When I get to the harbour, men are pulling wood out of the water: pieces of a ship that brought illegal immigrants a few years ago, including Saeed and a couple of other boys. They'd been through terrible experiences in the Middle East, lost family, and were abandoned by people traffickers who brought them from Turkey and left them on a remote part of Tilos. The boat's been sitting in the harbour ever since, but finally sank in the last big storm, and locals are carting off bits they can put to use.
I get a seat at the back of the ferry: the centre at the back is the best place to be in bad weather. Once on the open sea the catamaran bounces up and down, climbing and descending some very large waves. People groan and dash to the toilets to be sick. An army officer hurries down the stairs and to the bathroom with his hand over his mouth, looking decidedly green. I don't often get seasick, but I'm feeling so queasy with cold sweats and a nasty headache that I even consider getting off the boat when we stop at the island of Halki, though it would mean being stuck there for two days. But it's only another hour: I can handle it. An old lady in black embarks at Halki and sits next to me, commenting that the sea is calm, bonantza. I don't like to tell her that's only the harbour; before long she is closing her eyes and moaning. On arrival, I reward myself with a good hot chocolate in one of my favourite cafes.
Back home in Tilos, I am watching a nice American video online to learn how to cook squid. Although the chef is genuinely helpful with showing how to clean and prepare it, he annoys me when he smugly talks about the salad to go with it, the basil leaves and green beans. It's not his fault, of course, but it's best not to look at recipes for things we don't have and can't buy.
Lately the fishermen have been seeing big turtles in the sea, and catching lots of squid – this is the season for them. Stelios arrived home late yesterday and stomped in the door as usual, sweatpants tucked into his heavy white rubber boots, clutching a dirty looking plastic bag full of squid and cuttlefish. I'd made dinner, but as he fell asleep (he really does think about food when he's going to sleep) he said, 'You cook the kalamaria and the soupia tomorrow, however you like.'
I haven't had a lot of experience cooking squid and cuttlefish. I watch the video a couple of times and am bracing myself for the new experience when Stelios conveniently arrives home early and says he'll do the cooking. Phew.
There's not a lot of preamble when it comes to Stelios in the kitchen. True to form, within minutes he's standing over a kitchen sink full of dirty dishes in his fishing wellies and padded red rain jacket, removing cuttlefish bones with his hands.
'Can you get me a knife?'
I pass him a knife and soon notice this has little in common with the neat slicing work of the nice American video. Googly eyes are excised with precision so as not to waste a thing. Fishermen who pull squid out of the sea with their hands don't waste bits. People who live with fishermen tend to find unidentified globs of fishy stuff lurking in the washing-up. It's all a bit much since my head has been buried in the rarefied work of editing a book until moments ago. I skulk off outside to get some fresh air.
'You must watch so you know how to do it,' says Stelios, calling me back.
Unfortunately, as the ink sacs start ripping, everything gets very black and I can't make head nor tail, so to speak, of what's going on. But I do remember one bit from the video.
'Aren't you supposed to remove the stomach?'
'No, it's tasty, we cook all! And the ink.'
OK… I help by chopping an onion and heating oil, as instructed. Minutes later there's a shiny, thick, pitch black soup of bodies and tentacles and ink bubbling and spitting away on the cooker. I survey the scene around us: it looks like we've invited Jackson Pollock over to do the cooking.
'We can add rice if you like,' says Stelios.
I like the idea of rice but am still unsure if I'll like the squid and cuttlefish. I suppose I'm just having snail flashbacks; it's all rather pungent and earthy. We slosh in some water and red wine from time to time. And then he scoops up a bit of shiny black risotto for me to taste.
'Oh – it's amazing!'
Stelios beams, relieved that I like it. It's sweet and savoury together, deeply flavoursome, strange but wonderful. Perfect with a light frisée salad with garlicky, mustardy dressing – luckily, as that's what happened to be in the fridge.
On a blissfully warm and sunny February afternoon, I walk through Eristos valley, the fields full of big white daisies and poppies, and stroll along the seashore with my feet in the sea, dreaming of spring. The storms have damaged some of the trees, and the beach is full of bits of plastic that get washed up. But it's very wild and beautiful.
The next morning, I drive to Livadia to pay the car insurance at the bank and am early enough to pop into the zaharoplasteio to buy a spanakopita. A zaharoplasteio usually specialises in sweets, but Roula makes savoury pastries, too, including some of the best spinach pie money can buy, and it sells out quickly. I go inside and ask her how she is, but immediately see she's not well at all – she's been crying.
She sighs. 'Ah, my cousin died…'
'Oh… I'm so sorry. Your cousin…?'
'Vangelis.'
No… My heart leaps in my chest.
I go to sit by the sea as the news sinks in.
Vangelis 'Zorba' Papadopoulos, loved by so many. We've all known he had cancer.
People say that when he ran his own restaurant he was generous to an extreme – customers always became friends. For the short time I knew him, he seemed to live every day doing what he loved – the simple things, being around friends and family. He was so full of humour, had such a good heart; he became friends with many visitors who loved the island as he did. He felt that the foreigners breathed new life into Tilos.
I remember the days when I'd be swimming in Livadia and he'd drive by on his scooter, tell me to come for dinner at eight. He'd talk with feeling about growing up in Mikro Horio; island traditions he wanted to preserve, like making charcoal on the mountain in the winter, and looking after goats and sheep. I helped him print up the short book he'd written about Tilos in the past, so he could sell it. He was thinking of writing a new one.
He went away for treatment. But then he was back to his usual joking self, and last summer he insisted on working in his son's meze restaurant, or ouzeri. He was always welcoming guests on to the busy terrace at Gorgona. Ingrid, who translated his book for him, said in September that his voice was occasionally failing. When did I last see him? It was late in the year I think, when he was leaving on the big ferry to see a doctor. I asked how he was and he said he wasn't well. He looked tired.
The funeral is the following day; he died in Rhodes, but he will be buried in the cemetery in Livadia. The day is freezing cold, but there is bright sunshine. It seems most of the island gathers for his funeral in the courtyard of the stately white church by the sea. I recognise and say hello to a few; most look distraught; it is terrible to see his elderly mother who only recently saw another son die. The island doesn't have a hearse, so in Tilos style, Vangelis is taken to his final resting place in a flat-bed truck. The whole crowd walks behind the truck to the cemetery on the back road, where the priest says a few words, then everyone takes a handful of earth and throws it on the coffin.
There is no feeling of a celebration of Vangelis' life at the funeral; it is all raw pain. But privately I celebrate the man he was – someone who believed in enjoying every day. I go home and, amid intermittent internet connection because the rain and thunder are back, I find out that my mum and stepdad enjoyed their wedding anniversary the previous day, Valentine's Day, and my brother got engaged to his girlfriend: news to warm the heart. I'm also holding a happy secret inside me that won't allow me to grieve too much.
Chapter 13
Perfect
When I noticed my period was two weeks late, I was hopeful, and once I mentioned it to Stelios, he immediately rode his motorbike to the pharmacy in Livadia to buy a pregnancy test. I was hesitant as it's hard to hav
e any secrets in a place where everyone knows everyone, but Stelios asked the pharmacist to keep quiet. We were both so excited – but the test said no. Then I started to worry, because if I wasn't pregnant, what was causing my period to be late? What was causing the hard pressure inside me – something bad? I woke in the night, tossing and turning as the wind howled around the house, feeling my way down the staircase to the icy bathroom.
Then I tried a second test a few days later, and it was positive. A blood test confirmed it. As if that weren't enough proof, I feel sick and tired all day.
One day I must drag myself out of the house to see the schoolkids, but the only thing I can face eating is half a smoked cheese, which I devour straight from the packet as I stand by the fridge. Other days I dream of comfort food, cheddar cheese and baked beans on white toast – inconvenient since you can't buy cheddar or baked beans and we don't have a toaster.
As I've heard one Greek man say to another: 'There are three things you can never hide. Pregnancy, love, and a cough.'
Stelios arrives home with a massive 30-litre container of fresh olive oil, which he immediately starts decanting into bottles on the doorstep while a few feet away I'm trying to have a serious scheduled Skype chat with my boss in the UK. I have to laugh. Unfortunately the smell of home-made bread and thick green olive oil makes me nauseous; all I want to eat is tinned food. It's so wrong. One day I have a serious urge to eat spaghetti bolognese, and since the butcher doesn't have any fresh meat, Stelios has to beg and borrow from someone.
Pregnant isn't a pretty word in Greek: egios, it's easy to remember as it sounds like an egg with an oddly masculine ending. I've been hoping for this moment for years, but I am hopelessly uneducated in the matter of pregnancy; thankfully there are plenty of online resources, but all they tell me is that I can't buy any of the things I need to eat in Tilos.
I go to Rhodes to see the doctor – Stelios suggests I register with a private one recommended by his cousin – and the scan reveals a tiny, two-month-old creature with a steadily beating heart, although it's still not exactly clear to me which way is up. 'Perfect!' says the doctor. He sends me off for more tests and then I enjoy a sunny afternoon and a big pizza, and shop for kiwi fruit and red peppers. On the ferry back, late in the evening, I see Dimitris; we sit together on the way home, and I can't help telling him my news. He harrumphs, and says something about King Herod, and the unhappy couples he knows with children.
Two months is early to start telling people – anything could happen until the first three months are up. And yet it's very difficult to go about daily life without explaining why I can't drag open the cumbersome wood-and-wire gate to the honey factory, or why I have to go to Rhodes. So we tell people; we decide we need all the help and support and understanding we can get. I then have to deal with people telling me to take care all the time. It's bad enough with Stelios watching my every move – now I can't go to the shop without being told to be careful, that I shouldn't do this or that. Of course they mean well, but it makes me grumpy. It's as if I'm no longer the owner of my own body; I'm carrying something precious that belongs to someone else – to Stelios, to his family, to the whole island.
'How's the baby?' people ask.
How on earth do I know?
'I hope for the best,' I say.
Late February is the start of Lent, which brings the Apokries celebration; in Greek, it means the time you turn away from meat, and is celebrated something like Halloween, with people dressing up in funny or ghoulish costumes and masks. As with most Greek parties, it starts at midnight. It's probably my general exhaustion but I haven't yet grasped the appeal of going out at midnight when, in February, it's been cold and dark and silent around our isolated house for hours, and it's hard to imagine a party happening anywhere. I have a good excuse to miss it – I can't spend all night in boisterous company in a smoky bar. But thankfully I don't have to be a complete killjoy because, a couple of days later, Stelios and I are invited by his friend Yorgos to a lunch with a dozen friends to celebrate Kathari Deftera, Clean Monday. This is the first of the forty days of Lent – the time of cleansing of both body and spirit to prepare for Easter.
The original plan was to have a picnic lunch outside at the monastery of Ayios Panteleimon, but thanks to a morning rainstorm, we don't have to brave that treacherous road where I always have visions of a rockslide, a tiny slip of the steering wheel… Instead, we are gathering at En Plo, one of the tavernas set back from Eristos beach, owned by Yorgos' family. I always worry about being invited to occasions where I'm the only non-Greek. Will I fit in? Will it be embarrassing not being able to follow the conversation? But everyone's in a good mood, and they compliment me on my Greek, though I only understand about half of what is said. Apostolis is there, and we blame him for everything, as he introduced us… We joke that we'll send him the doctor's bill.
Stelios is enjoying himself, relaxing with a drink and talking to his friends about his baby. I am happy, too, but I know things can go wrong, and want to be cautious until we know for sure that it's OK. He keeps insisting that I joke to another couple, 'Seira sas,' your turn next. I don't want to; there may be any number of reasons why they don't have children. In his cups, he keeps goading me, 'Go on, say it, go on… Hey, Jennifer has something to tell you…' I have to be obstinate and say no.
The long table is piled with barbecued squid and octopus, loads of taramasalata, cockles, prawns, bean salads and chickpea fritters, and halva for dessert. Anything with blood, or milk or eggs is forbidden. We bring beetroot with garlic dressing, which no one eats.
The tradition is to go out and fly kites afterwards, but everyone is collapsing after eating so much. It feels like Christmas Day, and it gives me a warm glow to have lived a little more of Tilos life, thanks to Stelios. Since I've not been drinking wine, I go home and work afterwards, while everyone else is snoozing.
I was looking forward to the solitary days of winter: evenings wrapped up in blankets, reading piles of books, a glass of red and a glowing fire.
The blankets are no problem. Unfortunately, by early March I've run out of books to read and because the ferries are affected by storms and strikes, the post doesn't bring my new order; I could buy ebooks but when I look at text on a screen for much of the day, I can't bear to do that for pleasure. As for that nice glass of red, Stelios will barely let me take a sniff of the glass in my current condition. We can't have a real fire in this house; Delos says he's ordered an air conditioner but because of the ferry problems, it hasn't arrived. The big storms that blow up to 10 Beaufort take out the power for hours – the rating of storms on the Beaufort scale quickly becomes part of your vocabulary when you live on a Greek island in the winter, and 10 is fearsome – so we can't even use the little heater. Mould creeps into the cupboards and wardrobes, coating belongings, and grey patches appear on the walls. I dream of a thick duvet, a hot water bottle, a day when we won't have to worry about losing another modem to lightning. I sleep for 12 hours straight.
One evening is brightened by the making of halva. I've always thought of halva as the very sweet sesame cake that you buy in packets or in slabs from the supermarket; so sweet that I like it best eaten with yoghurt. But I learn from Stelios there's another kind, made from semolina. As a child, I hated semolina: bland white gloop with a blob of red jam to make it tasty. I think I've changed my mind when I taste this. We tip half a kilo of honey into a pan with water and, as it heats up, add the zest of a fresh orange, some cinnamon and a few cloves. In another pan we heat olive oil, then stir in the dry semolina as if it were risotto, keeping it moving until all the oil is absorbed and the whole thing is cooking without burning. The two pans get mixed together with sultanas and crushed walnuts, and the mixture is pressed into bowls and left to cool into a delicious dessert.
When a freezing cold wind blows hard for two days, I can't go out while weak and groggy, nauseous and exhausted; an umbrella is useless and the rains wash away the dirt roads around our house. The on
ly rubber boots I have are a second-hand pair of Stelios', with a hole in one of them. There's no indoor swimming pool or gym, cinema or library here.
'You'll have to learn to play cards, Jennifer,' said someone, laughing kindly. 'That's what everyone does here.'
I don't like cards but I try accompanying Stelios on a couple of his evenings at the biriba tournament. The game brings together a diverse group of people who seem to have one thing in common apart from their love of cards: chain-smoking. I sit there trying to be sociable while not actually breathing very much. Though I enjoy the atmosphere at Mikro Kafe, I soon get sick of drinking sweet hot chocolate. I drink so much mixed fruit juice from a box that I will never be able to tolerate the smell of it again.
When Stelios can't go fishing because the seas are rough, he sits at home, playing biriba on his computer and reading odd news items, talking to me from time to time. I'm sure he only wants to keep me company, but it's tricky when I'm trying to concentrate on work – which is often – in our tiny house where the kitchen/ living room is also my office. I've had so much work this winter, which in some ways is good since we now need all the money we can get, but the deadlines seem endless and, along with English sessions and pregnancy, it's wearing me down. My tiredness exacerbates our communication problems.
An Octopus in My Ouzo Page 10
