by Sara Alexi
Next was a man who challenged passers-by to a game of tavli for a small wager. He was in the middle of a game, concentrating, a small crowd gathered around him and his young opponent.
These street sellers were almost her friends when she was homeless, at least in as far as they weren’t her enemies. But unlike her, they had places to stay and ways to make money, even if they were illegal. She could only steal and, at the time, she looked up to them as leading lives to which she could aspire.
As she took out her tiropita, which Glykeria had wrapped in a linen napkin, it occurred to her that in the hierarchy of life, the unspoken pecking order, she was now one above these people. It stopped her from taking her first bite as she looked around. Now she could see the bitten nails, the unwashed hair, the cheap plastic shoes, where before she saw the t-shirts without holes, the fact that they had shoes at all, and the wasted money that had manifested itself as tattoos, and lipstick on the women’s mouths.
But still, the feeling was there, the tension of suppressed youthful energy that society contains and, in this area, found an outlet through the street vendors’ creativity.
A crowd was gathering in the square’s centre. Through the crowd, she could see a group of boys with a cassette player, the volume of which was turned up as they began to dance. The spectators formed a circle around the boys, growing thick, and cheers and waves of excitement ran through the crowd.
Irini spotted a child, his way of moving and dress familiar. His feet were swift and silent as he made his own shoeless dance, weaving through the crowd. He had hands like moth wings, too gentle to feel and with no flamboyancy to attract anyone’s attention. But like a moth drawn to the light, his hands were pulled, always, towards the open handbags and bagging jacket pockets. He created his own rhythm but he made sure no one noticed his performance and as the cassette player’s melody wound to its conclusion, the boy, like a puff of air on gossamer, was gone. Flitting, no doubt, to another blossom, to deflower another innocent tourist.
The tiropita was delicious. Maybe Glykeria would teach her how to make them; then it could be something for her to contribute to the household.
In total, there are eight streets that exit the square and it is what Irini considered to be the eighth street that she always used to gravitate to before her yiayia’s funeral and, again, she felt drawn there now. It led to the area called Plaka.
Irini turns to see if Sam is asleep, but he hasn’t taken his eyes off her.
‘You know Plaka?’ she asks. ‘The Neighbourhood of the Gods,’ she says, looking into his eyes. He doesn’t respond. ‘Oh come on, you must know it. Everyone who has been to Athens knows it. It is all very old, near the Acropolis. Narrow streets. Even now, if you know where to go up near the top, there are tiny whitewashed huts and old people trying to live like it is the olden times with a goat tethered to a stake and a dozen chickens. No?’
Sam rolls his head against the teak decking to say no but his eyes are alive, the green reflecting the energy she is portraying. The corners of her mouth turn down and her eyebrows raise at her disbelief that he has not been there, and she continues her story.
This eighth street was crammed with narrow shops. No space had been left unexploited by the individual traders. Cellars had been converted, corridors turned into narrow emporiums, alleyways roofed and painted, shop fronts divided into two to squeeze in one more trader. Sometimes you stepped up to a shop, or descended into a cellar. Some were along corridors, the shop itself hidden around the back of other buildings, and each sold their own variation of fashion: studded leather jackets, tartan miniskirts, corseted dresses with layers of netting under the micro skirts which were displayed on shop dummies with broken fingers, paint-peeling faces and matted wigs. Others displayed t-shirts with slogans, broomsticks shoved through their arms and then suspended on string from nails hammered into whatever is solid. Thigh boots were displayed on amputated mannequin legs topped with officer’s hats liberated from armies all around the world. It sparked her imagination and thrilled her senses as incense perfumed the air and music drifted from each shop.
Irini had a sense of belonging here. Here, the rejected was given new life, the mismatched found a home. In these streets, it was possible for the alternative: to avoid becoming mainstream.
At the entrance to this road, instead of a fruit barrow, stood a man with a stall on spindle legs. With a quick movement, he could close his stall like a book, the legs falling alongside and, slinging the strap that was stapled to the wooden construction over his shoulder, he could be closed for business and running in less than three seconds. She knew; she had seen him do it when the police used to raid for the unlicensed, trying to clear the street traders on a regular basis to clean up the area.
He was still there, the man with the folding shop, selling oversized cigarette papers and silver jewellery that turned your fingers black. Bald at the front, his receding hair was held in a ponytail down his back. He had a darkness around his deep-set eyes that did not look healthy and his shaved chin was smooth and slightly shiny. She had never spoken to him, but she had heard him speak.
Behind where he always stood was a recess in the wall. It was the perfect fit when a police raid came and she needed to get out of the way. It was also a good place to eat her stolen fruit and still be able to watch the world whilst remaining hidden. She stepped next to it. It smelt of urine and looked a lot dirtier than she remembered.
The man with the folding shop served someone. He was short-tempered and could not be bothered with the customer’s questions. His accent when speaking Greek was thick.
He was English.
It struck her as odd that someone with such a privileged background, brought up in England that has a welfare system, should end up selling cigarette papers off an illegal stand on a dingy street in Athens. She could remember thinking when she first heard him speak, in her fruit-stealing days, that, surely, when you have such a privileged upbringing, you must only end so low by choice.
At this point in her story, Irini stammers and a rush of heat climbs her neck. She looks over to Sam, the English pirate, but there is no sign that he has taken this comment personally and so she continues.
The first shop, down this street that she loved, sold shoes. Ridiculous shoes with platform soles and high heels, boots that did up with buckles up to the knees and heels so high that twisting an ankle would be an ever-present danger. She liked that the designers had stepped out of the conventional and looked at footwear with a disregard for tradition.
The next shop was in a basement. It sold French horns and bagpipes, vinyl records and medals. It never appealed much. Beyond that was a girl who designed her own clothes. Very friendly but never seemed to sell much.
And so it went on. And on. Until the street abruptly ended where another street crossed it. The land opposite was bare earth offering the occasional top of an ancient wall, waiting for an archaeologist to come and investigate. The house on the right corner was private and the place on the left, a taverna.
Her tiropita was all gone and her break must surely have been over.
Loud voices at the taverna made her casually glance over. One of the men speaking was taking a bouzouki out from a hard case. She loved music; she would stay just for the first chord. The spindly tree she leant against gave her shade. The paving flags beneath it cracked and raised, roots forcing their way through, demanding room. She shifted her feet to find flat stones, greater comfort. From practice, she knew how to use the tree to half-obscure her, leaning against it, melting into its shape.
A chord was struck and an old rebetika song echoed across and back from the ancient ruins. Someone began to sing and then a tall man with broad shoulders and narrow hips with his back to her stood, moved by the music, his arms thrown out to the side. His dark hair was wavy and long enough to touch his collar. Crumpled jeans suggested he was in need of an iron, or an ironer, but his boots, with Cuban heels, had been carefully polished. He moved with joy and with a
certain delicacy that well-built men sometimes have. It was as if he was full of helium and was having trouble staying grounded, bouncing on his toes from step to step, his neck loose, his head rolling in response to the rest of his body. The sun drenched him and the musician. It was as if he was rejoicing to be alive, like a butterfly caught in a draft, blowing happily, with rhythm, whichever way the wind blew.
Then he turned.
His eyes, creased in the corners, danced without seeing, lost to the rhythm. His chest expanded in his jubilation and his soft smile was that of a man without a care in the world, and the ground shifted beneath Irini’s feet. He was the inverse of all the darkness she had seen and felt. He was on fire with being alive and she saw how different the world could be depending on how you chose to view it.
‘I don’t know how long I was standing there staring at him dancing. I didn’t even hear one song become another and the rhythm change, but all of a sudden, I was snapped out of my wonderful thoughts as, in time to the music, he stepped towards me. His hand was held out, inviting me to join him. His arm slipped over my shoulders and side by side, we danced, our free arms outstretched and I become part of his joy. His exuberance was infectious, the world open to me, and anything was possible. And what was possible, became.’
Lost in the feelings her story evokes in her, she doesn’t move, lying there enjoying all the wonders of Petta, all he has done for her just by breathing, just by being alive, just by loving her. What was possible was love, and it was his love that healed so many of her wounds, all except the ones that were too much for him to bear to hear, or ones she thought were too harsh to tell. But even without knowing everything, he has pulled her from her melancholy into a way to live life without sadness and for that, not only does she love him but she is grateful. He saved her.
She turns to look at Sam.
Chapter 14
In its stifling temperature the room is more like a greenhouse than an office. The geranium on top of Demosthene’s filing cabinet bears testimony to this with its many lofty blooms and bushy undergrowth. They should get a better air conditioning unit, or a separate one specifically for the Commander’s office. But then if they never keep the windows anything but wide open how is the air meant to stay cool?
Captain Yorgo’s nicotine stained finger hooks under the neckline of his t-shirt and pulls but there is no breeze to circulate. He should be on board Artemis now, the wind in his face, the discordant cadence of the sea beneath the hull soothing his soul. That and with several hundred euros in his pocket. The air rasps through his lungs as he sighs.
The party booked in today have two teenage girls amongst them. He may be of maturing age but he is not beyond appreciating beauty. By now their fresh, young bodies would be laying on his deck, exposed in bikinis as they bathe in the sun’s tanning rays. As captain he would be at the wheel. In fact it would be his duty to be master of the helm, keeping watch for their course, looking down the length of his boat, their tanning bodies ever in his field of view. The sigh repeats itself but this time catches and he hacks out a cough, curling a fist over his mouth, his frame heaving.
Maybe if this is such a big international incident he can find someone to cover at last his loss of earnings. With a big enough outcry perhaps he could even get public support. Maybe he can sell his story to the news people?
A flotilla is coming into moor. Six boats, all of them badly positioned trying to work out which of them should go first. One is dropping its anchor even though it is close the harbour wall and the chain will just hang uselessly, straight down into the water. The crew, who are all in swim suits seem more interested in looking at Saros town, with one arm raised, their hands shielding the sun from their eyes. A Greek man from what must be the lead boat is shouting instructions to them but they seem not to be listening. Yorgos looks away. He has seen it so many times before. What was once amusing is now just boring. As long as they keep away from his spot they can do what they like.
Short of Artemis being sunk he can think of no reason why she will not be returned to him. If she is sunk then, after the insurance pays out, it is just a question of starting again to make all those little changes to make a new yacht useful for his purposes. He would need a better depth gauge for a start, and a frame for a tarpaulin shade over the cockpit. Why those does not come as standard is beyond him. The steps to go below are always difficult to remove to get at the engine so they would need adapting. He had solved this problem in Artemis with some steps he fashioned himself, that fold up flat. They do sometimes drop down instead, and have caused him to fall once or twice, but on the whole his design is a great improvement.
The thought of all he will have to do to make a new boat as comfortable as Artemis exhausts him. But he must look on the bright side, there is no reason for her to be sunk. She will be returned and when she is at least she will be spotlessly clean. Irini has had hours to do a really good job. Maybe if he calls her he could remind her to do the bilges as well, oh and inside the wardrobe in his cabin where a bottle of tsipouro fell over last week. It is very sticky in there now. In fact he should make her clean his cabin more often, weekly maybe, although it just doesn't feel comfortable knowing she is in there, in his own personal private space. He would find it hard to sleep in there with the knowledge that someone has been poking around. Getting the sheets changed is one thing, she is in and out in a couple of seconds, but spending time cleaning, it just feels exposing somehow.
He takes out his cigarettes and flips open the top to find the pack empty. Looking over Demosthene’s desk he can see papers, a letter opener, a desk lighter, a carved African figure, two small coffee cups on saucers and a full ashtray but no cigarettes. The men in the main part of the office, all of whom look to young to be in the Port Police, as they scurry about in their pressed white shirts, have the clean scrubbed look of non-smokers. He is going to have to endure walking to the kiosk in the main square. He can already feel his legs complaining at the thought.
At the top of the steps he takes a firm hold of the handrail but stops to listen. One of the port police is on the phone, and the person on the other end is talking loud enough for him to hear. It is a producer from Ant-1, they have heard about the situation and they are sending a camera team down. They want to interview Commander Demosthenes for national television.
'No, I will have to ask him, but I don't think he will want to do a television interview. He is not in the office at the moment. I suggest you call back in half an hour.' The lieutenant puts the phone down.
Yorgos begins his descent. His left leg is worse. One at a time. He should do a deal with the kiosk, they would deliver his cigarettes if he bought them in bulk and then he wouldn't have to walk. Not that that would be any use right now, he is just glad that there is nothing of value aboard the boat. Just the boat itself.
At the bottom of the stairs Demosthenes is taking his leave of Marina and Petta, his foot on the bottom step ready to go up. Petta looks like he is about to return with him but Marina is faced away and beginning to walk.
'Are you sure you don't want me to go Mama?' Petta asks.
Demosthenes nods at Yorgos as they pass on the bottom step.
Marina shakes her head, fanning herself with a newspaper. 'No agapi mou, a little walk to the kiosk will be nice for me. Do you want anything, a bottle of water, ice-cream?' She smiles but there anxiety in her face.
'No Mama, you could get a packet of pistachios. I don't feel hungry but I must be.' Petta’s smile is sad, and when he turns to go up the stairs he recoils as if surprised to see Yorgos standing there. With the sun on Petta's face his brown eye are a firey amber. It occurs to Yorgos that many of these so called 'mild' mannered people have unexpected dangerous, passions. He steps to one side to let Petta pass. The sun is directly overhead and he pulls his peaked, black felt captain’s hat further down over his brow to shield his eyes.
The streets between the old stone mansions on the harbour front are not really wide enough for modern cars
and although they have not been designated pedestrian many of the tavernas have spread tables and chairs across the roads. The one beneath the port police are setting up huge square umbrellas to offer shaded lunches. The waiters have their names embroidered onto their white shirts and one of them, Spiros, acknowledges Yorgos. He eats there occasionally, usually on a client’s invitation.
The upstairs of these grand cut-stone mansions are still residential, but gone are the days of grand living. Paying homage to Venetian influence the footprint of each of them is square, a narrow road running parallel to each side. Time and damp have reduced these beautiful buildings to cheap rented accommodation. The shutter’s paint peels, the wrought iron balconies appear unsafe, the red tiled roofs are all in need of some attention.
'Marina,' he calls, but his legs will not hurry after her. Each step is a torment. She turns. 'I am going to the kiosk. We will walk together,' he calls. Marina’s eyebrows are lifted, creasing the centre of her forehead into deep lines. This worried look does not lessen when he speaks but she does wait for his slow step.
'What's wrong with your legs then?' she asks directly, the tension in her face not easing.
