The Explosive Nature of Friendship

by Sara Alexi

  ‘I'll eat some, sell some to Stavros at the souvlaki shop, give them to you.’ His attention wanders and he grins through the car window at his nephew, who has woken up. He puts the bucket of eggs down to wave.

  ‘Ok, here's his stuff. Leni says “hi” and “thanks”.’ Adonis lifts the baby from the car and handing him over he climbs into the driver’s seat. Mitsos puts his nephew down by the bucket of eggs and shuts the door on Adonis. The window is open and the air coming out is cool. Mitsos wonders at the modern world.

  ‘Going to tell me his name yet?’

  ‘At the baptism.’ Adonis’ head is already turned to back down the track.

  Mitsos picks up his nephew in the car seat and wanders in the almond orchard swinging the baby as if he is the bucket of eggs. He would still like to find where she is laying them. ‘So, my fine young man, how are you?’ The baby gurgles, his hands outstretched for a passing dragonfly. Mitsos wanders a bit more, looking for the broody hen’s nest until, lazily, he sits on a stone that has fallen from the top of the wall at the far end of the orchard. He puts the baby-seat on the ground in front of him and takes a good look at his kin.

  ‘I have had some good news since I saw you last, and between me and you I think things are going to change, somehow, in some way.’ The baby claps his hands and Mitsos slaps his leg to imitate the sounds. And they smile at each other for a while. Mitsos pulls a face, but soon returns to his serious topic. ‘My little friend, it gets tricky now. What is the best way to go about things?’ He looks through the trees. ‘Women are sensitive creatures.’ He sits, watching nothing in particular, his gaze altering distances in practised unawareness. He can hear a tractor in the lane and, behind him, goat bells on the hill, a hollow, flat sound.

  He pauses, aware of flying insects, birds singing, branches rubbing one another and the broody hen strutting across the orchard towards the front garden, and then continues.

  ‘Women. You won’t know about women for some time yet, and believe you me, the longer that time is the better because once women are in your life you have never known pain like it. Pain in the head, pain in the ears, but the worst, pain in the heart …’ The baby makes a laughing sound and Mitsos laughs too. ‘So you think it’s funny, do you? Well, let me tell you it didn't feel so funny back then.’

  His heart had tightened. His stomach felt as if it had turned around in his body and he forgot how to breathe. She was lovely, with dark brown hair loose around her shoulders, slim ankles, her head held at a confident angle. The way she moved mesmerised him. He watched her choosing tomatoes, her slim fingers feeling the firmness of each one, caressing the smooth surface, turning them over to inspect all sides. She handed her bag to the vendor to be weighed with a smile that sent shivers down his spine. She was young, almost too young, and her innocence surrounded her like an aura. So pure, so unspoilt. Had he made a terrible mistake by refusing the match? Mitsos vaguely recognised the girl. Her family was from the village, but since he had last seen her she had turned from a child to a woman.

  He was twenty-nine at the time.

  Other girls he had met through the years up until that point were of no consequence. Either he and Manolis had met them in the bars in nearby towns on a Saturday, which was an introduction demanding no respect, or they were pious village girls in church on Sunday. None had touched Mitsos’ heart.

  At that age Mitsos and Manolis were not as close as they had once been. In their late teens they had finally been reined in by their families when Mitsos’ family boat received an unwanted lining of oil-based paint.

  Manolis had found the tins on a beach and persuaded Mitsos to take the booty back to the village in his family rowing boat. As they pulled on the oars in the heat of the midday sun, the lids had popped off several of them and a layer of paint flowed into the bottom of the boat.

  That alone would have been enough to arouse Mitsos’ father to a fury but on top of that, some days later, there was a rumour of paint having been stolen from a hardware store, and Mitsos’ Baba decided enough was enough.

  He organised a meeting with Manolis’ Baba and they agreed the boys should no longer see each other. To this end, they were finally enlisted to do their military service, which sent them to different regions in Greece, and they didn't see each other for two years.

  When they came out, Mitsos with honour and Manolis in shame, they were doomed to finally share some of the strain of the family labours if they intended to carry on living at home. When Mitsos' Baba said he must ‘work beside him on the land’, he really did mean right beside him. It had been a shocking wake-up call even after the regimented life in the army. And when the long day had finished and his elder brother and father went home to relax, he was consigned to cleaning every last bit of the now very encrusted paint from the rowing boat with sandpaper and wire wool. It had taken weeks.

  That was the beginning of a long period of sensible living, at least for Mitsos.

  At this time his older brother was already engaged and most evenings were spent taking his wife-to-be out. His younger brother, not even nine years old, was always in bed and fast asleep before him.

  One evening Mitsos was lying in the room he shared with his brother, not able to sleep for the heat, when he overheard his mother and father talking about arranging a marriage. As he listened, his name was mentioned. Enraged that his life should be planned for him, he jumped from his bed and burst into the kitchen ready to challenge them.

  ‘I do not want an arranged marriage,’ Mitsos stated as firmly as he could, the rage causing his limbs to shake. His father took a long draw on his cigarette and shook his head; his mother tried to calm him.

  ‘You need to settle down. They are offering a reasonable dowry and her parents would come and work on the land beside you. It’s not a bad deal. See it as free labour for the price of a meal.’

  Mitsos was lost for words. He valued his freedom, his independence. He felt shy around women; it would be hell having to spend every evening with one. What would he say, what would he do? He would have to wear a shirt all the time, know what time he would be home and, worst of all, be responsible for her happiness. He had seen bad husbands and what happened to their wives. He had vowed he would never be the same. He would not take a wife unless he was sure he could make her happy. As he didn't have a clue how to make a woman happy, he reasoned that marriage was clearly not for him.

  His mother, over the next few days, had gently tried to plant lots of ideas in his head as to why it would be a good idea. But he was adamant, and finally, after months of fruitless discussions, the subject was dropped.

  Mitsos was relieved, and he unburdened himself to Manolis. Manolis teased him relentlessly about marriage, but Mitsos did not really mind. He was happy to have escaped his fate, and soon Manolis dropped the subject too. Greek men, he had said, do not marry until they are forty, and even that was too soon. ‘This gives us over ten years, my friend,’ he had laughed.

  It was nearly a year later, when Mitsos was in the nearby town with his Mama, helping her with some heavy shopping, that she spotted and pointed out the girl to whom his marriage had nearly been arranged. That was when his heart had tightened, his stomach felt as if it had turned around in his body and he forgot how to breathe. If he was ever going to marry then it had to be to a girl like this.

  ‘Is she still single?’ Mitsos asked his Mama.

  ‘No, she is engaged to someone else in the village.’ The surge of emotion induced by this statement cut through his chest and wrapped a cord around his throat. He did everything he could to dispel the feelings. He refused to look at her any more and did his best to focus on the tomatoes, the heat, the sun, the bad points of all women. A little old lady in black pushed past with her basket of shopping. He consoled himself with the thought that the girl would one day be old and fat. He was best off free. He breathed again and looked away.

  Days later he was sitting with his father in the kafenio, in their usual spot, with windows on all sides,
when he saw her again. She was on the back of a cart being pulled by a donkey, coming straight towards them. The cart stopped in the square and she climbed down with the help of, presumably, her father. Her mother was there also.

  ‘Ah, so they have come to live. This is going to put a stop to his ways.’

  ‘What, Baba?’

  ‘Them.’ He jerked his coffee in the direction of the girl and her family. ‘They have a small house here, more of a storage barn really, and a little land. That is why they are marrying off their daughter. They need more land to be able to live, merge their land with someone else’s. Dowry and daughter for land. Simple as that. But you, of all people, know all this.’

  But that was not the question he wanted answered. ‘Put a stop to whose ways?’

  His Baba opened his mouth to reply but instead a laugh came out. It began as a short throaty scoffing noise but grew and grew until he was laughing so much his belly wobbled. He wiped a tear from his eye and tried to compose himself to speak again but the laughter returned. All the men in the kafenio turned to see what the merriment was, but only Dimitri knew and he was unable to put a sentence together. He slapped his thigh and looked again at the girl and her family until his laughter subsided.

  ‘Well, my boy,’ he finally managed, ‘you wouldn't marry her, but they were determined to find someone who would.’ He wiped his eyes and took a sip of coffee. ‘The deal was not so tempting, as the dowry was not so large and the parents will be a burden all too soon. It is not a good start for a couple.’ Mitsos thought he had finished speaking, as his Baba had taken another sip of coffee and put his cup down. After a minute he continued: ‘But there is always someone fool enough to take any offer.’ He turned his attention from Mitsos and nodded his head towards the girl who had sat down on the seat by the square’s central palm tree. ‘Who you see there, my son, is the future Mrs Manolis.’

  Mitsos swallowed hard, but a lump caught in his throat. He could hear his heart beating in his ears and the hairs on his arm stood on end.

  ‘That is not funny, Baba.’ Mitsos heard himself but the voice did not sound like his own.

  ‘Ha! You will miss your friend, eh?’

  Mitsos had no thought of his friend. He stared at the girl sitting quite still as her Mama and Baba took their things from the cart. If he had never seen her again he might have forgotten her, but if she were to marry Manolis he would see her often, if not every day. His heart leapt at the thought of seeing her every day and, in a mad moment, it seemed like the perfect solution. He could see her but not be burdened by her. Enjoy her company but leave when he wished. But no sooner had the thought flashed though his head than he felt a sickness in his stomach. It was not all right for the girl. It was not right for someone like Manolis to marry someone so pure. He could guess what someone like that needed, and if he couldn't guess he could learn. Manolis would neither know nor care. She would not be happy with him. In fact, he could see nothing but misery for her.

  ‘It’s impossible!’ he blurted.

  ‘Yup. They put the deal together after your refusal about a year ago. I think you made the right decision – the deal was not a good one,’ his Baba replied.

  ‘She cannot!’ Mitsos’ voice sounded as if it hadn’t broken.

  His Baba turned to look at him. Mitsos stared down at his coffee, picked it up, took a sip, trying to control his responses. His hand was shaking so he stood up declaring he needed the toilet and left the table.

  The toilet stank and, as usual, there was no paper. He wiped his face on his shirt. Mitsos could not understand his reactions. He tried to think logically but all he got were images of the girl in his head, and a fury ran through him when he thought of Manolis. It could not be; every fibre of his being rejected. The whole idea was ludicrous. Manolis himself would not allow it. His family would not split off a portion of their land and give it to him. No, the concept was beyond reason. It just would not be. It could not be. His Baba had been misinformed. He took several deep breaths and calmed himself before returning to his coffee.

  ‘You ok?’ his Baba asked.

  ‘Yes, fine.’ He looked out of the window but the seat by the tree was empty. The donkey, still shackled to the cart, was sleeping where it stood. The girl was gone.

  Chapter 9

  The baby sleeps away the morning. Mitsos sits on a chair by the back door, the bright sun on his face, gazing and dreaming. Adonis brings a letter from the post box when he comes to collect his son. It is from Mitsos’ lawyer. Mitsos recognises the writing and puts it on the mantelpiece to read when his brother has gone. Adonis makes a speedy departure, as usual, accepting neither coffee nor a seat, eager to return to his modern air-conditioned car, leave the old life behind. After he’s gone Mitsos remains sitting in the kitchen.

  He stares at the new envelope, but his eyes are drawn to the pattern created by the black smoke stains up the front of the fireplace where the smoke escapes in the winter when the wind blows from the south.

  It is a wide fireplace with iron hooks in the back wall on which to hang cooking pots. The mantelshelf bears cut marks where his father, and probably his father before him, used it as a narrow table. He can remember his father resting there to saw through rope on a worn leather goat collar to take off a bell. His mother had shouted at him for gouging lines in the plaster but his Baba had argued that it was cut all over anyway so what did it matter?

  His elder brother’s initials are carved into the plaster on one side. Mitsos can remember the day. His brother had felt the belt as a consequence of this action, and had been made to paint the whole fireplace too. Pale green. Mitsos has always disliked the colour, but has never done anything about it. Not when his Baba died and not when his Mama died.

  He stands and picks up the letter and puts it in his breast pocket and smooths it flat. It is beginning to feel real.

  He is hungry and has no food in the house. He will go to Stella’s again.

  Stella is sitting outside in the warmth. It is too early for most people’s lunch. She has the same short flowery dress on. She sits with her legs extended, slumped in the attitude of a sulking child, sucking her frappé through a straw. She pushes herself up in the chair a little and shields her eyes from the sun with her arm as he approaches.

  ‘Early for you, Mitso.’ Her hair is frizzy from the daily heat of her job. She usually has it tied back but today it rests on her shoulders. Mitsos can imagine her in a more serious dress with ribbons in her mane. She is a woman who is easy to look at, petite, lithe, strong and a little bit wild.

  ‘You alone?’ Mitsos speaks quietly.

  ‘He’s gone into town. Something to do with a deep fat fryer, he says, but he has taken the English girl with him. Abby. She works here now.’ Stella sniffs in adamant defiance. ‘You hungry? I have made a new batch of lemon sauce for the chickens but they won’t be done for another hour or so. Chips will take over twenty minutes as the oil’s not hot. So I can only offer you beer, ouzo or good company.’

  Mitsos looks at the paper cup of frappé.

  ‘Or you can go across the road and get a frappé and a cheese pie from the new sandwich shop and come and join me here.’

  Mitsos pulls a chair from inside and sits next to Stella on the roadside.

  ‘How was the baby-sitting?’ she asks.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘You seem distracted. What is it?’

  ‘Did I ever tell you of Manolis’ and my first big disaster before he got married?’

  Stella laughs at the thought, drains her coffee with much gurgling and sucking, puts the empty paper cup down on the ground and settles back. She does not answer but is clearly ready to be entertained. She watches the woman who lives across the road, next to the sandwich shop, come out in her housecoat and sweep the road in front of her house. Mitsos follows her gaze. He has seen this a hundred times before, all over the village since he was a boy: women brush and even wash the pavement and roads in front of their houses. Normal life. A young village
girl walks past in a T-shirt declaring she loves New York even though, Mitsos is sure, she will never have been there, never have been further than the nearest town probably. He wonders if the next generation will feel they belong so much to the village that even the road is theirs to sweep.

  ‘Go on then,’ Stella demands impatiently.

  Mitsos is pulled back from his daydreams to recall the past.

  Mitsos’ father dying, when Mitsos had just turned thirty, surprised everyone. Cancer, they said. There was talk that it came from the chemicals that the farmers sprayed on the oranges. Ever since he could remember he had seen his Baba spray the oranges each year. First with a hand pump, pumping away, surrounded by the poisonous mist making rainbows in the sun. Then later on his tractor, in a cloud of high-pressure venom, each tree well covered, along with his Baba and no doubt his Baba’s lungs.

  It is only recently that some farmers, or workers, have begun to use masks when they spray, but most still do not.

  Just before he died, his Baba said he felt unwell and wanted to see the doctor. That alone told Mitsos it was serious. Doctors were characters from the cinema, to be avoided in real life.

  He had gone into the town one day for the purpose and had not come home that night. Mitsos’ mother went into town next day and found him in hospital. Then he was dead.

  His elder brother was making ready to leave to go and live in Corinth, his new wife’s home town, where she had land more fertile than any in the village. His younger brother had been reading in his room, a skill Mitsos never really mastered. Mitsos had just returned from taking the goats to pasture, the odour of the beasts still on him, when a taxi pulled up at the end of the track and the driver said he had been sent for them all by their mother.

  A little confused and with some trepidation they all, including his brother’s fiancée, piled into the taxi and were driven to the hospital to find her distraught. She sobbed and wailed, her hanky flying, as she expressed her loss, her anger, her abandonment. Her emotions were terrifying. The boys stood in a line, dumbfounded. It was Mitsos’ elder brother’s fiancée who took a step towards her and put a consoling arm around her shoulders, his brothers following her lead. Mitsos had found her despair too alarming and remained motionless.