Signs of a Struggle

by Tony Kaplan

  Stelios brings him an ouzo and puts one down for me too, but he does not join us. He goes back to sitting in his seat by the door and looks into the distance, immersed in his thoughts.

  Antonis – he waves away my calling him “Inspector” – and I have a pleasant chat about literature – he is a fan of John le Carre – and football – a male bonding thing. He supports Iraklis, the team from Thessaloniki, who are not doing too well and are in need of a new manager. He wonders if Arsene Wenger could be tempted. He laughs with gusto at his outrageous suggestion. He asks me about London and the club scene – he’d love to visit and meet English girls. He has all the CDs of Coldplay including X+Y, which has only just become available in Athens, he tells me enthusiastically.

  “Tonight I must be with my cousin, but maybe tomorrow we will dine together, no?” he says with hope in his voice. “It will be my pleasure,” he says sweetly, hand on heart, to show me he is not just being polite. My “new best friend”.

  7

  As I am approaching the Sea View, the same taxi which brought the Inspector (I recognise the driver) pulls up, and an excited young woman jumps out and into the onrushing open arms of Michalis. “Xanthe! Kori mou!” Michalis shouts, his eyes closed in rapture as he hugs her. Nitsa waits her turn with a benevolent smile, eventually Michalis gives up the new arrival into Nitsa’s firm embrace.

  An old woman, all in widow’s black, effecting a dignified bearing, even though she leans heavily on her walking stick, emerges from the shadows cast by the awnings and the young woman grins at her and hugs her. “Giagia,” she sighs. Giagia – I know giagia, to my ears “yaya”, means grandmother – the young woman must be Michali’s daughter. The giagia must be the legendary, Stavroula, Michali’s mother. Stavroula’s coal black eyes smolder with pride as she holds her granddaughter away from her to see her properly. I feel a prick of a tear. I wonder whether my Greek grandmother would have bathed me in so much pride, so much love. I think I’ll eat here tonight, be part of the warmth of Greek family life. I do so hope Lucy is back and we can come here together. This atmosphere will be just right for our reunion.

  Michalis, frowning, counts out a few notes for the taxi driver and instructs him in an off-hand way to carry his daughter’s suitcase and bags inside. He resumes his proud, beaming smile. His daughter returns to his embrace. He kisses her on the forehead, and with his arm around her shoulder, they go inside. Stavroula sees me watching them. She dismisses me contemptuously. There is something harsh in her eye, determined, malevolent. She shuffles round and takes herself inside. Funny old bat! My e-mail to New World Order can wait. Stavroula for one would not appreciate my intrusion.

  I walk up the lane to my abode, grinning to myself, and suddenly I just know that Lucy is back (I’m intuitive like that), I begin to plan what I am going to say when I first see her and she gives me that ironic smile of hers. “I forgive you and absolve you of all the sins we’re about to commit, honey child,” I’ll say and bless her pontifically with the sign of the cross. My smile broadens at my own wit.

  The curious stare of the ancient lady leaning on the front gate of the decrepit house across the road makes me aware that my lips are moving.

  “Geia sou,” I say in greeting. She grunts and mumbles complaints to herself, then turns and shuffles back to her front door, still murmuring her disgruntlement.

  I go to Lucy’s front door, turn the handle silently and press – she’s locked it. I insert the key, my smile still imprinted on my face, unlock the latch, turn the handle… and burst in. The stillness and emptiness of the room assaults me. The room is as I’ve left it. No sign of Lucy.

  Oh, well. Intuition is not a science.

  Not time for dinner yet, so I may as well read the articles I downloaded on the environmental shit that is going down on the Greek coastline – may as well get up to speed. Lucy will be impressed, and when she gives me the story she’s brewing, I won’t come over as a complete idiot. In fact, I intend to come over as well-informed and interested. But is there a link to the body in the bridge? If there is, I can’t see it yet.

  I open my laptop, find the articles and begin to read. It’s the usual story of good spin and zero delivery. The “Natura 2000 Project” so-called, under the auspices of the Ministry of Production, Environment and Energy (I just know which of those three Directorates has the smallest offices) has demarcated coastal areas of environmental sensitivity as “Special Protected Areas” to bring Greece into line with the EU’s Integrated Coastal Zone Management regulations (in order, no doubt, to qualify for generous EU environmental protection funding). But since then, there have been squabbles in parliament and between departments about zoning and boundaries, with the elaborately named Directorate of Biodiversity Protection, Soil and Waste Management coming off second and sometimes third best. The Deputy Minister in charge has more recently thrown in the towel (or should that be trowel) and devolved decision-making to local municipal level, that is to the Mayors of the contested areas, to resolve. This had led to some controversial reversals and “concessions”, and an NGO (not named in the report I was reading) had taken action through the Council of State to have the ministerial decision over-ruled. (I make a note to try to find out which NGO that was.) Could this be what Lucy is on to? This sounds like her territory. There is more to read, but enough for now.

  I close the laptop, take a shower and get dressed to go out for dinner. I am feeling pleasantly warm from my first light sunburn. I examine my image in the mirror. My skin has darkened. I see a pleasing resemblance to my father in the picture of him from his student days. Do I need to shave? – no, the stubble makes me look rugged. And more local. I want to look my best in case Lucy shows up. Which reminds me: I must leave a note to say I’m at the Seaview for dinner and ask her to join me. I find some note paper, scribble a Dearest Lucy message, deliberate on sticking it to the fridge or the front door, decide on the front door, and go out. I find I am whistling. I never whistle.

  Michalis greets me warmly. “Come, my friend, come sit. Here, a good table for you,” he ushers me to a beachfront table for two, dimly lit. He lights the candle in its blue glass holder on the table. “Psomi,” he says to himself, “Bread… I will get and come,” and he hurries off. The waitress with the copper blonde ringlets ambles over. “Something to drink?”

  “Pos se lene?” I ask her name, trying out my phrasebook Greek.

  “Agapi,” she says, with a look of curious amusement. Buoyed by Lucy’s return, I feel gregarious, magnanimous, lucky.

  “Agapi?” I try it out, smiling to put her at ease.

  “No, Agapi – chg, chg – Achgapi,” she says with mock exasperation.

  “Achgapi,” I say tentatively, sounding the guttural “chg” (like “loch”, I tell myself) like I am clearing my throat.

  She chuckles. “No, Agapi,” she says. When she says her name, it is with a soft elision, like a cat’s purr. Her eyes close in an endearing muting of her pride that she has such a name, one that can conjure itself into a sound of intimacy, one she can use as a joke or a gift. When she opens her eyes, I see how emerald they shine. Her face is gently yellowed by the candlelight, her strong cheekbones and full lips accentuated.

  “Agapi. What it means?” I ask in my best assimilated English for Greeks.

  “It means ‘Love’,” she says and looks at me amusedly, ironically. “I did not give myself this name,” she jokes. She wears her cynicism lightly. She knows the effect announcing her name has on most men, the ribald reposts that are sure to follow. But her humorous inflection suggests she regards me as different from those sort of men. I am gratified, collusive, and surprised to feel a flock of butterflies take flight in my chest.

  “Hilarious,” I say, to show her I get her jokiness. “Agapi,” I try out her name again, and in spite of myself, I find I pronounce it with a seductive inflection.

  She waggles her head, and grins back at me. “And you?”

  “Oh, I’m Tom,” I say and then don’t k
now if I should offer my hand. No, better not. Not cool. I should be cool and English. But friendly. Should I get up and kiss her on both cheeks? Would she expect… No, better not. I keep my hands firmly on the table cloth and lift the apex of my eyebrows like Brad Pitt, as if to say, what do you think of that? Fuck, I am such an idiot!

  “So, Tom, what you want to drink?” she says eventually, releasing us both from the awkward moment.

  I order a beer and she goes off, a small smile curving her full lips at their corners in a quiet affirmation of her allure. Michalis comes back and places a menu and the basket of bread in front of me and adjusts the cutlery. “I spoke with Christos from The Poseidon. He hasn’t seen your friend either. But you can go and see him. He is away for maybe three days, but after. He will show you The Poseidon – is nearly finish. Nai?”

  “Oh,” I tell him, “No worries. I think Lucy is back.”

  Before he can take this in, his daughter sidles up to him and puts her arms around his waist. “Paterouli mou,” she says.

  “Ah, asteri mou,” Michalis says contentedly. He has missed his daughter. Turning to me and putting his arm around his daughter’s shoulder, he says, “This is my daughter, my little lamb,” he says, and kisses her on the side of her head. “Xanthe.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” I say. “I’m Tom.”

  “Hello, Tom,” Xanthe says with a hint of flirtation that confirms I am making a good impression on the local women. I hope Lucy will be as impressed. Xanthe and her father go off arm-in-arm. Nice.

  Then I notice Yiannis from next door, looking at me with a look of hurt. I am supporting his competitor. I wave and nod a greeting. I will go to his place later I decide. I signal to him. He turns away.

  At a table further into the taverna a family of a father, a mother and their two early teenage sons are sitting down. The father is flustered and organizing the seating arrangement in a loud authoritative voice and with extravagant hand gestures. His sons look unamused, his wife indifferent. She is bloated and rubicund. She and the husband are dressed smartly. Their boys have on short-sleeved checkered shirts with crisply ironed creases, probably bought cheaply by their mother from a supermarket. These are people from the village up in the mountain on a night out, people who were regarded as well-off before, who will now get left behind by progress. Michalis comes out and greets the father enthusiastically. They hug and slap each other on the back. The wife looks relieved and coy. Michalis chats easily to the boys as he hands out the menus. The older boy’s responses are monosyllabic. The younger one says nothing but looks at Michalis suspiciously. Their father is magnified by the special attention of the taverna owner and he beams at his family indulgently. Michalis leaves them to consider their options.

  I examine my menu. Lots of tempting looking starters. And fresh fish. But the prices are not cheap. They have been tailored to the European tourists with their euros and dollars. I glance over at the village family. The father is studying his menu intently. I can see the worry in his frown as he sees the prices, his self-importance deflates. He whispers something to his wife without looking up. She gives the merest glimmer of a grimace, which he just catches out of the corner of his eye. He glares at her, but the wrinkle in his brow implores her to be kind to him, to show solidarity. The older boy points to something on the menu to his younger brother and they laugh. The father is realizing that he cannot afford this restaurant. It was a bad idea. But he can’t get up and walk out. Michalis comes back with two glasses of ouzo, which his gesture indicates is complimentary. The paterfamilias accepts his drink politely, his smile frozen. His wife silently refuses hers, Michalis returns inside with the glass. The father goes back to studying his menu. He leans over and talks quietly to his wife. He needs her cooperation and support. She turns to the sons and says something, which is either bland or dismissive. The older boy looks at his father with disdain, points at the menu and says something which his brother laughs at, and suddenly his father can’t contain his anxiety, and to release himself, he slaps his older son and wags his finger at him. The wife sits stiffly back and avoids eye contact with anyone. The younger boy glares at his father accusingly – he was partly responsible for his father’s rage. The older boy is at first shocked, then embarrassed, then hurt. He looks at his father incredulously, silent angry tears coming to his eyes.

  Agapi has been watching them also. She goes inside and emerges moments later with a bottle of water and four glasses. She sets these down and regards the father coolly. The wife looks her up and down. Agapi says something to the father and by her sweeping gesture, I work out she is making a suggestion for their order. She says something to enthuse the boys, and they nod. I sense she is from a village too. She knows these people. She has found a way to make this okay. They will keep their dignity. The father looks grateful and relieved. “Nai,” he says decisively, and puts his menu down. He glances at his family for their approval, but they all avoid his eye. He sips his ouzo, considers it, and pronounces it to his liking, “Kala!” He sits back and looks around him with a superior look, his status restored.

  Both parties of German tourists at tables along the veranda studiously avoid looking at him. One group is dominated by expressions of disdain, the other with a patronizing sympathy. I realize I am tending to the latter and affect an analytic countenance, neither one thing nor another. But I don’t want to appear to be rude or indifferent. I settle on feeling sad.

  Agapi comes to take my order. I could afford culinary excellence at a price, but feel this will shame the village family. I order something modest. Agapi looks at me with one eyebrow raised. I sense she has noticed my change in mood. She doesn’t press me to order more. She leaves it at that and goes off, and I am touched by her sensitivity to the family from the village, none of whom is looking at the other.

  8

  I leave straight after my main course. I would have liked something sweet, but the village family have pointedly not ordered a dessert or ice-cream and this reminds me that I promised myself I would go to Yianni’s after. I leave Agapi a generous tip. Over my shoulder, as I am leaving, I see her collecting the coins. She looks puzzled at my sudden exit.

  Yiannis has three tables of customers tonight – busy for him I surmise. There are two tables of families who are probably from the village. They are talking loudly. The younger children are running around in a game of catch-me-if-you-can and shrieking. Their mothers tell them off. Their fathers look on indulgently. A young hippy couple sits in the shadows, silently reviewing the pictures on their cameras. Probably students.

  Yiannis is overjoyed to see me. I think he gave up on me and now wants to make it up. I tell him I would love an ice-cream. His face falls. “Oh, my friend, the outside refrigerator is not work. All my ice-cream is melt. Why you not have rizogalo? – Soulla is make. Is warm. Is taste…” he kisses his finger-tips to the heavens. “Or baklava and Greek coffee? Come, come,” he orders me to the kitchen and shows me the rice pudding, puts it to my nose. Its fragrance of honey and rosewater is wonderful. Yiannis sees the effect his wife’s pudding is having on me and laughs. “Ena rizogalo, nai?” His eyes shine with self-pride - he can please me; his establishment will not be humiliated by its affluent neighbour. “Go sit. I come,” he says.

  The rice pudding is sweet and creamy and warms me with its benevolence. I recognise it as something my father used to make. Only we just called it rice pudding, not rizogalo. But there is something decidedly Middle Eastern about it... honey, not sugar... cinnamon... and cardamom – that’s it. I must remember that. I am pleased with the refinement of my palate, that I can taste these subtle undercurrents. My father would be pleased. I look around at the other customers, unaffected local people, as if for their acknowledgement of me as one of them, as a Greek. The village families who are eating here ignore me. But they are at ease and I can shake off the discomfort I felt at the Seaview. I just wish Lucy was here so I could share this with her.

  These are young families. The oldest child
is probably seven or eight. Two families I think. The two men, the fathers, chat to each other and smoke contemplatively. They must be brothers - they have the same mournful faces and squat builds. The women are animated, collecting their children together, holding an arm, checking under a chair. They are preparing to leave. Yiannis brings my coffee. “Wait,” he says, “I will drink with you.” He goes to say goodbye to his customers and walks with them, conversing amiably. Yiannis suddenly remembers something and rushes off, signaling for them to wait.

  Just then, the mother from the beleaguered family I saw earlier at the Seaview comes in with her youngest in tow, and, ignoring the women, who scowl at her, she goes to the two brothers and admonishes them tearfully. They look nonplussed and say nothing. The shorter of the two brothers, shaking his head, takes out his wallet and dismissively gives the woman a ten euro note. She snatches it, mumbles a thank-you and turns to leave, head down, shamed, as Yiannis reappears brandishing lollipops for the children. He greets the woman from next door and offers her son a lollipop too. The boy looks to his mother to see it is okay. She nods sullenly. He takes it and smiles shyly. The other two mothers yell at their boys, who are giggling. I can tell from their insistent tones that they want them to say thank you to “theo Yianni”. He laughs and ruffles their hair. One of the little boys does not like that, and scowling, reassembles his hairstyle. The mother from next door has skulked off.

  Yiannis gets his coffee and cigarettes and the bottle of brandy and sits himself down at my table, legs splayed. “Metaxas,” he says as he examines the label of the brandy bottle, “The General. Ioannis Metaxas. You know General Metaxas? Patriotis – you say?”