“Remember yous doesn’t ‘ave to cook a Russian dinner, yous ‘ave the ‘ole world to choose from,” Thea reminded her. “I’d ‘ave a word with Quentin and Deirdre if I was yous, as they’ve travelled bigly.”
Thea’s argument convinced Stavroula who was certain it was impossible to make prune juice, porridge and herring enticing to a Greek audience, even if it was all wrapped up in a fur coat. The ladies returned to the table carrying the soup tureen, baskets of crusty bread and bowls of olives.
Everyone tucked into the steaming red soup which bore no resemblance at all to mail order Masha’s infamous vodka sozzled version. That old fool Vasilis’ gushing praise that Stavroula’s borscht was far superior to Masha’s almost earned him a night in the spare bedroom until Masha tasted the soup and grudgingly admitted it was exceptionally good. She wondered if she would lose face if she asked Stavroula for her superior recipe.
“See yous can cooks up foreign muck, my love dove,” Slick Socrates cooed.
“Well I’d still rather be eating a bowl of avgolemono,” Stavroula sighed, convinced her signature dish of egg and lemon soup would have made a better impression on the producer. However his pronouncement that the borscht displayed culinary talent went some way to placate her. She had a smile on her face as she served up the main course of spanakorizo, a traditional Greek dish of spinach and rice cooked in a sauce of lemon and olive oil.
The ouzo and vodka flowed enough to loosen Thea’s inhibitions and she shamelessly flirted with the producer, attempting to find out if he knew which television show was planning to film in the village.
“I think they are planning a pilot of a British television programme called ‘The Antiques Roadshow,’” the producer revealed. As he explained the show’s concept of having old vases retrieved from the attic valued, Thea became giddy with excitement.
“I must get that old pot back from Pancratius the village policeman, I just knows it coulds be worth a small fortune,” Thea declared.
“Well if it is it would belong to the state, otherwise it’s looting,” Slick Socrates pragmatically advised.
“There is a lot of debate about piloting the programme,” the producer explained, “as there is a valid argument the show is only being suggested to ferret out antiquities people may have squirreled away that rightly belong to the state.”
“Malaka state wants to get its hands on everything, I dont’s know why they dont’s just tax the air we breathe,” Masha complained, still in shock at the size of the tax bill she had received.
Disappointed the antiques show may not even materialise Thea got maudlin and told the producer she had always dreamed of being a presenter on the home shopping channel.
“You’d be a natural Thea,” Stavroula said, “no one knows more than yous about buying a bunch of old tat.”
Conversation was interrupted by the sudden loss of electricity, a frequent occurrence in such stormy weather. As Slick Socrates scrambled around in search of candles the producer announced he really must be going. He had to get back to Paraliakos as his mother always went into a hyper-ventilated state of panic in a power cut. The chauffeur driven car was supposedly waiting outside by the harbour to drop mail order Masha and her husband home before heading back to town with the producer, and so the threesome took their leave.
Chapter 22: Lashing Waves And Paddling Paths
Prosperous Pedros’ pick-up truck struggled to gain any momentum on the steep incline of the dark mountain road heading back to Astakos from Gavros. The pick-up was weighted down with the combined bulk of all the fishermen, the ex-chief of police, the borrowed builder and Quentin. Not only were they all squashed into the open back but they were at the mercy of the elements.
Nitsa had last been seen heading off in hot pursuit of the twinkly eyed Fotis, leaving the parrot to relay the message she was too tipsy to drive and refused to hand over the taxi keys. The others had strenuously objected to riding back in Tall Thomas’ mobile refrigerated fish van as the refrigeration had failed and the van stunk vilely of rotting fish. The parrot, now firmly clamped to Toothless Tasos’ scalp, had opted for the dryness of the passenger seat over its usual preference for Quentin’s head.
Toothless Tasos was getting worried about his boat as he could hear the crashing of the waves below, despite the thunder and the combined complaints of the others. He feared the rope securing the boat would not hold it steady against the storm’s battering, even though the anchor was down.
“Put yous foot down Pedro,” Toothless Tasos implored, grateful to have the parrot mimic his words to stop him repeating himself.
Pulling into Astakos, Prosperous Pedros slammed the brakes on, just in time to avoid driving into the surging river now engulfing the road by the harbour. The men climbed out and watched in horror as mail order Masha’s chauffeur driven limousine was swept out to sea, colliding with Toothless Tasos’ fishing boat before promptly sinking.
“Oh horrors, suppose Masha is in the car,” Fat Christos screamed, prompting the fishermen to jump en masse into the sea to save the possibly drowning woman. It was no easy task to stay afloat in the turbulent sea, but luckily the fishermen had years of experience in choppy waters. The car door was prised open under water and the smitten young struck-off doctor hauled to safety, spluttering up copious amounts of sea water.
“Look, Masha is over there,” called a relieved Quentin, pointing his flashlight across the road to where mail order Masha, that old fool Vasilis and the television producer were huddled in the doorway of Stavroula’s taverna, blankly fixated on the newly sprung up river that had swept the limousine out to sea.
“Go back inside, yous cant’s cross that river safely,” Moronic Mitsos bellowed above the roar of the fast flowing water.
With the smitten young doctor safely on land the fishermen concentrated all their efforts on securing the ropes on Toothless Tasos’ newly dented fishing boat, assembling themselves into what looked like a formidable tug-of-war team. “We’ll be ‘ere all night,” Prosperous Pedros shouted to Quentin as the waves lashing the harbour wall washed over him and the others as they heaved on the rope. “Yous best takes my pick-up and go and check up on my mother, else she’ll be ringing me all night.”
Happy to use Fotini as an excuse to get out of the storm Quentin drove home in the pick-up, pointlessly fighting the parrot waiting in the dryness which immediately attached itself to his head.
After paddling up the path he was relieved no one answered Fotini’s front door. Presuming his mother and Fotini were sleeping through the storm he headed next door and waded into the flooded house, expecting to be comforted by Deirdre for the awful night he had endured.
Quentin’s black eye looked rather macabre in the candlelight but instead of eliciting sympathy from his wife it provoked a bout of nagging. “Oh Quentin, I can’t believe you have been brawling, it’s so uncouth and you have always been so law abiding. What on earth will the neighbours’ think?”
“Well as the neighbours are here why don’t we just ask them?” Quentin retorted, snatching the brandy bottle from Fotini’s hand and pouring himself a generous measure.
“I ‘opes the parrot ‘asn’t been fighting K-Went-In, yous is meant to set it a good example,” Fotini blurted.
“Why am I in any way responsible for your blasted parrot?” Quentin demanded. “That bird is a menace. Deirdre has it been raining in?” he added, suddenly noticing the buckets lined up to catch the drips.
“Yes it has been raining in Quentin,” his wife agreed. “If you had been a gentleman you wouldn’t have rushed off to go brawling in Gavros, leaving me to come home alone to a flooded house in a power cut.”
“You were the one who refused to let the Pappas bless the house,” Quentin accused; hurt to the quick his loving wife thought he had acted in an ungentlemanly manner.
“Oh Quentin, you don’t believe any m
ore than I do that the Pappas’ blessing would have prevented the rain coming through Achilles’ shoddy work on our roof,” Deirdre chided.
“I’m sorry you had to come home from Astakos alone darling,” Quentin apologised.
“She didn’t,” Hattie interrupted, “the smitten young doctor drove her home in Masha’s limousine.”
Quentin shared the news the limousine had last been seen sinking to the bottom of the harbour, having been swept out to sea by a previously non-existent tumultuous river, and the smitten young doctor had been spared a watery death by the heroic life-saving actions of the fisherman. Fotini piped up, “That’s just as well, Nitsa would ‘ave been furious if he were dead as she’s planning to sue ‘im for ‘er botched Botox job.”
Turning on Quentin Fotini demanded to know, “’Ow come yous ‘aven’t brought Nitsa ‘ome with yous?”
“I am no more responsible for Nitsa than I am for your parrot,” Quentin replied “but it seems she was rather taken with a fisherman called Fotis down in Gavros and refused to drive home.”
“How exciting,” Deirdre exclaimed. “Did this Fotis fellow seem like Nitsa’s type?”
“If he ‘as a pulse he’ll be Nitsa’s type,” Fotini chortled.
“About time she had a new love interest,” Hattie exclaimed “she is wasting her time pining over that horrible Bald Yannis. A bit of romance is just what Nitsa needs to spice up her life.”
Chapter 23: Trapped In The Twilight Zone
Bald Yannis’ plan to drive straight to his father-in-law’s farmhouse was derailed by his rumbling stomach. Driving into the high mountain village of Osta he looked for a taverna to satiate his hunger, but found only one run-down establishment. Warily he entered the rough looking place that hadn’t had a close encounter with a mop and bucket in the best part of twenty years. Pushing through the soot stained cobwebs he was instantly given a suspicious once over by the motley group of pensioned-off men who were its only clientele. Slamming a jug of spitiko wine down on Bald Yannis’ table the ancient owner announced, “If yous want food I only ‘ave souvlaki.”
“Surely yous must ave some bread and cheese, I’m a vegetarian and cant’s eat souvlaki,” Bald Yannis complained to contemptuous laughter from his audience.
“We’ve ‘eard about them vegetarians but never clapped eyes on one,” the owner proclaimed, eyeing the new customer apprehensively and wondering if he could get away with serving cheese from the mousetrap. “’Appen I can finds yous some bread an’ olives.”
“What brings yous to Osta on a foul night like this, is yous one of them nosy reporters?” asked one of the ancient customers chewing a clove of raw garlic.
“I’m ‘ere to find out if there’s any truth in the claims my wife’s father murdered ‘is sister,” Bald Yannis revealed.
“Yous is the rich businessman what married lame Soula then,” the owner remarked, introducing himself as Poulios and pulling out a chair to join his new customer.
“Soula is weeping a river about ‘er father bein’ arrested an’ worries the stigma will shame ‘er,” Bald Yannis elaborated.
“It’s a bad business; village secrets getting out what were better off buried,” Poulios complained. “It was all so long ago, must be more than twenty years back, and times was ‘ard.”
“So it was no secret Soula’s father kept the dead body of ‘is spinster sister in a deep freezer then and claimed ‘er unmarried pension?” Bald Yannis questioned.
“Well a few of us were in the know as it were. There were nasty ‘appenings all round but Soula’s father made the best of a bad business. He’s guilty of claiming the pension but he ain’t no murderer,” Poulios defended his now imprisoned neighbour.
“Aye, and that unmarried pension came in ‘andy for ‘im struggling single ‘anded to put food on the table for four daughters after the bear caused so much damage,” one of the old men volunteered.
A most peculiar story was slowly recounted to a sceptical Bald Yannis who gawped open-mouthed at such preposterous goings-on. Over the years the old men had pieced together the events of the night resulting in Soula’s aunt’s demise, convincing themselves it was an accidental death by freezing.
More than two decades earlier Soula’s already cash strapped father suffered a dreadful financial blow when his previously profitable beehive boxes had been destroyed by a starving brown bear, putting paid to any potential income from his sales of thyme scented honey. The hungry bear had emerged from a winter of hibernation, attracted to the outskirts of the village to forage for food. Crops had been haphazardly uprooted, fruit trampled and most of the women folk had barricaded themselves indoors, terrified to go out.
Following protests by conservationists, measures had been taken to protect brown bears from hunters. Fearing punishment the villagers had ceased hunting and secretly paid an outsider to set bear traps.
The aunt had wandered away from the farm, ostensibly to collect wild horta but possibly to stalk the man setting the bear traps as rumour had it they had been seen canoodling in the forest. It was a reckless decision with a bear on the loose in the vicinity, but she wouldn’t be told. The men presumed the woman, laden down with bear tempting horta, had become its tasty target when she disturbed it, fleeing into the barn in terror and throwing herself into the deep freezer for safety.
Determined to drive the destructive bear from the area Soula’s father grabbed his gun from the barn, securing the padlocks on the deep freeze and the barn door to make sure no one discovered the illicit still he used to cook up his black market tsipouro. Gathering a posse of the villagers now telling the story to Bald Yannis he went off in pursuit of the bear, having no idea his sister was now facing death by freezing. Meanwhile when her aunt failed to return home for dinner a concerned Soula bravely went out to search for her in the darkness and was caught in the bear trap.
“We was all with ‘im that night,” Poulios remembered. “We found some bear tracks and followed ‘em uphill, scared to death the brute of a bear would scent us out an’ attack.”
“Aye it was scary, out all night in the pitch black before them newfangled torches ‘ad been invented,” one of the other old men interjected, “but we was determined to drive the bear from the village so ours womenfolk could goes out safely again.”
“We ‘ad guns but was frightened of shooting each other in the dark,” Poulios continued the tale. “We made plenty of noise banging pan lids until eventually we drove the brute out.”
“Remember ‘ow we laughed about ‘ow it would ‘ave a sore ‘ead?” another old man recalled.
“It was nearly dawn when we turned ‘ome an’ we was dreadful tired from bein’ out all night. Then, at first light we ‘eard it, blood curdling screams comin’ from the bear trap. We ran towards ‘em as quick as we could an’ discovered it were stunted Soula stuck in the steel jaws of the trap, with ‘er poor leg all mangled. We got ‘er out, but ‘er skinflint of a father refused to pay any doctor to fix up ‘er gammy leg. He reckoned she’d be just fine resting up at ‘ome with an oily compress of onions and garlic.”
“Aye, there was no arguing with ‘im,” one of the old men guiltily said. “He were wrong an’ should ‘ave made ‘im get the doctor. Now poor Soula still hobbles to this day.”
“Treated ‘er like dirt he did, it’s amazing she turned out with such a pleasant disposition,” Poulios reflected.
Bald Yannis listened to this far-fetched tale with a perplexed look on his face, as though he was trapped in an alternate reality of the twilight zone. “So when did yous all realise Soula’s aunt was missing?” he eventually asked.
“Well she was missed at once, but we all presumed she’d run off with the chap what ‘ad fixed the bear traps. She’d been reckoning he was goodly marriage material. It wasn’t till days later ‘er frozen carcass was found in the freezer, still clutching armfuls of horta. It
were too late to defrost ‘er and the horta weren’t fit for eatin’. There were no question that ‘er unmarried pension would be useful.”
“Well that explains why ‘er death was never reported, but why on earth wasn’t ‘er body moved out of the deep freezer and buried?” Bald Yannis queried.
“Ah well, Soula’s father reckoned the sight of ‘er lying there was enough to make ‘im go cold turkey. He were an awful drunk but he’s been tee-total since that night. An’ he gave us all ‘is stash of tsipouro to buy our silence,” Poulios explained.
“So he ‘ad no hand in ‘er death then, making ‘is arrest for ‘er murder a travesty of justice,” Bald Yannis summarised.
“But they is bound to keep ‘im locked up for keepin’ ‘er body ‘idden in the freezer all this time and making fraudulent claims on ‘er unmarried woman’s pension,” Poulios stated.
“I thinks Soula would be ‘appy to see ‘im cleared of murder so ‘er reputation wont’s be tarnished. I knows a slick lawyer what might be able to ‘elp ‘im, but apart from that I’m washing my ‘ands of the matter. Yous all knows he didnt’s treat Soula well,” Bald Yannis said.
“Well times was ‘ard,” Poulios muttered, hoping the slick lawyer would not implicate him and his old cronies in the matter. They knew they should have reported the body in the freezer but had allowed their silence to be purchased with the ill-gotten tsipouro. Hoping to butter Bald Yannis up he said;
“Are yous sure I cant’s tempt yous with some chicken souvlaki? It’s practically a vegetable.”
Chapter 24: Nitsa Bags A Suitor
A damp and bedraggled Nitsa was rudely awoken by the twinkly eyed fisherman Fotis banging on the taxi window. Too drunk to drive home, she had spent the night snoring in the old Mercedes. The dazzling sunshine made her wince, feeling like a knife searing into her hung-over head. Wiping the drool from her mouth Nitsa fluffed up her hair and finger combed her moustache before winding the window down.
Olive Virgins Page 7
