Olive Virgins

by Katerina Nikolas

  Prosperous Pedros hoisted his mother into the passenger seat, leaving Quentin most relieved to see Fotini would not be joining them on top of the olives. “Don’t let Fotini spoil our exciting experience of visiting an olive press for the first time,” Deirdre instructed.

  Pulling up at the press Quentin was delighted to spot his good friend Fat Christos directing operations. “Tassia inherited this olive press from ‘er rich dead uncle,” Fat Christos explained. “I am stretching myself a bit thin running this place an’ the supermarket.”

  “It’s a good job being thin suits you,” Quentin quipped, remembering how much blubber his friend had shifted. “And your new sideburns definitely give you a look of refinement.”

  “Po po, these old things, I’ve ‘ad ‘em for ages,” Fat Christos lied, wishing he could cultivate the itchy things to be more bushy.

  “Have you brought the baby along?” Deirdre questioned, noticing the empty baby sling strapped to Fat Christos’ chest.

  “No, it’s too deafening in ‘ere for ‘er delicate ears,” Fat Christos said mournfully, obviously missing the mewling baby. “Luckily Gorgeous Yiorgos ‘as pulled is boat out of the sea for the winter and is goin’ to step in an’ manage this place so I can be back in the supermarket with the baby. But come in, come in” he invited, “let me give yous the tour and see ‘ow we do things.”

  “I’m afraid we have less than a full sack of olives,” Quentin apologised.

  “It makes no difference, yous custom is still very welcomes,” Fat Christos assured him, ushering his guests inside and leaving Prosperous Pedros and his mother to unload the heavy sacks.

  “Now sees ‘ere, after the olives are separated from all the twigs and leaves they go into this ‘ere olive crusher to be pulverised. Then it pours out through this funnel as the finest quality extra virgin olive oil. Come and taste it,” Christos shouted over the roar of the machines, proffering pieces of crusty bread for the Americans to hold under the gushing oil pouring into a huge stainless steel vat.

  “It’s delicious,” the American pair effusively enthused in unison as the peppery taste of the bright green oil, subtly infused with the flavour of sage, hit the back of their throats. “This will taste wonderful on our Idaho potatoes,” Deirdre added.

  “I tell yous what, I’ll do yous sack now so yous can see the whole process from start to finish,” Fat Christos invited. “Did yous bring a big tin to puts yous oil in? Never mind, I can sells yous one. ‘Ere let me pour yous some wine whiles yous watch.”

  Quentin and Deidre sipped wine and watched with enthusiasm as their almost full sack of olives was duly weighed, sorted and squashed. Fat Christos was busy barking out orders to the workers and lugging sacks of olives around. “’Ere Michali, get yous mop, we’ve got a bit of a spillage,” he suddenly yelled, rushing to find the hazard warning sign.

  Before Michalis had the chance to get his mop oily, Fotini, dragging a heavy sack of olives, skidded in the slippery mess and slid clean across the concrete floor. Only Quentin’s lightening response of throwing himself after Fotini and grabbing her skirt prevented her from being knocked out cold on the side of the cavernous sized vat. As Fotini lay sprawled on the greasy floor with her skirts all array and her knickers once again on display she screeched, “Let go of me yous malaka pervert, yous is obsessed with getting yous ands on my bloomers.”

  “Mother, yous is impossible, K-Went-In was just trying to help yous,” Prosperous Pedros admonished, hoisting the ungrateful old crone to her feet.

  “Po po, he’s a pervert I tells yous,” Fotini insisted before turning the full force of her ire on Fat Christos.

  “My dress is ruined, what you goin’ to do about it?” she shouted, brushing the olive detritus from her now oily rag of a dress.

  “I will pay for yous to get another hideous old lady dress from Bald Yannis’ ‘ardware shop an’ I wont’s charge yous any tax on yous olive pressing,” Fat Christos offered, desperately hoping the old bag would not sue him.

  “An’ a bottle of yous best brandy from yous supermarket,” Fotini demanded.

  “Yous strikes an ‘ard bargain Kyria,” Fat Christos smiled, pleasantly surprised he had been let off so lightly for so flagrantly flouting the health and safety laws, though secretly wishing he could have drowned her in the oil vat for so publicly blurting out Tassia’s secret.

  Chapter 40: Cupid’s Arrow

  The hardware shop was running low on sixteen kilo olive oil tins so Bald Yannis had come up with the ingenious idea of sending Soula out to collect scrap metal. He could barter its weight in exchange for new tins from the obliging manufacturer. Soula’s usual smile was replaced with a sulky expression at being sent out to scavenge like a gypsy, but Bald Yannis was too engrossed in his latest scam to notice Soula’s change of temperament.

  He had heard from Takeshi, the unbending Japanese tourist who insisted on labelling Bald Yannis a friend, that a new craze of hiring-a-goat was catching on big time in Japan. Takeshi had confided that although the scheme was mainly aimed at gardeners wanting to keep their weeds under control, he wanted to branch into the market with goats as rented pets. Since he considered Greek goats made such adorable pets he could source his goats directly from Bald Yannis. Yannis’ inherited herd had been busy breeding plenty of young kids so he had plenty of spares he could ship off to Takeshi for a huge profit.

  Barging into the hardware shop Fotini announced, “’Ere Bald Yannis, I want a new dress ‘cos Fat Christos got this one all oily.”

  “What yous gets up to with Fat Christos is of no interest to me,” Bald Yannis replied, shuddering inwardly.

  “An’ I want some varnish to put a nice finish on my boyfriends newly coiffed ‘andsome ‘andlebar moustache,” Nitsa chimed in. “Did yous ‘ear I ‘ad a new boyfriend?” she simpered, hoping to make Bald Yannis jealous.

  “I ‘ad ‘eard yous was making a fool of youself, carrying on with yous cousin,” Bald Yannis answered. “Ere’s the varnish,” he chuckled, plonking down a bottle of industrial strength wood varnish guaranteed to turn Fotis’ moustache as stiff and crunchy as an unwieldy broom head.

  “We just seen yous lame wife scavenging round the bins for old scrap. Didnt’s yous know yous was marrying a gypsy? Nitsa sneered.

  “Soula is no such thing, she is simply environmentally concerned,” Bald Yannis countered, adding, “Of course you know nothin’ about being environmentally friendly, driving that petrol guzzling monstrosity of an old Mercedes.”

  “Well we cant’s all be as fit as yous with that bike of yours. ‘Ere shows us yous muscles,” Nitsa said, fluttering her non-existent eyelashes.

  “Yous should get that nervous tick seen to,” Bald Yannis advised.

  Just then Mail order Masha hurried into the hardware shop asking, “Has yous pet goat got a spare knitted white bonnet Bald Yanni? I ‘ave to give one to the baby at her christening and Onos the donkey only went and chewed up the one I ‘ad sent over from ‘arrods.”

  “I can’t ‘elp yous out there Masha. White isn’t Agapimeni’s colour. She favours somethin’ a bit brighter, it brings out ‘er eyes. I could sell yous a shower curtain as a modern alternative to the traditional lathopana to wrap the oily baby in when it’s been baptised.”

  “An’ I suppose afterwards yous would ‘ave Soula fashion it into a miniature raincoat?” Masha scoffed. “Never mind, I will send the smitten young doctor shopping if I can ever find him.”

  “’Aven’t yous ‘eard he’s left town then?” Nitsa mocked. “Word is he got sick of your highfalutin ways an’ did a runner.”

  Masha visibly blanched; annoyed she was the last to hear she had lost her admirer. Storming out of the hardware shop she barged straight into the novice Pappas Iraklis who blushed to the roots of his hat at this unexpected encounter with such a vision of loveliness. Pappas Iraklis had led a sheltered life in a
remote hamlet even more backwater than Astakos and had never before clapped eyes on such a remarkable specimen of silicone enhanced gorgeous womanliness.

  “Oh I do beg your pardon, please excuse my clumsiness,” he stuttered in apology, wondrously breathing in Masha’s heady perfume.

  “I dont’s suppose you ‘appen to ‘ave a spare icon?” Masha asked, eyeing up the gangly youth in his clerical dress. “I ‘ave to ‘ave one for the christening tomorrow.”

  “Oh I have a suitcase full of them,” Pappas Iraklis gushed. “Mother insisted on gifting me one every name day.”

  “She sounds like a barrel of laughs,” Masha muttered under her breath. “Now can yous slip me one of yous icons in church tomorrow?”

  “It will be my absolute pleasure,” Pappas Iraklis stammered, pressing his hand to his chest to calm his palpitations. He stood transfixed, his eyes boring into mail order Masha’s voluptuous silicone bottom as she tottered away on impossibly high stilettos. Too naive to recognise the tight feeling in his chest as the first strike of Cupid’s arrow, the young Pappas hastened to the pharmacy to buy an indigestion remedy.

  “Po po, the gold-digging hussy is stealin’ ‘er men from the church crib now,” Nitsa sneered having been glued to the hardware shop window. Giving Bald Yannis’ pellet ridden bottom a sneaky squeeze she added, “Some women just ‘ave no dignity.”

  Chapter 41: Olive Virgins

  Quentin and Deirdre were taken aback when Takis served glasses of olive oil rather than their usual tipple of wine in ‘Mono Ellinika Trofima’ that evening.

  “Surely he doesn’t expect us to drink this: it isn’t as though we are constipated,” Deirdre whispered to her husband, amused to see Tall Thomas raising his own glass of luminescent green olive oil with a hearty “Yammas.”

  “Come now Did-Rees,” Takis urged “it is tradition to appreciate the first fruits of our labours by raising a glass of oil.”

  “Hot from the press it is Did-Rees, it’ll put ‘airs on yous chest,” Tall Thomas encouraged.

  “It is an amazing shade of green,” Quentin observed, holding a glass of the emerald elixir up to the light before taking a tentative sip of the subtly peppery liquid.

  “Yous wont’s see it that special colour after the first few days,” Prosperous Pedros told them. “Once it ‘as settle it will be golden. Not only is it the finest quality extra virgin olive oil in the ‘ole world but it ‘as many medicinal qualities.”

  “Oh we’re convinced, we’ve even given up margarine in favour of oil and rub it in if we have any scaly bits of skin,” Deirdre said. “It did wonders for getting rid of Quentin’s dandruff.”

  “We really must thank you for taking us to the olive press Pedro, it was a fascinating experience,” Quentin gushed.

  “Think nothin’ of it and sorry my mother keeps calling yous a pervert,” Prosperous Pedros winked. “And whatever yous do, dont’s go giving ‘er a lift to the christening tomorrow, she ‘as been banned.”

  “What’s yous beamin’ about?” Tall Thomas questioned Toothless Tasos as he entered the taverna sporting an enormous grin.

  “I’m not smilin’, the malaka dentist as only gone an’ made my new false teeth too big for my mouth,” Tasos replied, desperately trying to conceal the huge toothy overhang threatening to leave incisor impressions in his chin. “He said if I don’t get used to ‘em to go back and he’ll file ‘em down.”

  “Are yous sure he gave yous the right set, they looks like they’ve been made for a donkey? He-haw, is yous sure yous isn’t related to Onos?” Tall Thomas laughed, before adding on a serious note, “Yous ‘ave to stand up to that malaka dentist.”

  “I knows I should, but I lose my nerve when I go in ‘is surgery an’ ‘ear all the screamin’. He only went and demanded I ‘old the Pappas’ ‘ead in place while he yanked out a rotten tooth with a pair of pliers from the ‘ardware shop.”

  “That dont’s sound very professional,” Prosperous Pedros said.

  “It were terrible. Yous never would ‘ave believed the Pappas was a god botherer the way he was cursing. After that I thoughts it was better to just keep my mouth shut,” Tasos said.

  “Well if yous ‘ad kept it shut yous might ‘ave avoided those awful teeth. What on earth did Thea ‘ave to say about ‘em?” Vangelis the chemist enquired.

  “She was too busy trying to extricate the cat from the chimney to notice. She sent me out sayin’ the cat appears to be traumatised whenever I’m in the ‘ouse.”

  “Yous still not told ‘er about nearly drowin’ it in the washin’ machine then?” Takis asked.

  “Po po, if she ‘ears about that the engagement will be off,” Toothless Tasos shuddered. He could imagine nothing worse than losing his goddess even if she appeared to be more besotted with the cat than him. Despite his inner gloom Tasos suddenly remembered his manners and presented Deirdre with a jar of his home prepared eating olives.

  “I remembered ‘ow much yous loves olives Did-Rees. Yous wont’s taste better than these. I soak ‘em in nets in the sea.”

  “Thank you so much Taso, it’s so very kind of you,” Deirdre said, peering at the jar and wondering if the crab squashed in amongst the olives would enhance their flavour.

  Everyone was happily tucking into Yiota’s spinach and black-eyed peas when a frazzled looking middle-aged couple entered the taverna, sitting down wearily at the table next to Quentin and Deirdre.

  “How can we decide what to eat when there is no menu?” the woman asked her husband in confusion.

  “Yiota will come along and tell you what she has freshly cooked today,” Quentin told them, then surprised to hear English spoken he asked the couple “Are you here on vacation?”

  “Yes indeed, my wife signed us up for a romantic olive picking holiday,” the man said sarcastically.

  “We are Victor and Vera from Manchester in England, very pleased to make your acquaintance,” Vera said. “Victor has done nothing but complain since we got here I’m afraid.”

  “Well I can’t believe you were gullible enough to fork out the best part of a thousand pounds for a holiday where we are treated like chattel,” Victor moaned. “That charlatan Adonis has had us doing back breaking labour in his olive groves from dawn to dusk, and we are paying him to do it. We paid good money to stay in his draughty hotel and he even charges us for the cheese pies he brings from the bakery at lunch time.”

  “Yes dear, but he did promise to deduct the price of the pies from the cost of any house we buy from him,” Vera simpered. “Why can’t you just appreciate the authentic Greek experience of romantic olive picking? We are out in the sunshine with a view of the sea from the olive grove, not stuck in drizzly cold Manchester.”

  “I like drizzle and you didn’t think it was so romantic when the only thing on offer after a hard day’s graft was a freezing cold shower. And we are not buying a house from Adonis; anyone with a brain can see he is a conman.”

  “We bought a house from Adonis and are proud to count him as a good friend,” Deidre piped up in Adonis’ defence.

  “Victor meant no offence I’m sure, he’s just a bit tired from all the olive picking. He’s more used to sitting round all day stuffing packets in the biscuit factory and isn’t accustomed to outdoor manual labour,” Vera volunteered, reluctant to alienate the nice American couple.

  “We are olive virgins too,” Quentin admitted, deciding Fotini’s choice insult was actually quite apt. His remark elicited a sharp kick under the table from Deirdre who wanted to impress the English couple with her established Greek credentials and objected to Quentin describing them as olive virgins.

  “Well I’d have been happy with a week in Blackpool, but Vera always has to go trying to impress the neighbours with her notions of something exotic,” voiced Victor.

  “Do yous suppose he knows ‘is wife is named afte
r a wedding ring?” Tall Thomas asked Yiota with a wink, eyeing up the English couple in amusement. They were looking very disheartened at the thought of a meal of peas and spinach.

  “After all that hard graft I could murder a proper roast dinner rather than this Greek vegetarian nonsense,” Victor complained.

  “Well yous could always ‘ave the chicken,” Yiota offered.

  “He’s just said he doesn’t want vegetarian food so what’s the point of tellin’’im about the chicken,” Prosperous Pedros chimed in.

  “Pedro, how many times do I have to tell you chicken isn’t a vegetable,” Deirdre called out, only to be yet again overruled by the Greek consensus that chicken was indeed a vegetable.

  “If you like roast dinners perhaps you could advise Stavroula at the other taverna how to cook a traditional English Christmas dinner. She is desperate to perfect the dish for the televised cooking show she will be hosting soon, but has no clue how to cook it,” Deirdre suggested to Victor and Vera.

  “If it would get us out of olive picking I’d be all for it, I’ve plenty of experience in sticking my hands up a turkey’s backside,” Victor volunteered. “I might have known these Greeks can’t cook a proper stuffed turkey and all the trimmings. The whole country seems to be full of old ruins and stinks to high heaven with uncollected rubbish. They haven’t even been able to invent a toilet that flushes paper.”

  Quentin and Deirdre, mortified the other villagers may presume they shared these insulting sentiments just because they shared an almost common language, attempted to distance themselves from the English couple by clumsily sliding their table out of reach.

  Suddenly all the men sat upright, sucking their stomachs in and flattening their hair with oily fingers as mail order Masha walked in, modelling a clinging strapless maroon mini dress and matching false nail extensions. She was too busy arguing with that old fool Vasilis to acknowledge the other customers or even notice the way Victor was visibly drooling over her silicone chest.