by Sara Alexi
The sun hit him as he came out from the shade of the cabin and, for a moment, he could see nothing, just brightness. He heard Manolis cough. The brightness dimmed and the sea shone a dazzling blue.
Mitsos sat by the helm to get his bearings. He was fuzzy with sleep and nothing looked familiar. He studied more intensely the lie of the land and the curve of the rocks. Nothing was recognisable.
‘Where are we?’ he asked. A churning in the pit of his stomach knew the answer before Manolis spoke.
‘Thought we would give it one last go.’ His voice was flat without even the pretence of believing his own lie.
‘Where are we?’ Mitsos demanded, but the crumbling medieval tower halfway up a hill gave him a bearing. He had been this far down the coast one time with his father on a week’s fishing trip. ‘Let me off,’ he demanded, but there was no place to stop. It was all rocks and cliffs and seagulls shouting.
Mitsos was furious and he shouted and bellowed at Manolis, who sat and smoked as he steered, calmly looking out across the water. By the time they reached the next town along the coast they were too far for Mitsos to walk home; it would take days. He wondered if there was a bus, but he would have to stay and work that night as with the paltry amounts Manolis was giving him these days he hadn't even enough money for a ticket. He swallowed his anger, mentally washed his hands of Manolis’ reform and planned his return home.
They worked that evening, but there were not many tourists and takings were slim. The port police had asked for mooring fees before they had even finished tying up, and the council people had come to them with forms that needed filling out before they had opened that night.
‘They know who we are. They have been warned,’ Manolis spat. He was as much thinking out loud as telling Mitsos.
But Mitsos wasn’t interested. The night gave him enough money to buy a bus ticket home. The next day he took his afternoon sleep earlier than usual, forgoing his morning coffee. The bus left early in the afternoon. The whole thing with the boat and Manolis felt like a mess and he just wanted to go home. More than anything, he felt a failure.
He awoke to the throbbing sound of the engine and roused himself as quickly as he could to dash on deck to see what was happening. Manolis was smoking and steering and looking out to sea. He looked content. Mitsos looked about him. The rhythmic thumping he could hear was his own pulse in his temples. He clenched his fists tight, his breathing rapid. He felt on the brink of exploding and didn’t trust himself.
‘If we get far enough away they will not have been warned so we will sail the whole day and find a fresh town that isn't wise to us.’ Manolis grinned.
‘No!’ Mitsos felt tears prick his eyes. ‘I want to go home.’ He heard the words leave his lips, plaintive and childlike. He could not retract them. The view of the endless sea did not calm him. It brought visions of his chicken shed, his kitchen, where he wanted to be.
‘For God’s sake, Mitsos, are you ever going to grow up?’ Manolis scoffed.
‘Drop me off here, right here, right now. You do everything you can to be outside the law and I'll have no part of it. You have not given Marina a second thought – she may have well had your child by now, and she doesn't even know where you are!’
‘I thought that part of it would please you, Marina not knowing where I am!’ And he gave Mitsos a nasty smile.
‘Sod you!’ Mitsos exploded and wished Manolis no longer existed.
Manolis refused to take the boat in to shore and Mitsos sat seething as the hours passed. The sun was strong and they had no water with them. Manolis was drinking whisky and singing to himself and lighting cigarettes one after the other.
Mitsos’ money had gone, his worthless unused bus ticket crushed in his pocket. The sun on the sea was too bright for his mood, the seagulls too raucous. He went below deck and poured himself an ouzo.
The next town turned into another and then another, as they went further and further from their village. In each town Manolis gave Mitsos a little money, but not enough for the bus fare home, adding promises of debts being paid and dreams for the next day. Mitsos was repeatedly sucked in to Manolis’ reality and found his own reality and reason ebbing away.
The only reality he knew was that the money he had he needed for food; nothing was left over. One evening, feeling brave (and just a little bit desperate) when serving a drink, he took the payment and put it straight in his own back pocket.
But he was not a natural thief, there was no fluidity of movement, no grace in his action, and Manolis caught him, and then, if that was not enough, accused him of being part of the problem, the reason why they had not saved anything for the fines. They stopped talking. Manolis no longer let Mitsos serve drinks. He could clean, wash glasses.
On two occasions Mitsos drank so much he took a swing at Manolis, but Manolis was taller and stronger and a return slug was the end of both fights. On both occasions Mitsos had wished him dead and had shouted as much in front of an astonished clientele.
They stayed in each town until, with the level of the fines, the authorities threatened to imprison Manolis. The fines he owed just grew and grew with each stop they made. Authorities from previous towns showed up in the new towns and the web of debt closed in around them. In each town Mitsos made it clear to the authorities that he was hired help and if they could offer him a way home he would take it.
They had just left one particularly busy town and Manolis was humming at the tiller, heading towards a very picturesque village. Flat-topped white houses coursing down the hillside to a palm tree-lined water front; the sea clear and blue and calm in the shallow waters, children swimming and tourists sunbathing under umbrellas. Manolis said he had a good feeling about this town. Mitsos asked for a decent day’s wage, seeing as the last town had been so profitable.
‘You cannot pretend you are saving for fees and fines any more, Manolis, so just give me a decent day’s pay.’ They were the first words Mitsos had said to Manolis in a week.
‘What, so you can abandon me? No chance. This would not be half so much fun on my own. Besides, you enjoy the chase, and you have all the ouzo you can drink, and you are surrounded by different girls each night. What more could you want?’
‘That's what you want, Manolis, not me. I want my almond orchard. I want my own bed. I want to watch the cats laze in the sun by the flower pots at my back door.’ Mitsos looked inland to the hills. He had no idea how far from home he was now since Manolis had, laughing, thrown their one chart overboard when Mitsos accused him of kidnapping.
‘Oh, for pity’s sake! Cats and flower pots – can you hear yourself?’
‘Shut up, Manolis. Pay up or go to hell. I am getting off here either way. I will get a job on a farm, whatever it takes. I am not staying any longer.’
‘You'd have to work a month on a farm to get enough saved to take a bus home from here.’
‘I don't care.’ Mitsos hated the way he sounded like a child when he got angry. He stuffed his hands as far in his trouser pockets as they would go.
Manolis paid him no more attention. He was pulling in alongside the harbour wall. He stood up, and taking a rope jumped the gap and tied them to a bollard.
‘Manolis?’ A deep voice said.
‘Yes. Who wants to know?’ He turned to see a policeman.
‘I am arresting you for non-payment of fines, for not complying with licensing laws and for failure to ensure the safety of the people that go aboard your boat.’
Manolis hesitated for a second before turning to Mitsos.
‘Can you get my prayer book out of the first box seat for me, please.’ Mitsos looked at him to see if he had gone quite mad. Why would Manolis even own a prayer book?
‘He can bring it to you when you are safely locked up.’ The policeman did not even look at Mitsos as he handcuffed Manolis and took him away. Mitsos made as if to follow, and the policeman made it clear he would be wise to stay away unless he, too, wanted to be arrested. He was left standing opened-mouthed
, the pink Love Boat’s engine still throbbing.
Mitsos, a little bit dazed by the event, wandered back on board and closed down the engine.
‘“Get my prayer book”! He has never said a prayer in his life, God damn him,’ Mitsos announced to the empty boat. He pondered his own words and went to the first box seat and lifted the lid. Two life jackets and a box with a crude cross drawn on it. Mitsos lifted out the box and opened the lid. There was no prayer book. It was full of money.
His first thought was to take enough for the bus home and just leave. But then he wondered if he could do anything for Marina. Should he just take her the cash or should he try to bail out the mess Manolis was in? It was bad enough Manolis being in prison the first time, but if she knew it had happened again the shame would be too great for her and the shame would be passed on to the child. Better he try to sort out the mess.
He went to the police station and asked to speak to whoever was in charge. The police were very helpful. They had a full list of who was owed what. ‘You had better get some legal advice, my friend,’ suggested the policeman, almost kindly. ‘I will introduce you to my brother. He is a lawyer and will help you.’
Mitsos went, box in hand, to the lawyer. Together they went over the list and divided up the money owed to each. After Mitsos took what he needed to pay for the bus journey home there was just enough left to pay the lawyer his stated fee, which seemed to Mitsos quite a coincidence. The lawyer smiled, a gold tooth twinkling somewhere near the back of his nicotine-stained mouth.
Mitsos unbuttons his shirt and pulls it out from his trousers. His vest comes out with it. He can remember that the bus journey seemed to take forever. The bus had dropped him in the town and he had gladly walked to the village, his limbs joyous with the movement after sitting for so long. He had swung his arms with such freedom, freedom from the bus and freedom from Manolis.
The joy of the memory of that freedom does not last long. He twitches his shoulders. He hasn’t even got two arms to swing now. Mitsos puts the old newspaper clippings on the kitchen table and finishes his ouzo. He shakes his shirt off his shoulders and it falls down his back onto the chair, the sleeves picking up dust from the floor. His vest is baggy and old and accentuates his thin frame. A tiny jumping spider in a white and black suit runs in staccato bursts across the table. As it comes to a stop, motionless, Mitsos touches its rear and it jumps, a hand span, to his ouzo glass. He played for hours as a boy with these spiders; they are old friends. Mitsos picks up the glass and talks to the spider. ‘She had had the baby by the time I got back.’
Manolis followed weeks later. His lawyer had paid all the fines on his behalf. Bloody Manolis got off with nothing more than a strong caution. Damn boat – at least it wasn't allowed to be sailed again.
He slams the glass down, and the spider retreats to the edge of the table. Mitsos is glad of the company of his eight-legged friend, and encourages him back with three tail-touching jumps. He is tipsy. He stands up, and looking at the motionless spider says, ‘I heard one rumour that Manolis had insured the boat with what money he had left in his pockets and that the boat had sunk in the harbour.’ He leans over to peer at the spider to make sure it is listening. ‘But the insurance refused to pay up as they believed someone had scuppered the vessel on purpose.’ He stands up straight, glass in hand. ‘Ha! Served the scoundrel right!’ His ouzo slops over the side of his glass.
‘The talk in the village at the time was that we were in the whole thing together – as if! – and that I had got away and left Manolis to take the rap.’ Mitsos slumps into a chair, and says through closed teeth and unmoving lips, ‘That hurt.’ He pours another drink and traces his finger around the top. The spider makes a few hops towards the bottle. ‘Marina crossed the square when she saw me coming after that. I never got to meet the child, but she grew to be beautiful, like Marina.’ Mitsos dips his finger in his ouzo and lets it drip just in front of the spider, which backs up a fraction. ‘Even Manolis himself did not speak to me for some time, which only added weight to the village gossip.’
He swallows the aniseed liquid and pours another. He lifts the glass as if in a toast.
‘When he finally did speak he asked why the hell I had handed over the money, saying that because of that the whole summer was for nothing. Damn the man.’ He drinks his toast and pours himself another. Mitsos downs this drink in one, no toast needed. He surveys the table top, but the spider has gone.
He picks up one of the clippings and wonders who kept them all this time and why; his mother perhaps. It is a time he would rather forget. He searches his pockets for his lighter and lights the corner of one of the clippings. It burns more quickly than he expects and he leaps to his feet to put it in the fireplace before he burns his fingers. As the orange flame dies down he drops the other clippings on top. He watches the flames flicker, casting dancing shadows across the unlit room.
He knows that Marina only knew what she saw and what had been told her. In her eyes he was no better than Manolis, in fact he could see how she could easily think he had been egging him on. His pledge to help her had done nobody any good.
Now he has to make the biggest decision of his life. Will he be helping her this time or damning her and himself somehow?
With this thought in his head he lies down on the day-bed to sleep, not bothering to undress fully.
Chapter 16
The mellow morning light shines in, muted by the kitchen curtains, although the heat is already apparent and for a moment Mitsos does not know where he is. His dreams had taken him from the pink boat to chasing his broody hen, to the army and then up the hillside with his goats. He focuses on one thing. Slowly, it becomes a table, and after a minute or two it becomes his kitchen table. At this point he recalls his reminiscences of the previous night and the excess of ouzo that accompanied them. He sits up. His head spins; he hasn't drunk so much in years. It takes a while to stand, but once he is steady he shuffles across to the sink and puts his head under the tap, both drinking and refreshing himself. He can remember doing the very same thing as a young man, before he knew any better. ‘You old fool,’ he says to himself.
The kitchen curtains have not been drawn for a decade or more and they feel paper-brittle to the touch. He carefully pushes them back and opens the window, which is stiff. Thick cobwebs tear as he pushes it open. A moth makes its escape and the morning breeze blows in past Mitsos to refresh the room. He yawns at the day and then shuffles to the back door and opens it wide. The area at the back of the house has not been swept for … Mitsos tries to recall how long, but he cannot remember.
Pots line the edges of what used to be the brushed area of ground, some devoid of both flower and soil; Manolis had stolen them for his moped shop all those years ago and Mitsos has never bothered to replace them. Those with soil sprout weeds, which grow profusely.
Mitsos picks up the broom. He has not mastered using the broom with one arm, even after all these years. In truth, he has never really tried. When he was a lad and his mother made him sweep, how little he knew that just the action was a privilege, something to be grateful for. After a few pushes he finds it is not so hard, and he can manage with one hand. The dustpan and brush are a different matter but he pins the dustpan with his foot and finishes the job. He takes the pan to the end of the almond grove and pours the dust over the wall, where he is still keeping an eye out for the broody hen. The goat bells clonk and rattle in the hills above. He steps over the wall and climbs to the hut to feed the chickens, which cluck and fuss their gratitude. He turns and considers sitting for a while, but something prompts him to saunter back down the hill into the orchard.
The sound of a car stopping and the gate at the end of the track being opened, he checks the time. Surely his nephew is not due till later? He does not quicken his pace back to the yard.
Adonis is wearing a suit despite the heat. ‘Hey? How ya running?’ Mitsos finds the expression odd. Is his little brother becoming age-conscious and trying to b
e cool, using this phrase of the youth?
Mitsos sniggers. ‘What? What’s up?’ Mitsos shakes his head and takes the baby-seat.
‘Hey, little man, you're awake. Shall we go and look at the black branches against the sky?’
‘Look, I have to go, here's the bag.’ But Mitsos isn't listening and is halfway to the far wall, carrying the car seat. He sits down with his back against the stones, his charge beside him, and waves to Adonis, who has stopped in his car to look back. The wave makes Adonis smile. His face relaxes and he drives off, leaving the gate open.
‘So, how have you been keeping?’ The baby smiles and waves its arms at the fluttering blossom and flies and buzzy creatures that fill his vision. ‘I made a bit of a night of it last night. You see, that is the other thing with age: not only do you not have a blank sheet in front of you but you have countless memories to haunt you, things you should have done but didn't, things you did do but shouldn't have. It can all get a bit much at times.’ He pauses to watch a dragonfly. The baby squeals with delight. ‘You are right, though, we should live in the moment. But you know what I realised going over these memories?’ He pauses but there is no response. ‘No? Well I will tell you. Your Uncle Mitsos may have been naive and easily taken in, maybe even a bit slow, but his heart was in the right place, at least up until the day he lost his arm. It's funny, that. All these years people have silently thinking that I am bad 'un, a trouble maker, a bit of a villain, but you know what? I wasn't. Sure, you begin to believe the looks after a time, and it hurts because it doesn't fit who you believe you are until you think, “Well, if they keep implying it, it must be true,” and then you believe it and you behave accordingly, but it never felt like it fitted.’ Mitsos settles onto his side, on his elbow, his head resting in his hand. He watches the innocence of his nephew’s face.
‘Because until the whole Love Boat thing I still knew I was a good 'un. It was after that I began to doubt. I had failed in my pledge to Marina. So I pulled as far away from Manolis as I could to show her, and myself, and the whole damn village that I was not the same.’ Mitsos can feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins. He picks a grass and chews on it and is silent for a while, calming himself.
