The Explosive Nature of Friendship

by Sara Alexi

  ‘Mitsos!’

  He coughs and wheezes; the wind has been knocked out of him. He blinks, looking into Marina's eyes. He gasps for air. His legs feels as though it is submerged in warm water and he isn't sure if he has fallen in a puddle, wet himself or if it is blood; flashes of Manolis pulling him into the sea.

  ‘Mitsos, are you hurt?’

  ‘I don't know. Are you?’

  ‘I don't think so.’

  Mitsos tries to move. He can scrabble about with his legs but the weight across his back is too heavy to move. He labours for breath.

  ‘Can you move, Marina?’ He hears some noises from down by her hips.

  ‘No, my legs are stuck.’

  ‘Hey! Mitsos, Marina.’ It is Theo’s voice. A light sweeps across the debris.

  Mitsos tries to shout but he is gasping for air and cannot make a sound.

  ‘Theo, we are here. The roof beam is on Mitsos, he cannot breathe.’

  ‘Marina, when we were kids …’ Mitsos whispers and reaches for her hand.

  ‘No you don't! Don't go soft on me now, Mitsos. I have seen it in the films, they go all soft and then they die, so pack it in, do you hear?’

  ‘You silly woman.’ Mitsos laughs and passes out.

  Chapter 19

  There is a smell of gunpowder and dog meat and Mitsos kicks and scrabbles, willing himself awake. The room is too bright. The gunpowder lingers and then distorts and becomes flowers, jasmine. He raises his arm to shield his eyes. The bright light dims as something is drawn across his field of vision. The shade brings focus and there is a man pulling a curtain. Mitsos looks down. He is in bed, with white sheets, a thin blue cover.

  ‘How are we feeling?’ the man asks.

  ‘Where am I?’

  ‘Have you a temperature?’ He does not so much ask as command and Mitsos feels a hand on his forehead.

  His senses begin to return. He recognises the signs of a village house, a rough wood floor, a door made from floorboards. He tries to recall why he is there. The last time he was in a strange bed it was after the dynamite. His arm! He feels his shoulder, but the wound is not fresh, the shape of the nub familiar.

  ‘Rain’s stopped,’ the man comments.

  An image of a tree flashes though his mind, the crushing pain across his back, and …

  ‘Marina!’ he shouts, pushing the hand away from his forehead.

  ‘Steady on, she’s fine, she’s next door.’ The man leaves the room.

  Mitsos looks around the room. There is a chest of drawers and the narrow iron bed he is on. The walls are stone, unplastered, the mortar in between is crumbly, the floor bare, a village house that has not been modernised. There is one window, with so many layers of paint the corners are rounded. The cotton curtain is drawn, the sun strong behind it. Mitsos tries to move and a pain darts across his back on the left and down the front on the right. He puts his hand to his ribs; he can feel that he is trussed up. He moves a leg at a time to check them. His left one feels bruised but they both work.

  He pushes himself up slowly and sits for a while, replaying what happened in the shop, gaining consciousness, orienting himself. Then he stares at the curtain across the window and becomes impatient. He does not feel unwell, but bruised to the point gasping for breath. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he tries to stand. The world feels like a rocking boat and he bends his knees to compensate for the motion, his hand holding the edge of the bed. The swells subside and he takes a tentative step. There is air round his legs. He looks down; he has no trousers on. He feels his legs to see where they hurt. He has a bandage round his right knee and he can see blood soaking through. He looks about and sees a dressing gown at the end of the bed. It is a thick navy-blue velour. He inspects it and finds in the pocket a receipt. Mitsos stares at it and realise it must be Theo’s. Who else would order 20 kg of coffee grounds and 30 bottles of ouzo? He wonders if Theo does his book keeping in bed.

  ‘Bless him,’ Mitsos mutters, and puts it on,

  The landing is plastered white but the floorboards are bare. The ceiling light flickers, neither on nor off. Mitsos keeps his hand in contact with the wall, just in case, and looks in the next room, a single brass bed with someone in it facing away from the door. Mitsos enters the room and looks over the blanket lump. It is Marina; she is sleeping.

  ‘Yeia sou, Marina.’ He greets her softly, even though her eyes are closed. He looks around the room. There is a stool by the wall and he drags it next to Marina's bed.

  ‘It seems every time I come near you I cause you pain,’ he states as Marina sleeps on.

  A man enters the room. ‘Ah, you’re up. How do you feel? You broke a few ribs, I’m afraid, not much we can do about that but they will heal.’ He takes a stethoscope from round his neck and puts it in the bag he is holding.

  ‘Is she ok?’ Mitsos asks. His face tries to disintegrate into tears but he will not let it.

  ‘Well, she has a concussion and a broken leg from the accident but she is mostly just shaken. I was wondering if she has had a heart attack.’

  ‘But she's not even fifty!’

  ‘Coming up to fifty, a bit overweight, unfit and in a bad accident.’ The man smiles as if he is imparting good news.

  ‘Well, has she?’

  ‘I don't think so, but I have taken a blood sample and I will check for high levels of enzymes to be sure.’ He smiles even more broadly and leaves the room, his steps echoing down the wooden stairs.

  Mitsos looks back at the sleeping Marina. Her face is still turned away from him. He senses a tear welling on his lower lid again and wipes it away with the back of his hand, biting his bottom lip to bring him to his senses.

  ‘Marina, I have so much to say to you.’ He sniffs and falters; he should say it to her face, not when she is sleeping. But there is a deep comfort in her deafly being there. A confession without consequences.

  ‘In some ways we have changed, you and I. Life does that.’ He draws himself up and rubs his stump. He should have said all this years ago. He dubs himself a coward, both then and now. ‘I was gutless. I had the chance to marry you, give you a good life, I turned it down.’ He struggles to keep his voice from quivering. He rubs his face in the crook of his dressing gown sleeve. ‘I have never been able to say to you how sorry I was for that, or for the day Manolis died.’ Mitsos blinks a few times and swallows, but his chest spasms as he fails to control his emotion. He holds out his hand to stroke Marina’s hair, but when his fingers make contact with the first strands he watches them just pick bits of debris from the hair instead. He pulls the big pieces out and he puts them in the dressing gown pocket, not knowing what else to do with them.

  He must tell her. This is the safest time he will ever get. ‘But what I really need you to know is I think I was angry when he urged me to throw it to him.’ He waits for a response he hopes won’t come. Marina makes no movement. He continues. ‘You know how he was, he always pushed me, pushed and pushed until I was no longer sure which were his thoughts and which were my own.’ Mitsos shakes his head gently as if that will clear his mind now. ‘I feel that on that day maybe I lost it, maybe I wanted to harm him, maybe I wanted the dynamite to explode, maybe I wanted to shock him, or at least stop him bullying me.’ He screws up his eyes and drops his head. ‘There is no sorry big enough for that, Marina. But I am truly sorry.’

  ‘And I am not sleeping,’ Marina says.

  Mitsos sits up straight with a start and the pain shoots through his ribs. He groans and Marina turns her head. ‘Are you ok?’

  ‘Hurts,’ he gasps, bending over to ease the pain. ‘I broke some ribs.’ Doubled up, he looks across at her, looking for condemnation in her eyes but finds none. ‘How do you feel?’ he asks politely, slowly straightening, as if his monologue never happened.

  ‘Sore, my leg aches. They have given me pain killers so it isn't too bad.’

  ‘Are we in Theo's house?’

  ‘No, this is upstairs at my house.’ Mitsos is reliev
ed to know that the tree has not hit the house as well as the shop, the two being only separated by a courtyard.

  ‘Oh!’ He can think of nothing else to reply.

  ‘So, you were saying?’

  Mitsos quickly looks down at his dressing gown. His head swims from the sudden movement and he puts his hand up to steady it but moving his arm feels impossible, his ribs sear with pain and his lungs are restricted in their movement. Marina waits until his breathing is steady.

  ‘Mitsos, I don't blame you, and I wasn't sad.’ Mitsos looks up in stages. He is not sure he can meet her eyes. ‘It was shocking but it was not the worst day of my life. In fact, after the initial horror, it was a relief.’ Mitsos’ jaw drops open a little. ‘Yes, can you imagine the guilt I felt, this was my children’s father?’

  They both pause silent in their own thoughts.

  Mitsos can hear the quiet, steady, scratching, munching sound of a death-watch beetle in Marina's ceiling, in more than one place. He wonders if the whole village is infested. He can hear people downstairs, or maybe they are out on the street. Everything feels a little confusing. He sits without thought for a while.

  ‘Marina, can I ask you something?’ Marina nods, but her features become immobile as if she is bracing herself. ‘That day, when we first went fishing, did you say that the best outcome would be if …’

  ‘Shhh!’ Marina hisses, and closes her mouth firmly. She is silent for a long time. Mitsos shifts his weight, almost constantly, to try and take some pressure off his ribs. ‘You think that I didn't wonder, didn't worry, that you might have taken me literally?’ She closes her eyes tightly. Mitsos can see a tear squeezed from the corner of each. He looks around for a handkerchief. Marina pulls from under her pillow one with black butterflies embroidered on it and she wipes her eyes. ‘Hearing that it might have happened because you were cross, although it burdens you, gives me such relief. To hear your confession without my name being in there!’

  ‘You do think I killed him, then?’

  ‘God, no! I am quite aware of how Manolis pushed and pushed until your mind was no longer your own. If he wanted you to throw the damn thing at him he would have talked on until you did, using his twisted logic, igniting your emotions. He had had years of practice on you, he knew exactly what to do. God no, Mitsos, you are not to blame.’

  ‘But I did throw it.’ Mitsos’ chest feels heavy; he wants to let it sink, his shoulders to roll forward, but pain keeps him as he is, sitting stiffly upright.

  ‘Let it go, Mitsos.’ She puts her hand out to pat his arm, but withdraws it as his arm is on the other side; touching his ribs would be too personal. She blushes.

  ‘But if you don't blame me, why did you not speak to me all those years?’

  Marina starts to laugh. It has a bitter, sad edge, but her bruises resist the movement and she sucks in through pursed lips and holds her side. As she relaxes, she says, ‘How could I talk to you when I thought that, well, that you had, that I …’ She pauses to reflect. ‘You reminded me of what I had said. I feared that was what had killed him.’

  ‘So you did think I had killed him!’

  ‘No, I thought I had killed him.’ Marina’s pupils are wide as her truth is revealed; she looks into Mitsos' eyes to face her fear. Their gazes lock, each in their own guilt, each searching for reassurance.

  ‘That’s enough of that!’ They both turn to Theo in the doorway. ‘It was an accident!’

  Theo looks from one to the other and shakes his head. ‘That man was so good at making other people responsible for his life that you even believe you were responsible for his death! He's dead, in all honesty it seems like no one cares, so forget about him! By the way, the colour suits you,’ he says, looking at Mitsos.

  ‘What?’ Mitsos asks.

  ‘The colour, the navy blue suits you.’ He pulls at the lapel of the dressing gown. ‘So, do either of you want coffee?’

  They both nod and Theo leaves the room.

  Marina slowly manoeuvres herself into a sitting position. Mitsos tries to help but it causes him too much pain.

  ‘Can you draw the curtain, Mitsos, let some light in?’ Mitsos stands slowly and shuffles to the window. His knee hurts and it is hard to take in air without his ribs complaining.

  ‘We are in a bit of a mess, aren't we?’ he says by way of conversation.

  ‘Well, we are alive.’ Marina sighs as he shuffles back and sits down again.

  Mitsos tries to think of something to say. For years he has been dreaming of a scenario, perhaps not exactly like this, but similar, time alone with Marina, time to talk, to explain, but now it is reality he cannot think of anything to say to her.

  ‘Although I am actually in one heck of a mess now, what with the oranges not being paid for this year …’ Marina says suddenly

  ‘What?’ Mitsos asks.

  ‘Yes, with all this struggle in the economy, everybody’s broke. I sold to that new man, from Athens this year, you know, that scoundrel Mr Froutokleftis. I am not the only one. Others sold to him too, because he gave a good rate, and none have been paid. No one can afford to take him to court so it’s a thief’s market.’ Marina laughs at her own turn of phrase but it is a sad, tired laugh. Mitsos remembers a time it had happened before, when they had both blamed Manolis.

  ‘Have you considered telling the authorities?’

  ‘How can I prove it? Anyway, it’s done.’ She looks far out of the window. ‘And now with the shop gone what am I to do?’ But she says this quietly, as if Mitsos is not in the room. He shuffles in his seat and wonders if he should leave. Theo returns with some well-timed coffee and asks if they are hungry. The both shake their heads.

  ‘Widow Katerina, in her usual organising manner,’ Theo chuckles gently, ‘has arranged a rota in the village.’ Marina groans slightly as she smiles. ‘So someone will bring food twice a day until you are up and about.’

  ‘Oh no, there’s no need,’ Mitsos says.

  ‘Mitsos, you barely look after yourself when you are well, let people take care of you a little for a change.’ Marina says. Mitsos’ eyebrows rise with the implication that Marina has noticed something about the way he lives his life. He can feel the colour in his cheeks and picks at some fluff on the sleeve of his dressing gown, shifting his weight again to ease the pressure on his ribs. No position is comfortable

  ‘And I’ll pop over and bring coffee,’ Theo offers.

  They hear him leaving, trotting down the stairs along the hall, and a slam as the door is closed behind him, a patter of leather on tarmac as he disappears across the square.

  The hours turn into days and Mitsos can feel his ribs healing, but slowly. Marina's daughters have visited and he has finally been introduced. His conversations with Marina become easier and easier, and they talk for hours, sometimes discussing their mutual history, or current affairs, sometimes observations about nature. They find they have a lot in common. Mitsos cannot believe that life has finally thrown him together with Marina. He is experiencing being happy, they get on so well. But something is missing.

  ‘So what exactly do you do all day if you have arranged for your goats to be taken care of? Your oranges only need a little work until harvest and that’s down to the orange pickers, same with your olives. Your days must be pretty empty?’

  ‘They don't feel it. I go up and see the chickens and then …’ Mitsos thinks for a moment and wonders what he does do all day. ‘I go to the kafenio for coffee and then on to Stella's for lunch.’

  ‘She got a rum husband. I feel for her.’

  ‘Nice lady, though. I often sit and talk to her.’

  ‘I’ve never really spoken to Stella. What does she like to talk about?’

  ‘Oh, everything and anything. She is very understanding, cuts up my food for me.’ His voice tapers to a whisper. He wonders what Stella is doing now and how she is coping with her husband and the foreign girl. It is hard to remember how attractive Stavros was before he got such a huge round stomach. The bigger i
t got, the more pushy and unpleasant his flirting seemed, his blue eyes bloodshot and bulging from his ruddy complexion. Funny that, when he was slim and good looking he didn't seem so lecherous, or maybe that was just Mitsos’ perspective.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’

  But Mitsos does not hear. His mind is on Stella and her position. Poor Stella, he wonders what he can do to help. Surely he must be able to do something. Does Stavros give her enough house-keeping money? At least they do not have children that she has to provide for like Marina did. Mitsos reels at the comparison and then pushes it aside.

  No, he will find a way to make Stella’s life more pleasant. He will find the times when Stavros goes to town and spend more time with her, talk to her, show that someone cares. Maybe he can find a way to take her to a taverna in town without upsetting Stavros, or having to take him too. If she is still having lessons with that English lady, Juliet, he could take them both out together, a thank-you to Juliet for her translation and a chance to spoil Stella.

  ‘Hey, what are you thinking?’ Marina breaks into his daydream.

  ‘Oh, I was just thinking about Stella.’ Mitsos looks at his fingernails, not sure if he wants to talk about what he was thinking. ‘It seems she needs a friend,’ he says vaguely. ‘I don’t think Stavros appreciates her as much as she deserves.’ He can feel his heartbeat. He is talking to Marina, whom he has loved from a distance for over thirty years, about a woman with whom he spends most of his time with when he is not alone. He cannot deny he misses Stella.

  ‘Well, you are good at being a good friend.’ Mitsos hears this but he can feel some anger stirring inside him. He has tried to be a good friend to Marina and it has brought him nothing but pain. He is sick of being a good friend. Damn it, he wants someone to be a good friend back, someone who will listen to him, share his woes, help him with his life. Like Stella does. He looks up and out of the window. He has a swelling feeling in his chest and a need to see her. He feels as if he is suddenly going a little bit mad, his thoughts becoming irrational. He can just see the edge of her shop through Marina's window. His heart is now loud enough to hear inside his ears. His mouth has gone dry so he looks down at his coffee, which will be difficult to drink as he is holding the saucer. It hurts to lift his arm but he does so in stages and sips the coffee off the top with the little cup still sitting on its plate. Once the coffee level drops he can probably balance it on his knee and lift the cup off. That is one thing Stella would immediately think of, to help him with that, but Marina is oblivious.