Olive Virgins

by Katerina Nikolas

  Father and daughter watched the cookery programme in utter disgust while getting on with essential tasks in the taverna kitchen. “’Ang on she don’t usually set ‘erself on fire,” Stavroula piped up gleefully, watching one arm of Kyria Papadopoulos’ cardie catch light as it brushed against the gas flame. The television cook was overcome with panic, desperately pulling off her trademark brown cardigan and attempting to douse the fast growing flames by pouring the contents of the nearest bottle over them. Unfortunately the flammable olive oil she grabbed furiously fed the flames. Attempting to get out of range of the fire she skidded in the pan full of onions she’d knocked on the floor. The screen went suddenly black to be replaced with a pre-recorded advertisement for haemorrhoid cream.

  “Phones Masha and see what’s ‘appening,” Stavroula instructed her father.

  “Masha says Kyria Papadopoulos ‘as burnt down the television cooking studio and is being frogmarched out of the building by security men,” Vasilis duly reported.

  “This could be just the opening I’ve been waiting for,” Stavroula crowed. “Tells Masha to stops by for ‘ome cooked dinner on ‘er way ‘ome.”

  Chapter 9: Eureka!

  “Dont’s you recognise the black bags yous threw out?” Toothless Tasos asked Thea as the pair of them stood waist deep in overflowing rubbish bags dumped at the landfill site.

  “One black bin bag looks much like another,” Thea replied, bewildered by the enormous task they faced in sifting through the stinking garbage pile to find Toothless Tasos’ false teeth. Pulling a can of air freshener from her pocket Thea liberally sprayed the nearest bags, a futile gesture against the overpowering stench.

  “Ave you thrown any celery out lately?” Toothless Tasos asked, waving a wilted slimy green stick in the air.

  “Of course not, I use leftover vegetables in soup now. Yous knows ‘ow ‘ard I am trying to be frugal,” Thea reminded him.

  “Then we can discount this bag,” Tasos declared, throwing it to one side. “This should be a process of elimination if we tackles job with logic.”

  “Cant’s you just get some new teeth?” Thea begged him. “We could be ‘ere for days sifting through this revolting mess.”

  “Just keep at it woman, new teeth cost a fortune an’ the creepy new dentist ‘as a terrible reputation. Yous can ‘ear people screaming from ‘is surgery even outs at sea.”

  “But at least he doesn’t insist on giving receipts so it’s worth a bit of pain. Oh look, someone ‘as tossed a perfectly good glow-in-the-dark Parthenon out!” Thea exclaimed. “We coulds take it ‘ome.”

  “I thoughts you ‘ad mended yous ways an’ no longer collected tat impulsively,” Tasos scolded while wiping the residue of squashed tomatoes off his pullover. “Just keeps at it an’ stops complaining, it was yous that got us into this fine mess by chucking out my teeth.”

  “Wells if you ‘adn’t forgot to put yous teeth in and left ‘em lying about the ‘ouse making a mess I wouldn’t ‘ave thrown ‘em out,” Thea argued rationally.

  Squabbling over the rubbish the pair grew increasingly filthy and smelly. Coming across a discarded old bedstead Thea had the sudden idea of using serviceable items of old rubbish to re-furnish the harbour-side house, since the debt collectors had snatched everything that made it habitable.

  “It would be easier to rent out thee ‘ouse again if it ‘ad a few sticks of furniture Taso. Some of this old rubbish will scrub up nicely,” Thea said, appealing to Toothless Tasos’ tight-wad nature.

  “Ave yous turned into a scavenging gypsy woman?” Tasos questioned, quietly admitting to himself her idea had merit. They could not afford to buy furniture for the house and desperately needed the rent money to reduce Thea’s debts.

  “Yous see what else ‘as been chucked out but could be useful,” Tasos told Thea “an’ I’ll keeps looking for my teeth.”

  As Toothless Tasos burrowed through gross bags full of repulsive refuse Thea concentrated on identifying anything which could be used in the rental house. In addition to the bedstead she made claim to an old door she thought would serve as a kitchen table when propped up on bricks; a framed photograph of Evzones in full ceremonial uniform complete with pompom shoes and tasselled socks; and a set of cheap plastic patio chairs only missing one leg. Ignoring Tasos’ complaints she insisted on adding the glow-in-the-dark Parthenon to her pile of old junk, insisting “it will add a homely touch to the ‘ouse.”

  “Eureka!” Thea suddenly screamed in delight.

  “’Ave yous found my teeth then?” Tasos asked with a sigh of relief.

  “No but this old ceramic pot mights be an ancient antiquity and worth a fortune. Yous could ‘ave a new set of teeth out of the profits instead of grubbing round for yous old ones,” Thea cried in excitement.

  “Dont’s be so stupid woman, yous knows there is strict penalties for looting antiquities. Yous could end up with ten years in prison for stealing that old pot from the Greek state. Yous must ‘and it over to Pancratius the village policeman to give to the authorities,” Tasos shouted, worried his beloved goddess was about to commit an appalling crime. Ever since he had faked his own death at sea Toothless Tasos ensured he never broke any laws that would draw the attention of the police. He never failed to wear his crash helmet on his head, rather than following the Greek tradition of wearing it looped over an arm, and he was assiduous in always filing his tax return early.

  “Trust yous to be so honest when I am holding the answer to all our money worries,” Thea yelled in dismay, while acknowledging the penalty for looting was indeed severe. Kicking a black bin bag in frustration Thea spotted a pair of yellowed false teeth glimmering through the rip. Holding them aloft she said “at least we can go ‘ome now Taso an’ shower this muck off, I’ve found yous teeth at last.”

  “Bravo my little bougatsa,” Tasos cried, spinning his beloved around in his tomato smeared arms. Snatching the teeth from Thea he groaned in disappointment, “These false teeth aren’t mine.”

  “Oh dont’s be so fussy Taso, just shove ‘em in your mouth so we can go ‘ome. If yous think I am searching any longer when yous ‘ave a perfectly respectable set of teeth in yous ‘ands then yous is deluded.”

  Knowing when he was defeated Toothless Tasos popped the ill-fitting teeth in his mouth and started to load Thea’s pile of salvaged junk into the motorbike sidecar. He may not be married to Thea yet but he was admittedly under her thumb.

  Chapter 10: Stupid Superstitions

  “What on earth is she doing ‘ere in Astakos?” Stavroula exclaimed, hastily ducking out of sight below the taverna counter in a desperate measure to avoid a middle-aged woman she had hoped never to clap eyes on again.

  “Shush, dont’s let on I am ‘ere,” she instructed her old fool of a father, trying to make herself invisible as a drably dressed woman adorned with multiple blue eyed amulets and reeking of garlic, entered the taverna.

  “What kind of backward place is this, I ‘ave just been attacked by a parrot attached to an old crone’s ‘ead?” the woman enquired, before demanding, “Where is Stavroula?”

  “She said to tell you she’s not ‘ere,” that old fool Vasilis replied.

  “Po po, she takes me for a fool; you can come out Stavroula as I knows you is ‘iding.”

  “Of course I’m not ‘iding,” Stavroula declared, jumping up from the floor and painfully thwacking her head on the counter. “I was simply looking for the cat Boukali. What brings you to these parts Katerina?” she enquired, disgustedly wiping the glob of spit off her bosom that the unwelcome woman had fired at her.

  “Why yous spitting on my daughter?” that old fool Vasilis demanded to know.

  “To ward the evil eye away of course,” Katerina responded huffily, edging away in horror from the black taverna cat and turning her full attention on Stavroula.

  “So this is
what you wasted my poor missing brother’s money on,” Katerina stated, giving the taverna a derisory appraisal. The new arrival was indeed the interfering sister of Stavroula’s second husband Kostas, presumed missing by the police but actually lying dead at the murderous hand of Stavroula and buried beneath the chicken coop in the northern village of Pouthena.

  “I ‘ave to say you dont’s seem unduly worried that yous ‘usband is missing, but I am determined to find ‘im,” Katerina proclaimed.

  “Why shoulds I be concerned about a useless ‘usband what ran off with a floozy, leaving me broken ‘earted?” Stavroula said, sticking firmly to the bogus story she had invented and painting herself as the wronged party.

  “I knows my brother wanted to divorce yous but he never mentioned another woman, he’s certainly no Casanova,” Katerina pronounced adamantly in her brother’s defence.

  “’Appen he ‘as a different floozy in every town, travelling salesmen gets around,” Stavroula claimed, continuing to besmirch her murdered spouse’s name while shrewdly referring to him in the present tense. Stiffening suddenly as her live-in-lover Slick Socrates entered the taverna Stavroula rushed over to him and led him to a table. Winking at him with a bizarre movement resembling an out of control twitch she loudly told him to take a seat and she would bring him his usual ouzo, while rolling her eyes and mouthing to him “dead Kostas’ sister.” Being quick on the up-take Slick Socrates immediately pretended to be a completely uninterested customer.

  “Yous was quick to sell Kostas’ ‘ouse an’ do a runner with all his money,” Katerina accused Stavroula.

  “Po po, ‘ouse was in my name and when yous cheating brother ran off with a harlot I solds up and came ‘ome to open this taverna. Peoples were cold and unfriendly up in Pouthena,” Stavroula insisted. “Anyways yous wont’s find Kostas ‘ere so yous ‘ave ‘ad a wasted journey.”

  “I knows there is more to my brother’s disappearance than yous is letting on and I’m not goings anywhere till I finds out more. If something ‘as ‘appened to Kostas I knows he would want me to ‘ave ‘is money, he would not want a gold-digger like yous to ‘ave it. I will be staying in a room over the other taverna,” Katerina announced ominously, preparing to flounce out.

  Taking her leave she suddenly uttered “skorda skorda,” the traditional superstitious repetition of the word garlic, at the sight of the Pappas walking along the harbour, a bad omen in Katerina’s credulous mind. Her sudden jerky step backwards caused her to drop the bat bones she had furtively been clinging onto as an extra protection against the ill omens she was convinced Stavroula possessed.

  “Yous not ‘aving any of my ‘usbands money yous mad woman, get out ’an’ takes yous disgusting old bat bones with yous, this is an hygienic establishment,” Stavroula shrieked, oblivious to the layer of grime coating every surface from the building work.

  Scooping the bones back into her pocket Katerina stormed out, determined not to let matters rest until either she had a more solid lead regarding her brother’s missing status or some of his cash in her hands. Slick Socrates, rushing to take his beloved in his arms and quell her anxiety, offered Stavroula a solution.

  “I’m guessing with eye amulets pinned to her frock, bat bones in her pocket and smelly garlic cloves stashed down her bra, that your sister-in-law is an uneducated superstitious peasant. I suspect the best way to be rid of her is to have a wicked old woman put a curse on her. If she is steeped in stupid superstitions happen a curse will scare her off.”

  “Where will we find an old woman willing to put a curse on ‘er?” Stavroula questioned sceptically. Lacking a single superstitious bone herself she thought Socrates had lost his marbles until he reassured her Katerina was the gullible type and his plan could work, especially when he added “Nitsa still owes me money for the lawyerly work I did to release her from prison and I’m sure she’ll put a curse on your sister-in-law if I write off her bill.”

  “Better still, persuade ‘er to ‘ave Fotini do it, everyone knows she is evil,” Stavroula decreed, now fully convinced of the wisdom of Socrates’ plan. “With a bit of luck the parrot will parrot the curse, turning Katerina demented an’ sending ‘er on ‘er way.”

  Chapter 11: Parrot Beater

  “I really don’t want that odious little man coming along to give the house a blessing, even if it is a traditional Greek custom,” Deirdre told Quentin. “He makes my skin crawl.”

  “I’m not fond of the Pappas myself but can we really risk offending our neighbours by ignoring this traditional ceremony?” Quentin queried.

  “Considering our neighbours are Fotini, Nitsa and your mother I think we can count on their disapproval whatever we do,” Deirdre pointed out. “I’d much rather just buy a basil plant to stick by the door than have the foot groping Pappas pontificating pompously and wafting his sprig all over the place. I’m sure it would be more of a curse than a blessing in his hands.”

  “Ah, here’s our chance to test out Bald Yannis’ new parrot perch,” Quentin said excitedly, watching Fotini emerge from the house next door with the parrot clamped tightly to her head. Catching sight of her new neighbours Fotini made a dash for the three-legged olive tree ladder propped against the garden wall, before suddenly remembering her usual handy shortcut now led directly into the path of the problematic prickly pear plants. Having no wish to repeat the agonising impalement she had previously suffered on the spiky plant she was forced to take the long way round to intrude on Quentin and Deirdre’s privacy.

  Fotini hobbled up the path scowling and muttering under her breath. The parrot flew off her head and ignoring the newly erected parrot perch it landed directly on Quentin’s scalp, causing him to yelp in pain as its sharp claws gained fast traction. Cackling away to herself Fotini retreated back to her own garden at a remarkable pace, pleased to be rid of the burdensome bird.

  Sighing in exasperation Deirdre told Quentin “we will look ridiculous strolling into the village with the parrot stuck on your head, really it is nothing short of an embarrassment.” With that she picked up the lobster adorned shower curtain used as an outdoor tablecloth and threw it over the parrot, hoping to disguise Quentin’s predicament. The parrot instantly complained, demanding “disrobe me this instant.”

  “I wonder where the parrot picked up that phrase to mimic,” Quentin wondered aloud. “I do hope mother has not been encouraging that scam catfisher Randolph with provocative photographs again.”

  “She hasn’t mentioned him for ages. More likely Nitsa has been attempting to lure Bald Yannis with her brazen ways,” Deirdre suggested. “She always was deluded where the hardware shop man is concerned but he seems to have settled down happily into married life with Soula.”

  “It’s a wonder the poor dear can put up with him,” Quentin observed, competing to be heard over the parrot repetitively squawking “Soula is a sweetie.” Ripping the shower curtain off his head Quentin observed his mother and Nitsa climbing into the old Mercedes taxi and beckoning frantically in his direction.

  “I suppose Nitsa wants to extort an extortionate fare from us,” he calculated.

  “We may as well go to the village in the taxi,” Deirdre decided “at least that way fewer people will laugh at you, dear. With any luck the parrot will feel an instant attraction to the Pappas and swap heads when we meet to tell him we don’t require his house blessing rituals.”

  “The Pappas is a drunken wife beater,” the parrot squawked gleefully as the American couple reluctantly clambered into the taxi. Unfortunately Quentin failed to duck and the parrot, knocked unconscious as it smashed into the car roof, was finally dislodged from his head. Quentin pressed a five Euro note into Nitsa’s grasping hand as a bribe to drive away quickly to escape Fotini’s accusatory cries of “malaka parrot beater.”

  Chapter 12: Saved At Sea

  Left alone at the house with the unconscious parrot, Fotini telephoned he
r son Prosperous Pedros in a terrible flap, demanding he come round at once to give the parrot the kiss of life.

  “Mother, I am out in the boat, why on earth cant’s you give the parrot the kiss of life yourself?” Pedros replied irritability.

  “I’m a married woman, I cant’s go round kissing anything but yous father,” Fotini reminded him, still convinced her decade dead husband was visiting Athens.

  “It is impossible; I have my lines to attend to. I will call by this evening,” Prosperous Pedros insisted, hanging up on Fotini in exasperation. He was busy experimenting with new bait for his lines, unconcerned the luxury prawns he was using cost far more to purchase than he could raise from the sale of his fish. He was only interested in returning with a bigger haul than his competitors so he could brag of his superior fishing skills in the taverna. Suddenly his eyes were drawn to the figure of a man thrashing around in the water, desperately clutching an old tyre.

  “I ‘opes that’s not one of them terrorists,” he muttered under his breath, determined not to be drawn into a political storm in the village. Saving the life of the drowning Pappas had done him no favours with the villagers and he did not want to repeat his mistake by rescuing what could be an unwanted or dangerous interloper. His mobile phone ringing again interrupted his dithering. “What is it now mother?” he yelled into the phone, only to hear, “Help, it’s me Thomas. Cant’s yous see me waving at yous?”

  Squinting across the sea Prosperous Pedros spotted the floundering figure was indeed waving. “Is that yous Thoma, ‘olding onto the tyre?” he questioned down the mobile phone. “What on earth is yous doing in the sea miles from shore?”