of laughter and her spine curves softly as it relaxes. ‘You mean you just want me to read a letter to you?’
‘Yes.’ Mitsos reaches into his breast pocket and takes out the envelope. He removes the single sheet which he carefully straightens, pressing it against his thigh. He passes the sheet to Juliet, who has to lean towards him to reach it. He is slightly reluctant to let it go.
‘It is from …’ Juliet begins.
‘I know who it is from. All I want to know is are they going ahead or not? Is it a yes or a no?’
Juliet scans the page, folds the sheet carefully, reaches over and takes the envelope from Mitsos’ knee, returns the missive to its place and hands it back. He takes it in a daze, eyes wide, replaces it in his breast pocket, clenches his fist, his shoulders drawn back. He looks ready to pounce.
‘They are going ahead,’ Juliet replies without ceremony.
Mitsos begins to smile, and then he opens his mouth wide and shouts ‘Opa!’ and tenses his fist and shakes it by his ear; his whole upper body judders. Juliet is now grinning at him. He stands up and offers her his hand, which she takes, and he pulls her to her feet, and spontaneously draws her towards him and kisses her on both cheeks. He regains control and feels his cheeks colour, and bows his head.
‘Thank you, Mrs Juliet, thank you.’ He studies his sandals. His spontaneous reaction battles for attention with the news just imparted.
‘All I did was read a letter,’ Juliet says.
‘Ah, but you did it so beautifully.’ He looks up at her and grins widely before taking his leave. When he is by the gate he turns back to see Juliet leaning against the doorframe looking after him, smiling. He purses his lips and presses a tall finger against them. Juliet nods, zipping her lips with her hand. They both smile and wave farewell.
Mitsos hops and skips, as well as he can, all the way down the lane to the square. Such a weight has been lifted. He feels years younger. His balance returns, or at least it’s better.
He briskly mounts the steps to the kafenio and takes a seat in the window. He wants to see the world. He orders an ouzo from Theo, who makes no comment on the change to his decades-long seating ritual. Theo just smiles and nods, his hair flopping, a frizzy crown. He serves an ouzo and pats Mitso on the back as he walks away, a gesture of support for whatever has happened, unconditional.
The square contains its usual assortment of children playing, women talking, immigrants waiting and dogs. The colours seem bright, the sunlight brighter. The children, wearing primary shades and dazzling whites, seem happy. The women’s housecoats, shouting tropical flowers and swirling designs, make promises of faraway places. Mitsos has always hated such bold designs but right now they seem to add to the pure joy of life. A dog runs around the immigrants; one of them pats him, no one throws a stone. Vasso, in her wooden box, is looking out, smiling. The sun saturates the colours and creates strong contrast with the patches of shade. Mitsos puts his hand to his breast pocket where the letter is safely stowed.
A stout but striking woman comes out of the pharmacy, dressed in blue, a blue like the sky. Mitsos studies her. She seems familiar, and he realises it is Marina. She is not wearing black. Mitsos cannot think what this might mean. Generally women who lose their husbands do not come out of mourning. Whatever her reason for wearing blue, she wears it well, and she looks like she has lost some weight, although she remains a lovely curvy lady. Mitsos shuffles on his seat, pulls the crotch of his trousers into a more comfortable position and straightens his shirt.
He is acutely conscious of his new-found power. He checks that the envelope is still there. Marina stops to chat to other women. She smiles, she looks happy, and Mitsos is glad to see this. She laughs, and Mitsos can see the girl he first loved. What a life he would have given her. The sons they would have had.
But now, what does he do now? He can now show Marina his love for her but in what way? He must not be clumsy or crude, or the whole thing could backfire. He must be careful, considerate, see it from her point of view. But what is her view? It is more than twenty-two years since they last spoke. She was a girl of just twenty-eight then. It occurs to Mitsos that a lot can happen in that time, that he doesn't really know her anymore. But he is not convinced people really change. And he is sure he loves her anyway.
Marina looks directly at him. He swallows hard; he can feel a pulse at his temples and a bead of sweat breaks out on his forehead. She looks away again. But Mitsos, empowered by his letter, leaves his table and trots, as best he can, down the kafenio steps and across to Marina.
‘Hello,’ he begins. She stops walking abruptly and looks at him, searching his eyes, and then at his empty shirt sleeve. They have not been this close to each other since that day. She closes her mouth, which had opened in the surprise of the encounter, and turns to walk on. ‘How are you, Marina?’ He wants to tell her that, however she is, he can make it better.
‘What do you want?’ Her tone is neutral.
Mitsos feels his stomach drop. There is a sudden pain in his chest. ‘Please, Marina, I want to know how you are.’
‘I am fine.’ She looks in the direction of her corner shop, where she is heading. She looks at the ground, her eyes flitting backwards and forwards, and then she makes the slightest turn in her shoulders to face him.
‘I am fine. How are you?’ Her voice is still neutral but her eyes make contact. His stomach flutters and his knees give a little and he swallows as his mouth has gone dry.
Mitsos does not want to have a conversation on this superficial level, but he is lost for words. He looks in her face. She is so much older now. ‘I am fine. Is the shop doing well?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ Her sh
oulders make the slightest turn from him; she is going to walk away. She is holding a newspaper, which she now raises above her head to shade her face from the sun.
‘Marina …’ He decides to take the goat by the horns. ‘Marina,’ he repeats, ‘I am so deeply sorry.’ Her gaze is level, and she looks him straight in the eyes. Mitsos wonders how many people at the kafenio are watching him. He is now part of the daily play. He also wonders if she is going to slap his face. There is a glint in her eye. Has he made the situation worse? ‘Really … deeply … sorry.’ He tries, but can only think of the same words again. The words he has wanted to say for twenty-two years. He can feel tears pricking at his eyes. The words seem empty, not the balm he thought they would be.
Marina takes a breath. Her stout chest lifts, the blue material pulls tight. Mitsos shifts his weight to ease any strain there may be on his trousers. ‘I am not,’ she says quietly, her sentence dropping at the end into a definite full stop.
‘What?’ Mitsos’ forehead lifts.
‘I am not sorry for what happened. Well, I mean, I am on one level, of course, but for what you are sorry, I am not.’ She doesn't smile, but she does walk away.
Mitsos can make no sense of the exchange. All these years he has presumed she was angry, sad, lonely, hating him. His envelope does not seem so powerful now; it cannot bring clarity.
He can feel the eyes of his peer group at the kafenio on his back. He cannot stand there on his own much longer. But he is so confused by Marina’s words that after two steps towards his home he changes his mind and walks as briskly as he can to Stella’s.
There is music and laughter at Stella’s take-away. The same young farmers are there, and some older ones that must be at least fifty, their trousers held up with twine, their skin like leather sheets drawn tight over their bones, shirt sleeves rolled up, missing teeth framed by happy smiles. Stella has turned the radio on and they are singing along to popular Greek songs. Mitsos thinks that on this particular recording the singer has a voice like rusty nails in a metal bucket. But the passion is strong. He sings of what he would like to eat, but with such an intensity that he could be singing about love. Mostly he wants fish, particularly red mullet, barbounia.
Fish be damned, Mitsos would like one day of love, one evening, one hour, when he can release all the care he has to offer and be cared for in return. People do not recognise how lucky they are.
The farmers sing with the same passion. In the corner sits a foreign girl. Her bag is on the floor beside her, and she clearly does not know what to make of the situation. Stavros is sitting at her table, pouring ouzo. The farmers stand to perform; they interlace arms, hands on shoulders, and dance in the tiny space. Stella moves chairs and tables out of the way, her sad eyes on Stavros who is grinning and flirting with the outsider. The girl looks slightly afraid.
One of the farmers is full of life; the lunchtime impromptu singing has brought energy to his limbs. He is feeling good, he has kefi, an appetite for life, joy. His hair is greying at the temples and his hands speak of years of toil, the skin thick and hard. But at this moment he is alive, his heart is full, he wants to dance, dance like there is no tomorrow, no fields to dig, no olives to tend. To dance as if his life depends on it. He climbs on a chair and then jumps onto the table. It wobbles and threatens to collapse, and the other farmers and Stavros cheer. But it holds his weight and he dances with his head brushing the ceiling, his friends on one knee clapping to encourage him. Outwardly, he is blind; there is only the music and the movement.
The girl claps self-consciously. Stavros shouts ‘Opa!’ The girl giggles.
The man on the table pauses on its edge. He is a youth again, he crouches low and then springs from the table, completing a somersault to the floor with an unsteady landing, but he does not fall, and everyone cheers. No one looks more surprised than he does that he is successful.
Stella spots Mitsos, but he is backing out of the shop. He does not want noise now, he needs to think. Stella nips across the room to him.
‘What is it?’ she asks.
Mitsos tries to rearrange his face, take off whatever expression has prompted Stella to ask such a question, to leave his countenance blank.
There is always a chair outside the shop, for when business is slack and Stella just wants to sit and watch the world go by. She brings another chair from inside. The dancing and singing continue but the distance dilutes the intensity. The air is fragrant with goats. Somewhere on the hill a cockerel tells the time, incorrectly. Mitsos thinks it might be his bird. The damned thing crows all day long. He sits.
‘So?’ Stella plops down and leans back in her chair, stretches her legs out in front of her and crosses them. She crosses her arms across her floral dress. It is the short dress with no sleeves. She is so petite she can wear such things and still look pretty, even though she must be in her late forties. Not, Mitsos thinks, promiscuous as some might look in such a skimpy tunic.
He wants to ask about the blonde foreign girl inside but he has the impression Stella would rather be distracted than questioned. He pushes Stavros’ behaviour from his mind.
‘I just talked to Marina.’ Mitsos quietly relates the conversation. Stella is the only person who knows of Mitsos’ secret love. The many lunches and dinners he has taken here have, slowly, over the years, unintentionally, cultured a friendship. She knows his story from the moment he and Marina first met.
He considers telling her about his visit to Juliet, about the letter. He could do with her wisdom on the best way to deal with it, but he does not trust Stavros, and after all they are married, maybe they have times when they are close. He decides not to. He tries a different angle.
‘What do you think Marina needs most in the world?’
‘In all honesty, she needs what no one can give her.’ Stella does not hesitate in her reply.
‘What’s that?’ Mitsos answers, with hope in his voice.
‘She needs a memory of a husband who was good to her, who thought about her and who provided for her. With a memory like that she would feel like a different person. She would feel valued and loved and lovable. As it is, she sees herself as unlovable, worthy of neglect and unworthy of being put first. You can see it with her children. She sees them as having so much value and herself as having none. She does everything for them she can, breaks her back for them and just considers it the “right” thing to do. Over the years she has neglected herself more and more, and that has all come from him.’ Stella pauses and Mitsos stays quiet, taken aback by her passion. ‘Sorry. Did you want such a full answer?’ She smiles, but she is turning her head to look inside her shop. Stavros is still at the girl’s table but the dancing has stopped. He is giving her an apron and pointing to the grill.
Mitsos leans over and pats her hand kindly.
‘And you would know, Stella.’
Stella lets a tear fall.
At home that night Mitsos sits on a chair in his kitchen. It creaks every time he moves. The sky outside is dark and the white almond blossom glows in the moonlight. He recollects Stella’s words. ‘What she needs most is a memory of a husband who was good to her, she would feel valued and loved and loveable.’
These words have an unsettling effect on him. It is almost as if he can think of a way to make everything right again but it just won’t form into something concrete. But as he cannot – and would not want to – raise Manolis from the dead, her memory of him will remain the same. He dismisses these niggles as a deep desire for something that cannot be fulfilled.
An owl hoots outside the window. He opens the door to let in any breeze there is; it is still very warm. The owl is on one of the nearest almond trees. It blinks at him through the opening. He kicks off his sandals and pulls off his shirt and trousers. He stands naked in the moonlight, slightly sagging, slightly wrinkled, and yet he has the surest of feelings that his life is only just beginning. Something is around the corner.
He slaps his chest and then laughs at himself. He yawns and
lies down on the day-bed. The air is now pleasantly warm; he will need no sheet, no pyjamas tonight. He stretches his legs out and rubs the stump of his arm. It still itches all these years later. He smiles again and stretches some more. Something is definitely coming.
Chapter 8
Adonis sounds his horn as he pulls in through the gates. Mitsos is wandering around the orchard. He has just been up the hill to collect the eggs and he still has the bucket with him. One hen has been broody for a week and now there are no eggs in her box; she is hiding them to sit on. But he knows this hen, she will not sit for long, they will go cold and then she will start again with new eggs. Each time the eggs will be lost and will go bad somewhere, waiting to be stepped on.
He raises the bucket in greeting. Adonis leaves the car door open and walks across to Mitsos.
‘Broody hen, eh?’
'How’s the little man?’
‘Have you tried in amongst the pine trees up at the top? He's fine, sleeping.’
‘First place I looked. Do you want to take some back with you?’ He lifts the bucket.
‘Leni will be pleased. What do you do with them all?’ Adonis peers in the bucket at the speckled brown eggs. Mitsos is content that Adonis managed to escape the farm way of life. His schooling lasted until he was sixteen and then he immediately got a job in town. He completed his national service as soon as he turned eighteen. A better job and a flat in the nearby town followed swiftly. He continues to manage the shop in the village that sells fertilisers and pesticides. He is a natural businessman.
Anyway, he has rarely collected an egg or tilled the soil, or sat with the goats. Mitsos feels coarse next to him. Clumsy. Unshaven. But he is happy for Adonis. He looks down at the bucket of eggs.
