by Sara Alexi
He shakes his head and tuts. 'The poor woman knew from when she was very young that she faced a lifetime of imprisonment, never allowed to move without a bodyguard and an official decree. Can you imagine that? A life sentence, in which she must forever comply with other people’s wishes. And for what? How much power does she really have, do you think? What a terrible life, with no reprieve – ever.'
He whistles through his teeth as they round the end of the house and head into the garden.
'Ha! I didn’t know you had such a strong opinion on the Queen! I was only trying to make the point that there are people out there who have not had hard lives.'
'Yes, of course, and I was making the point that, as we all know, people’s lives can look very comfortable from the outside, but if we just examine them a little we can spot the challenges that they have lived through.'
They pass the pergola that runs along the back of the house and step onto the lawn, which Juliet battles with endlessly, trying to keep it green. At the moment it doesn’t look so bad, with spring only just over, but in a month she knows it will be a daily fight to stop it going brown and dry.
'Like you, for example,’ Miltos continues. ’You have this lovely house …' He indicates the garden with a sweep of his hand. 'You work from home, and you live in the most beautiful country in the world, and on the outside you looked blessed.'
'Oh, but I am blessed,' says Juliet. ‘That’s no illusion!’ They have stopped under the gnarled old olive tree by the back wall. Juliet puts her hand against its twisted, tortured trunk and looks up into the dense canopy of leaves, where a magpie chatters crossly and flies off.
'Yes, but look what you went through to get all of this, and how afraid it has made you to let people get close to you.'
Juliet feels her back stiffen.
'Even just talking about it scares you,' he adds, and she brushes at an insect that has landed on her hand, only to realise that the touch is Miltos interlocking his fingers with hers. The sun creates patches of light beneath the tree and her face is in full sun. She can feel the heat, the slight burn, so she moves slightly and Miltos reacts by releasing the pressure on her fingers, and she, in turn, compensates by gripping more tightly. It makes him smile.
'Tell me what I can do to make you trust me, Juliet?' he asks.
They are face to face under the hanging branches of the tree, hidden from the world, and Juliet would love to let herself fall, give in to the delicious abandonment of falling in love, the blurring of boundaries while growing closer, and the walking on air in the certainty that someone thinks she is amazing. It’s so tempting. The soft breeze hisses through the branches of the olive tree and the patches of light dance, ever-changing. If she did let go, and lost those boundaries, he would step into her world and start making changes, imposing his will, his way of doing things, and how long before she would feel swamped and feel that she must comply or else risk losing his love, losing the knowledge that someone considers her wonderful? And then how long before she ended up running to please him, just to get that feeling back again? Oh no, she is not going there again, not for any price. She gently pulls her hand free and starts to walk towards the corner of the garden.
'So there is nothing I can do, eh?' He is right behind her.
'Just let it be, Milto.'
'Do you mean let it be as in it will come with time if I don't mention it, or as in don't even try?' As he asks, he takes her hand again and she does not object.
'I don't know.' It is the most honest answer she can give him.
They are by the far fence now, the one that was there when she moved in, the interlinked wire so patchy with rust that it has become almost invisible, so well does it blend in with the environment. Beyond is the orange orchard that belongs to a policeman from Saros town. Juliet notices that the trees are laden with tiny fruit. Each year she first notices the oranges when they are hard and green and the size of her thumbnail. Now they are the size of golf balls, and they will swell over the summer, still green, to the size of tennis balls. As winter draws in, they will turn orange, and cling to the trees well into February if left undisturbed. At the front of the house, near the gate that leads out onto the lane, is a single orange tree that Juliet does not feed, or spray with chemicals, and yet every year it is so abundant with fruit she cannot eat them all unless she has juice every morning for breakfast. It is an easy topic with which to distract herself, and better than analysing herself and Miltos anyway.
'What are you thinking about?' he asks, as if reading her mood.
'Oranges,' Juliet says. 'How these trees are fed and sprayed with chemicals, and mine at the front is not, and yet mine seems to produce more fruit than these.' She almost wishes she had not spoken, so aware is she that it must be one of the most boring conversations that she has instigated.
'Well, I could come out with something cheesy and tacky, and say that some trees just bear good fruit, or mention the fact that you do not overpick or expect too much from your tree …' he muses.
'I don't even water it.'
'So there you go. Some trees are good and some are not.' Miltos looks up at the sky, where a solitary cloud, thin and wispy, hangs high in the blue. 'Shall I make some lunch? I have brought feta and tomatoes.'
Juliet feels sure she has bored him. Well, she is not going to make an effort to be wonderful company all the time. He must take her as she is, the dull parts as well.
'You can if you promise not to make a mess in the kitchen.' Juliet decides to get that rule in too, whilst she can.
His response is to grin at her as if she has made a joke, and they go back indoors hand in hand.
Chapter 20
It is a while before they actually start preparing lunch. Miltos opens the tavli board and they play several games under the vines on the terrace, drinking iced water. When he wins, he claims it is a game of skill and insists that naturally she, an English woman, a foreigner, cannot possibly compete with him. When he loses a game, he declares it is all luck and based purely on the roll of the dice, and that it takes no skill whatsoever. The way he interjects his comments into the different stages of the game has her laughing so much she forgets which colour she is, and when the match is finished he claims that he has just won the game for her because when he started she was in fact playing with the black counters and that, in the confusion, they have switched sides. He clearly does not mind in the least if he wins or loses.
When they finally start making lunch, he begins by putting together a salad, and then he does something amazing with basil, olive oil and some other herb that he picks from the garden and pours the dressing over the tomatoes.
'What was it you added?' Juliet sits opposite him at the table on the terrace.
'It was just fresh oregano,' he answers casually. 'But I think, when it is fresh, if you grind it with a pestle and mortar with a little olive oil it really releases the flavour, don’t you agree?
Juliet makes a noise of appreciation, her mouth full of tomatoes, and wonders on what occasion Miltos needed to learn the English for pestle and mortar. She concludes that he is an amalgamation of conundrums. Along with the feta, Miltos has brought some amazing bread in which there are little pieces of black olives, and Juliet can taste the olive oil it has been made with.
'Is this bread from Filipos at the village bakery?' she asks.
'Actually, no, it is from Saros. Good, isn't it?'
'It’s amazing.' They continue to eat, mostly in silence. Juliet likes that they feel comfortable not talking, aware that that can be so awkward with certain people. In fact, it seems that she is growing more comfortable with him by the hour. Sooner or later, she is going to have to make a decision whether to trust him and actually commit to the fact that they are having a relationship. That, or she must be straight with him – it is wrong to keep him hanging on.
'Do you want to go into Saros for a coffee after lunch?' he says.
Juliet nods towards the open bedroom window and shakes her head. P
oppy has chosen to eat on her own again, and she seemed quiet and withdrawn. After lunch, Juliet’s intention is to let Poppy talk more if she wants, and if she has any time after that she really needs to get on with some translation work.
'No, you go, I'll stay here.'
'Well, that would defeat the purpose,' Miltos says, 'but maybe you should go and I can stay here, and then I can really be of some use to you.'
'Actually, do you know what I think might be a good idea for Poppy?' she whispers, leaning towards him, before leaning back and speaking normally again. 'To have Marina over, and Stella if Mitsos can run the eatery for her. Also Vasso, if she can get someone else in the kiosk. We could have a carbonara, and a little wine. What do you think?'
'You want me to get a takeaway from one of the tavernas, or shall I make you my carbonara special?' Miltos says, eyebrows raised, and then he leans forward. He beckons her to lean forward too, their faces so close together over the table.
'My carbonara will lift anyone’s spirits,' he whispers, and then before Juliet can react he steals the briefest of kisses – a peck on the mouth, no more, but the suddenness of it makes Juliet laugh and Miltos's eyes dance, and he leans back as if he has won a great treasure.
'I can see I am going to have to watch you,' Juliet says, but she cannot stop smiling as she takes the plates inside and puts them in the sink. 'Do you want a frappe?' she offers.
'Actually, I won’t. If you are going to spend some time with Poppy then I might go and do a little work.'
'I thought you rented out your shop?' Juliet pauses, curious.
'I do, but I sort of do this and that for Stella too, down at the hotel by the beach.' He looks a little sheepish as he says this.
'You see, this is why I have a problem. I just get comfortable thinking I know a person and then they land something else on me that they have just happened not to mention, and I wonder what else they haven't mentioned that they might not think is a big deal but which might mean a lot to me. I mean, didn’t I ask you what you did for work?'
'You did, but at that time I wasn’t doing anything for Stella. There were only a couple of guests, and nothing that needed fixing. It happens like that. Some weeks there is a blind that has fallen down and that is all, and then the next week half a dozen air-conditioning units are playing up, three doors are sticking and the big freezer packs up.'
'And you know how to fix all that?' Juliet mixes coffee and sugar: one for herself and one for Poppy.
'Well, what I don't know I look up on the Internet,' he says. ‘And,’ he adds after a pause, ‘it’s not really a proper job. Stella doesn’t pay me much, instead she lets me stay rent free. It suits us both. I get somewhere to live, and it’s a room at the back of the hotel without a view, so she probably couldn’t rent it anyway.’
'You are a dark horse, Milto. I don't know if I like that.'
'Or love it?' He winks.
He has made her laugh, again! How does he do that over issues that bother her?
'Right,’ he says, standing. ‘I will leave you and Poppy alone, and I’ll pass by and ask all the women if they want to join this hens’ meeting of yours. And I will do a bit of shopping.'
'You want some money for the food?' Juliet asks, and Miltos grimaces as if she has insulted him, and she is smiling again as he crunches across the gravel, waving. She listens to his footsteps fade as she pushes open the door to Poppy’s room.
'Did you have enough to eat?' she asks.
'Oh yes, thank you, my dear. You seem to be getting on well with that Miltos. A good man, I think?' Juliet is not sure if this is a statement or a question.
'I think so, Poppy, but you can never be sure, can you?'
'Well, there's the thing, isn't it? If we can be sure, we find them boring, and only if we are not sure are they exciting.'
Poppy’s mood seems to have lifted. Maybe the food did her some good.
'Did you like the bread?'
'That was the Saros bakery bread, wasn't it?' she asks.
'Yes. Miltos brought it over.'
'Well, we can rest assured then that some part of him is good, if he is willing to make the effort to go out and find the best bread for you.' A little smile plays on Poppy’s lips.
'I am glad you are feeling a little better, anyway, Poppy. I was concerned for you this morning.'
'Well, that is very kind of you, but it is just history I am relating. It may trouble me, and it may still be painful, but the truth is that emotions cannot really hurt you, can they? Not like a bruised hip!’
She makes a noise that gurgles in her throat. 'And that is the nearest sound I can make to a laugh until these ribs of mine heal.'
'It is amazing you still have the capacity to laugh after what you were telling me this morning.' Juliet says this lightly and quickly to give Poppy the option of either brushing it off or, if she wants, taking the opportunity and continuing with the narrative.
'No, Pantelis did not give me much room to laugh, but wait till you hear the outcome!'
And with this, she puts down her coffee and picks up the letter from the bedside table, placing it centrally on the bed sheet in front of her, as if it is a piece of evidence. Juliet takes up her seat and makes herself comfortable. Poppy shuffles her shoulders and a dreamy faraway look comes across her face, and she starts up where she left off.
'Monica.' Poppy felt her mouth move and heard the name spoken, but it was not she who said the name, was it?
'Yes, that’s right,’ the smiling, scarlet-lipped woman replied. ‘And you are Poppy. How do you do? Pantelis has told me so much about you! He’s done nothing but sing your praises and say how well you keep the house and what a good cook you are. I declare, you put a girl to shame!' And with this she feigned embarrassment, but no colour came to her cheeks.
'And what treats do you have in store for this evening’s meal,’ asked Pantelis. ‘I am famished.' He put out his hands to take the woman’s – his wife’s – light jacket, which he then passed to Poppy. Poppy stood where she was, not knowing what to do with it.
'I don't think you will need your jacket in the house, will you, my dear? It will be just fine hung by the main door, am I right?' he spoke to Monica but Poppy understood what he was doing, telling her what to do with it, as if she were a servant.
'Oh, thank you so much.' Monica turned and purred directly at her, showing that she too understood the implication. 'Do put it on a hanger, won’t you, so it doesn’t lose its shape.'
Then she turned to Pantelis. 'Darling, this is just so – well, so fascinating,’ she gushed. ‘Look at all this old furniture and …' She stopped by the African mask. 'Things.'
She stared at the mask for a while and then shook her head as if in disbelief, before turning to the terrace doors, which stood open. 'Oh my!’ she exclaimed enthusiastically. ‘What a fabulous view!'
Pantelis hesitated for just a second, in which time his eyes locked with Poppy’s. She hadn’t moved and she still held the jacket.
'I’ll hang it with mine,' he said, and he took it from her gently and hung it on a hook. He was just on his way out to the terrace when he faltered. 'If you happen to find a hanger, that would be great, you know, at some point.'
Then he hurried out after his wife and Poppy was left standing, her mouth open, her hands still positioned as if they were holding the jacket, and her eyes wide, staring out at them in the sunlight. There were no racing thoughts in her mind; she felt quite calm and very still. There was just one, only one, question. Had she, this woman, this Monica, with her red lips and smart clothes, been part of his life all along?
Chapter 21
Was this why Pantelis never asked her to marry him? Had he been married all along? And how pregnant was the American woman, anyway? She leaned back as she walked, hand on her extended belly. She could be seven or eight months already. Poppy closed her eyes and imagined the months, to work out the timing. She could not be sure, of course, but it was clear that the life in this woman’s belly wa
s created uncomfortably soon after the loss of life in her own. But when would have been comfortable? There can be no comfort in the loss of a life! If he had been there with her through it, then allowed time for the hurt to heal, and they had moved on with their lives separately, leaving a respectful margin before taking on a new love, that would have taken a great deal more time than the few months since that tiny life was snuffed out.
Poppy’s hands eventually dropped to her sides, but still she did not move from her spot. Pantelis came back in and took a glass from the tray on the drinks table, but he put it down again when he discovered the decanter was empty. He looked at Poppy and frowned. She still did not move. She could not move; she just stood and stared.
He replaced the glass and in a falsely cheerful voice said, 'Ah, do remind me, Poppy, to order some more whisky, and anything else we need. Do we have wine?'
Poppy shook her head.
'Yes, well, I guess I haven’t been here for a while. Well, I hope you haven’t gone to too much trouble over dinner … What with there being no wine and no whisky, Monica and I might pop down to the port for a bite to eat later.'
With these words, Poppy felt, she had been dismissed, and finally her limbs found the ability to move and she retreated from the sitting room to her bedroom, where she shut the door behind her.
In the evening, she heard the sound of donkey hoofs on the stone flags outside, and then, much later, she heard them again. She secretly wished Monica great discomfort in her donkey ride to and from the taverna, and this made her wonder how much, if anything, the American woman knew about her and Pantelis? Probably nothing; she was probably completely innocent, in which case Poppy must wish her and her child well, however difficult that might be.
The following day, the donkey man delivered groceries, and Poppy found herself slipping into an old familiar role, taking the goods into the kitchen and, almost with no thought at all, preparing dinner. The calm that was upon her was one of shock, a paralysis born of her belief that there was nothing to be done, of an acceptance of her total lack of power. The whole situation was about rights, about who had the right to what. Monica had rights as Pantelis’s wife, and Pantelis had rights because he owned the house. But surely she, Poppy, had rights too? But the detail of what these rights might be proved elusive, and try as she might her thinking became fuzzy as she pondered this question, and she could not work out whether, in fact, she had overstepped the mark with Pantelis and should now stay silent, or if he had taken advantage of her and was the very worst of men. She knew if her mama was still alive she would have been horrified that the situation had got as far as pregnancy without marriage and would be demanding that Poppy get out of that house, get off the island and come home, immediately. But there was no mama now, and no home to go back to. There was no one anywhere. Even the few tentative friendships she had made on Orino Island had been neglected during the months of her self-induced isolation. Maria at the post office must have given up on her by now. Leaving to go somewhere else was simply not an option, as she was paid so little that she had saved nothing with which to support herself. She had nowhere to go – no skills that might get her a job in Athens, even if she could face moving to the city alone.
