by Sara Alexi
His elder brother left soon after his father’s death; they never see each other now. There had been phone calls a couple of times, when a new child was born to him. His inherited village land sits uncared for; he will not pay out for a manager to work it. Mitsos harvests the olives for him and takes a cut of the profits, but the longer the trees are neglected the less oil they yield. It is almost not worth the effort now.
His younger brother has had the sense to give over his portion of the land to a paid manager and is making a small profit whilst working in the town. He also pays someone to run the shop that provides fertilisers for the farmers, and gives a token cut of the profits to Mitsos because they had set it up together and Mitsos provided the initial capital.
Apart from that there is nothing really left of the family except this new thread of him baby-sitting for his young brother’s first-born. But he has nothing in common with his brother. There is twelve years between them, and his wife is fifteen years younger than that. There is nothing to say. Mitsos is of the old world. His life might as well be over. He rubs his shoulder stump, and a darkness engulfs him.
The village lies before him. He can see all the way over the plain to the town. The land between it and the village is dotted here and there with new houses, the gaps slowly closing as the town seeps across the fertile land, orange groves disappearing.
The village itself is also expanding. Areas between farms have maisonettes built on them for grown-up children who do not want to live in the old ways. The old stone farmhouses themselves are being skimmed over with concrete so the undulations of the stones are lost and crisp corners replace soft curves. The sagging, lichen-covered handmade deep red roof tiles are swapped for factory-made bright orange, interlocking, straight-lined, watertight versions.
It seems that the modern ways want to squeeze all the soft, curvy, beauty out of the world.
The cockerel crows, waking Mitsos from his mental meanderings.
He chastises himself. Thoughts of Manolis often take him to gloomy places in his mind. He had become so resistant to any of Manolis’ scamming ideas towards the end that it carried over into the rest of his life. He had wanted no idea manifested anywhere; he had wanted everything to stay the same. Unchanged. It felt safer that way.
‘Mitsos, you old fool, you are forgetting where you are now. Life does move on, and the proof is in your pocket.’
He takes out the envelope and taps it against his knee.
‘You no longer have to think like a tired old man with no power. See the new houses as progress, accept that the younger generation want things to be different. You did when you were young! It is for the best. But now you have the chance to be part of all this newness too. Live a little and forget Manolis.’
He looks again across the valley; it is quivering in the heat. There is life! There is progress! When he was not much more than a boy he had rejoiced as they laid the tarmac road to the nearby town. The old folk said it was unnecessary, a waste of money; it would encourage gypsies into the village and townspeople to come for days out, leaving their rubbish and looking down their noses. What was the use of that, they asked. But as a boy he could see it would benefit everyone. The produce they grew in the village was taken to the town more quickly as tractors and cars replaced donkeys after the road was built. The village developed an income and people prospered.
And so it is now with the new houses and sharp edges.
He must make an appointment to see his lawyer.
Chapter 11
Mitsos has been sitting so long it is an effort to stand, partly because his legs have gone to sleep but partly just because he is surprisingly comfortable. Thoughts of being part of the modern changing world, not just a powerless bystander, have released a feeling of contentment. Positively contemplating is a pleasant novelty: firstly thinking he has a future, and secondly being happy about it. He still hasn’t thought of the best way to deal with Marina, but at least they spoke the other day, which is progress. He runs his hand through the pine needles before he stands. On straightening, he picks a needle from under his nails with his teeth and spits it back to the ground, the smell of soil and tree sap on his fingers. He waits for the pins and needles to leave his legs.
When Marina and Manolis were first married, Mitsos, in his early thirties, had, slowly, learned to talk to Marina. Mitsos even believed that through their brief and awkward conversations she had picked up that he was trying to guide Manolis towards doing the things that were best for her. But whether she knew or not, he gradually became her support, until he was someone to whom she could tell her woes. The first time she confided in him he hadn’t even seen it coming, and when it all came out he instantly wished it had not. It causes him pain to even think of it now. It was when Manolis was in jail after the bike scam.
Mitsos smiles wanly and shakes his legs. He can hear goat bells from behind the hill, and a woman shouting, muffled behind closed shutters, down in the village; a hint of rosemary is in the air. A solitary, small, puffy white cloud hangs in the blue expanse. At least he had held his ground and firmly refused to get involved in the bikes himself.
‘No.’ Mitsos was emphatic.
‘What? Do you want to be a dirt-poor farmer all your life? Come on, come in with me.’
But Mitsos would not risk his money (or his land) in any more of Manolis’ schemes after the beach bar incident, and he could see how his money would almost certainly be needed this time and that there was good chance it would be lost. Besides, with Manolis, he was sure somewhere along the line it would be illegal.
Marina came in with two Greek coffees. She smiled at Mitsos.
‘What are you two planning?’ Her tone sounded cheerful but her eyes darted, wary, nervous.
‘None of your business, woman.’ Manolis’ chair fell back as he stood. He didn’t pick it up but glared at Mitsos on his way out.
‘What’s happening, Mitso?’ He loved the sound of his name on her lips.
‘He’s had another idea.’ He took the cup of Greek coffee she offered; the other she put down on the table. She began to leave the room, then she paused. So gently, hardly noticeably, she touched the back of his shoulder with the ends of her fingers.
He was staring down at his coffee, but with the contact he twisted his neck to look up at her. Her eyes were moist, fearful. ‘Ok, I’ll stay close to him,’ he said before he took a quick sip of the coffee, thanked her for it, smiled and hurried after Manolis. Marina was in the last days of her eighteenth year. She looked thirty.
Manolis rented a dilapidated shop front in town. Not much more than a store room, it had a window on one side of the door and it smelt damp. Inside was dim even with the lights on. There was a collection of flower pots in one corner and a pile of fishing nets in the other. It stood on a fairly main road next to a fast-food shop on a corner which was frequented by tourists simply because its name was written in English, ‘Mary’s Corner’.
Well, he didn't exactly rent it; rather, he convinced the owners to take a share of his profits each month in lieu of rent.
‘This way, when I have a good month, you will make even more than your proposed rent,’ he smiled, his blue eyes on the old woman of the landlord couple, his hand on hers, like a devoted son.
The building that was to be the shop had originally been built by this couple, when they were young and had time, energy and enthusiasm, as an apothiki, a storage room for nets and fish boxes. Now, too old to fish every day, they depended on this rent for their income. They had little education and Manolis seemed an exciting, modern businessman client to them. They were easily charmed. Mitsos’ heart went out to the owners. He warned them that the rent might be very small or even nothing in the winter when there was little trade. Manolis had scowled at him. Mitsos held his tongue and in his silence reasoned that he did not want to see a monthly debt on the doorstep of Marina’s house, so he said no more.
The second part of the scheme was also easier than Mitsos had expected. He accompani
ed Manolis round the nearby villages in his truck. It was spring and the flowers on the roadside were abundant. Cascades of orange over walls, tall purple flowers growing from the rich soil. Yellow blooms clustering in groups. They drove with the windows down, the promise of summer flowing through the cab. Mitsos held his hand out of the window, catching the warm air. The scent of the flowers came in waves, changing with the colours. Behind the flowers, row upon row of orange trees, the fruit hard and green, no bigger than Mitsos’ thumb-nail.
‘There’s one.’ Manolis said.
A motorbike, abandoned. Farmers with fields and fields of oranges, hills of olives, bought mopeds and rode them around their land, or around the village, without tax or insurance. But when they broke down there was a problem. The law stated that motorcycles and mopeds must be officially declared scrap before they could be physically disposed of or there was a hefty fine. But to declare them scrap they must be legal, taxed. If the tax had lapsed it must be brought up to date, making years of back tax due in one payment. So a broken machine would just lie around the farmer’s land, creating an eyesore, slowly rusting into the grass.
Sometimes the mechanical problem would be minor, but it would be just another job that the farmer had to do and so it would be left; he would just walk for a while, like he had done in the old days. Then, after a winter, the engine would seize and the problem was bigger. Sometimes there was no problem, the farmer was prospering and wanted a new bike, a lighter model, something more reliable; but, again, the old one could not be sold or exchanged without paying the back tax.
Manolis had learned a great deal about mechanics in the army, or so he said, but, as with anything to do with Manolis, Mitsos was never sure. He gave the bike a cursory look. If the problem was too serious they would move on. If not, they would find the owner. This time they went to find the owner.
‘So you'll tax it and insure it and I get a cut of any rent you make from it?’
‘Exactly,’ and the farmer shook Manolis’ hand and helped lift the rotting bike onto the truck.
‘Well, “go to the good”,’ the farmer said, using the traditional parting phrase.
It only took a few days to collect a dozen such mopeds.
‘Manolis, I don't want to put you off, but if each of these needs from two to ten years’ back tax to make them legal then you’re going to have to be very wealthy before you even start,’ Mitsos said, as they stood looking at the collection of rusty and decaying bikes lined up against the damp brick wall inside the shop-to-be, a misty light filtering through the dirty wired-mesh windows.
‘Well, I asked you to come in with me, but if you are not going to help I will have to find another way. You've pushed me into finding creative solutions.’
‘Such as?’
‘Pass me the electrical screwdriver.’
And the topic was closed. Mitsos left, without passing the screwdriver, and made a mental note to restrict his presence to short visits every couple of days. It was clear he was not welcome.
Within two weeks eight of the mopeds were working, after a fashion. The others, beyond repair, were consigned to the back of the shop, in various states of disassembly. ‘For parts,’ Manolis said.
The working bikes were lined up outside on the pavement, their back ends up against the shop. In front of them Manolis had lined up plant pots, one in front of each bike, into which he had planted some very nice geraniums. Mitsos wondered where the flowers had come from. Out on the pavement he had crudely painted a sign in English which announced:
Rent Mopeds
Small Moneys
Big fun
‘Are they legal?’ Mitsos asked.
Manolis took a step into the shop and picked up some papers. He returned outside and pulled the plant pot from in front of the nearest bike. The number plate was now clearly visible, ‘ANO 150’. He handed the papers to Mitsos who checked them against the number. This one had only needed one year’s back tax, which had all been paid. The bike was also insured. Mitsos wondered if he had made the right decision not to go in with Manolis in this venture. It looked like he was finally trying to make an honest living like everybody else.
‘How did you afford the back tax?’ Mitsos asked.
‘The man at the tax office could see the potential of the business.’ He gave Mitsos a hard stare. ‘He also liked to play cards.’ Manolis put the papers away. ‘And drink ouzo.’ He chuckled to himself.
‘For one year’s back tax, yes, I can see how you could get that to work, but for all eight bikes?’ Mitsos walked to the end of the line. ‘This one, for example, needed six years’ back tax. That is a large wager for a government worker, and more than his job is worth to forge the papers for you.’
‘You are talking to me like a business partner.’ Manolis took out a cigarette but did not offer one to Mitsos. He lit it and looked down the road, leaning against his door post.
Mitsos left.
Mitsos reported all these happenings to Marina. She remained unimpressed.
Each time Mitsos passed by the shop there were tourists there talking to Manolis. Sometimes there were no bikes, all of them rented out. The geraniums looked well cared for. Mitsos wished him well.
Summer was approaching fast. More and more tourists could be seen every day, in yellow shorts with pink T-shirts, hats that were too small, and socks with sandals; back-packs worn round the front, a Kodak in one hand, a guide book in the other. They came in twos and they came in packs. The Americans were scrubbed so clean their faces shone; the English always looked crumpled, as if they themselves had arrived scrunched up in a suitcase. The Asians were pristine, aloof behind expensive cameras.
Mitsos ordered a meat, chips and tzatziki wrap, a gyro souvlaki, from Mary’s Corner. Mary looked well for her age, and served him quickly with a smile and a kind word. Mary’s Corner had been the treat promised to him if he went to market with his Mama when he was small. Mary had seemed ancient even back then. He took his gyro outside and sat on one of the plastic chairs at a red plastic table with a cola logo painted on top. He was right next to Manolis’ moped shop.
A motorbike pulled up, and the uniformed rider kicked the stand down and marched up the street with his helmet still on. Mitsos nodded at the policeman as he went past and into Mary’s.
He came out again with a tray. He looked at the two tables; the other was taken by two people in Hawaiian shirts wearing ankle-socks and walking boots. He looked at Mitsos and nodded at the chair at his table. Mitsos kicked it out for him.
They briefly summed each other up. Mitsos, at thirty-three, his hair a little too long, wearing rough, practical, worn clothes, looked every bit what he was, an orange farmer. The policeman put his tray down and took his helmet off, revealing a neat crew cut. He smoothed his hair back. On his tray were a gyro, coffee and his wallet, which was open, a picture of two children staring up at the world.
‘Nice looking children.’ Mitsos made conversation. The policeman smiled; he seemed warm, genuine. Mitsos had seen him before somewhere.
‘Yup, Mary’s very proud of her grandchildren.’
Mitsos recalled seeing his face serving in Mary’s Corner. He was her son. Mitsos smiled at him warmly now he had placed him.
They sat watching the traffic go by.
A bike pulled in next door. ‘ANO 150’.
Manolis lined the bike up in front of the shop and placed a plant in front of it.
The policeman stirred his coffee.
The couple with Hawaiian shirts left and went next door. They disappeared into Manolis’ shop.
Mitsos watched a lady across the road walking her dog, which stopped to relieve itself in the middle of the pavement. The Hawaiian shirts flashed past and their moped came to a halt at the junction. ‘ANO 150’. A busy bike. Business was booming for Manolis.
A woman came out of a shop opposite and began to argue with the lady about her dog, pointing at the dirt. The dog’s owner tried to dismiss her and get past but the woman insisted. S
he pointed to the shop whose door was in direct line with the dirt but still the dog owner did not want to know. She walked on. The complaining woman went into the shop. She came out again in less than a minute, smoking, and leaned against the door post, looking bored. The dog dirt remained on the pavement.
Another bike pulled in next door. Two girls got off. ‘ANO 150’. Mitsos frowned. He nearly spoke without thinking but then pulled himself up. How could it be? Did the guys with the Hawaiian shirts let the girls have the bike, and if so why were they back so soon?
‘What was the registration of the bike that the guys with colourful shirts took?’ the policeman asked him.
‘No idea, not the sort of thing I would notice.’ Mitsos looked across the road.
Mary’s son finished his coffee and took out a pack of cigarettes, and offered one to Mitsos. Mitsos pulled out his lighter and cupped the flame as he sparked it to life. The policeman bent over the light, his cigarette glowed, he looked above Mitsos’ hand and beyond. He focused. His expression hardened. Mitsos followed his gaze, still lighting his own cigarette. A young man and his girlfriend were pulling in next door. The man had stopped the bike for his girlfriend to get off, before bumping it onto the pavement. The bike’s registration plate read ‘ANO 150’.
Manolis came out of the shop, and steered the bike up against the window and placed a plant pot in front of it. Beautiful orange-red geraniums.
The policeman drew on his cigarette. Another bike was coming along the road. This one was being pushed. Manolis waited for the bike to come to him. The bike-pusher was furious, shouting that this was the second bike he had been given that had broken down; his morning has been taken up with pushing the darn things back. The number plate was not visible as it was obscured by parked cars and the ‘Rent a Moped’ sign. The customer pushed it around to face the shop front. Now the bike rider himself was obscuring the view.
