by Sara Alexi
'The day after tomorrow is the village saint’s day,' he says.
'The panigyri? Oh. What made you think of that?'
'Can you not hear someone practising? Are you going to sing for them?'
The next day, they are raised from sleep by a persistent knocking on the front door. Two quality mattresses are delivered along with the new bed linen, towels, and net curtains they ordered. As they surface from sleep and take the items, something seems unusual. The delivery man waves a cheerful goodbye and it is only when he has driven off that they become properly aware of the activity in the street. People are armed with thick, floppy brushes, and everything is getting a coat of whitewash. The clarinettist is now in competition with several guitars and at least two sources of recorded music. Up towards the square, the activity increases. Chairs are being unloaded from a lorry, a stage has been erected, the kiosk is strung with Greek flags around the edges of its roof. Sakis hovers, enjoying the feeling of excitement. Some children run from a house further down up towards the square, screaming to each other, pushing, smiling, hair flowing behind the girls, little jumps as their kefi overflows.
'Kalimera,' Thanasis calls as he straightens up stiffly from the other side of his front door, whitewash brush dripping. ‘Done yours.' He flicks the brush toward Sakis' wall. 'But your whole place could do with a lick, eh? Are you looking forward to the panigyri? It has been a while since you have been here for one. Should be a good one this year. We have booked Grigoris Taxydaktylos from Thessaloniki to come down to sing. His ancestors are from these parts, you know.'
'I can't say I‘ve heard of him.'
'No, well, he is an old guy. Mainly does village panigyria. But they say he is a great talent.'
'Well, to be honest I might not see. I might …'
But his sentence is cut off.
'What! Oh you must. It is once a year! Don't tell me you do not remember how much fun you used to have at the panigyria?
Sakis does remember. He remembers the games of chase with the other children in and around the tables and chairs that filled the village square and all the people that came from Saros, different from the villagers somehow: crisper, shinier. To one side of the square on the road, they built a huge fire and roasted pig after pig, tray after tray pulled from the embers and carved on the spot. Barrels of ice were everywhere, filled with bottles of beer, ouzo at every table, everyone in their finest. The streets down in front of the house filled with trestle tables, piled with treasures for sale—trinkets for the children and work tools for the farmers. Yiayia would haggle for a new pruning saw every year. The last year he can remember, there was someone selling air rifles for the boys and guns for those who like to hunt rabbits. How he had wanted one of those!
'Well, it is just …'
'Sakis, I think the mattress is the wrong size. Can you get the man with the van back?'
With a shrug as if to say 'what can I do?' Sakis abandons his conversation with Thanasis and goes inside.
'Ah, no, it probably just needs a good shove.' Sakis pulls off blankets and pillow and with a shove and a push, the mattress fits perfectly.
'I should hear from Andreas today about the tickets to America. He is also going to set up a couple of interviews in Greece before we go.'
Jules, who is taking sheets out of their paper wrappings, looks up.
'Should I wait before I make the bed up, then? Is it definite that you are going?'
'Yes. Well, sort of. Andreas sounded sure, but nothing is sure until it is done, right?' He picks up his bouzouki. A new melody has come to mind, a few notes that will fit in the middle of the tune. He works the riff for a moment before playing the new song he wrote. Maybe the words will come today?
'That is my favourite,' Jules says.
A knock at the open front door is accompanied by a cheerful voice.
'Yeia sas.' Sakis covers his surprise at seeing the owner of the hotel at his door. Jules shows no sign of being shocked.
'Stella,' she reminds him. 'And this,' she steps inside and behind her is a younger woman, not much more than a girl, 'is Abby, an English friend of mine, here for the panigyri.' Between the two of them, they carry a long, rolled-up rug. But Sakis cannot take his gaze from Abby. She has such strength in her features, yet she is as delicate as a poppy.
'Hello.' Sakis reverts to English to wish Abby welcome.
'I heard you were doing up the place and I wondered if you needed a rug? I know it is summer now, but when winter comes, these stone floors can get very cold.' Stella speaks in her native Greek.
'How kind of you,' Sakis says in English. He does not want to exclude this Abby person from their conversation.
'It is new. It was in the hotel when I bought it but it is not the right style. Oh my, it is hard to believe that this place has not been lived in for fifteen years,' Stella says as Sakis takes the back end of the rolled rug from Abby. Jules grabs the front end.
'Dora has kept it well over the years,' Sakis says and, looking at Abby, he adds, 'People are very nice around here.'
'You will be at the panigyri tomorrow night?' Stella asks, but it sounds more like a statement than a question.
'You are going?' Sakis asks Abby.
'I came over especially, that and a little business with Stella.' Abby's voice is so English, it makes his stomach tremor.
'Right. Plenty to do.' Stella looks distracted for a moment, as if consulting an internal list of things to be accomplished. 'Let me know if I can be of help?' before leading the way back out into the sunshine.
'See you at the panigyri,' Sakis calls after Abby, who turns and smiles at the garden gate.
'Ha! You have just been struck by lightning, my friend.' Jules laughs when the two women are out of earshot.
'I have not.' Sakis watches the figures as they recede into the square and are lost in the beehive of activity.
Jules laughs again. 'Sure,' he agrees as he gathers things together to make breakfast.
Jules pushes his plate away and sips his second coffee. They have taken a table round to the front of the house so they can watch as stalls are erected and people hurry about. The sound of laughter seems to be contagious across the whole village. There is a little shouting here and there, as if the excitement has turned to tension and has bubbled over. A massive stack of amplifiers is unloaded from a truck, and they stand marooned in the middle of the road.
More neighbours are out whitewashing. The walls that were painted earlier have dried from a dull grey to a startling white.
The woman from the kiosk is striding down the road at a brisk pace. It seems odd to see her with legs; normally, all that can be seen of her is her head and shoulders. She is carrying a heavy-looking paper bag with handles. Much to Sakis’ surprise, she stops before reaching his gate and beckons him.
'Ella edo.' She demands him to come here. Sakis naturally looks about to see if it is really him she is talking to. 'Ella Sakis,' she says again, out of breath with the speed of her walk and the weight of the bag. Sakis stands and realises he ate too much breakfast, but then, Jules is such a good cook. This morning, he rubbed garlic and tomatoes on the toast before piling the slices with scrambled egg.
'Can I help you, er …' Did he ever know her name, this woman who saved him from the sheep all those years ago?
'Vasso,' she says. 'I heard you were moving in. They may be no good, but I was having a clear out, always do for the panigyri, clear out and whitewash.' She laughs as if this is funny. 'Found these curtains. If they are no good, give them to the gypsies. Oh, and Marina who runs the corner shop says she has some household things that you might find useful. Just pass by. See you tomorrow night if not before.' She doesn’t wait for a reply but pats him on the shoulder and rushes back the way she came.
Sakis experiences a wave of guilt. Everyone’s kindness is so touching. They must think he is staying permanently.
The bag is heavy. Once back by Jules, he sits and pulls out a corner of the material. They are fully lined bla
ckout curtains in blue velvet. One edge is faded by the sun.
'Cool,' Jules says. 'You know, they call this shabby-chic. I like it.'
'Bedroom or main room, then? Or yet-to-be-built bedroom?' He loves the way Jules is so positive about everything, even a pair of old curtains.
There is a ringing from inside. Sakis almost knocks the table over as he jumps up to get it. It will be Andreas. His future is about to begin.
It isn't Andreas. It is a wrong number. But now that he is up, he might as well call Andreas. Otherwise he will just be waiting. He goes out the back door, down to the walnut tree, and leans against its trunk to dial.
'Hi, Andreas?'
'Who is this?'
'Sakis!'
'Ah Sakis, I did not recognise your number. Of course, you have a new phone.'
Sakis is about to remind Andreas that he texted his new number but he wants to get to the point.
'Have you got them?'
'Got what?'
'Andreas, are you teasing me? Don't, please. I have been sitting here waiting. When do we go to America? When shall I come up to Athens?'
'Ahhh, yes, okay. Well, there has been just the tiniest hitch…'
Sakis’ head jerks back. He stares into the middle distance but sees nothing. The sun loses some of its warmth and his legs feel weak.
'What? Come on! You said that you were trying to get them to pay. If they won't, they won't, so you get the tickets yes? You have set things up the other end, right? So we must go.'
'Sakis, life is not as easy as that. There are complications. There is this model, Naomi. She is big, huge! She is coming to Greece just for a couple of days and she needs a local man, like me, to pave the way, show her which doors to go through, and open a few doors, too.'
'Andreas, you are meant to be my manager!' He slithers down the tree to crouch on the ground.
'I am, I am. This gig with this Naomi, it will pay for the tickets to America. You'll see; it will all come together.'
'And the interviews you had lined up for me in Athens?'
'Well, I have been a bit busy organising this visit of Naomi's. The television want to interview her; the press want to talk to her.'
Suddenly it is clear that it has gone! His moment that he should have grabbed has passed him by! He is yesterday’s news. Un-romantically, a bout of laryngitis has stolen his chance. He should never have trusted Andreas.
'Sakis? You still there?'
'Yes.' His tone is flat. He has no energy even to argue; what would be the point?
'Two days. Then she'll be gone and I can buy the tickets. Trust me, Sakis. Just two days?'
He does not even bother to reply. He ends the call, uses the tree to help him stand and, stiff legged, rejoins Jules.
'Was it him?' he asks. Sakis cannot reply. 'Hey, you okay? You look pale. What's happened?'
'It's gone. My chance has gone. That bloody Andreas. No tickets, no America. Gone.' His head hangs so low, the back of his neck hurts, but he does not care.
'No, man! You still won.'
'There are no tickets, no money, and nothing lined up.'
'But you still won. People will still want to interview you. Buy your own ticket. Sort it out yourself.'
Sakis shakes his head.
'Why do you shake your head? If you want it, do it. It is like everything in life. If you want something, the only person who is going to make it happen is you. If you wait for someone else to give it to you, you will wait forever.'
'I don't have his contacts, his experience.'
'Yet,' Jules says.
'What?'
'You don't have his contacts and his experience yet. But if you want it, you can get it.'
Sakis watches an ant carrying a crumb of scrambled egg twice its size.
'I hear you,' he says but he does not feel any lighter.
'Maybe you need to know what you want,' Jules suggests.
Sakis goes inside and takes his bouzouki to his room. He has not sung since the laryngitis but now he needs to sing, quietly, to himself. He plays his new song, but still the words do not come. It is the most beautiful, passionate tune he has ever written. But the words do not come. He resorts to singing some old tunes. He is almost tempted to sing and play 'Opa' but he knows now, he knows now so strongly, it was a sell-out. A cheap ditty to get him in the competition. Maybe he does not want to go down the road that winning with such a song set before him. Maybe it will lead to more sell-outs, more cheap tricks, more soulless singsongs.
The day moves by him with no effort on his behalf. The village is transformed, with the road cordoned off to traffic as more and more market stalls are erected and flags are strung wherever there is a place to string them. He spends most of the day in the bedroom, which is naturally cool as the walls are stone and over half a meter thick.
Jules leaves him alone, tapping on the door to bring him a sandwich at lunchtime and again in the evening to invite him for food.
'Figured out what you want?' Jules asks as he serves up a mixed salad. He has also made a dish of tzatziki and dolmades using cabbage leaves.
Sakis doesn't answer. They eat in silence. They drink ouzo in silence. Finally, Jules yawns noisily and says, 'I heard three new tunes today. That's a productive day.'
'The words won't come,’ Sakis replies.
'Maybe the words that you think should come are not the right ones. Maybe you are waiting for the wrong inspiration.'
'I sing of passion, I sing of the old ways, I sing of how proud Greece should be. I sing the songs of the manga of Pireaus.'
'Yes, you did,' Jules says and Sakis downs the rest of his ouzo as he hears the past tense, and goes to bed.
The Panigyri
Sakis wakes with such joy the next day. There is no accounting for it, no reason. He is just happy. As for New York or Andreas, he has no appetite for thinking about such things. Maybe he will ponder over it all, but right now, the whole things feels too negative. Energy for no purpose.
The sun creeps through the shutters and a chorus of birds are singing. He stretches and creaks back a wooden shutter, a blade of light cutting through the sitting room’s still air to slice across Jules’ ruffled empty bed.
Sakis finds him sitting outside at the back, looking across the overgrown garden. The skin on his forehead is creased and his mouth is tightened in a thin line.
'Your mattress too hard?' Sakis asks as he pours himself a coffee and then leaves it on the table as he picks up his bouzouki to strum a chord or two. He breaks into one of the new melodies from yesterday, which morphs into the haunting tune that he is most happy with. But still, the words for this tune will not come.
Jules has not spoken yet.
A rustling in the dried weeds promises the arrival of a cat, probably the one that seems to adore Jules. But no cat comes and the rustle continues until a tortoise appears.
'Can you see him?' Sakis asks Jules.
Jules still does not speak.
'Come on, Jules. So you miss this chance of being taken to New York and I am no longer the man who could open doors for you over there. But being here is not that bad. You said yourself we could be happy here. I will get work at some bouzouki bar. I will take on lessons for children. It may not be the big time, but I think we might find we fit in well here.' The words come of their own accord, taking Sakis by surprise, bringing a smile to his lips that expands to crease the corners of his eyes. His stomach flips in a leap of delight at his prospects.
But Jules’ lips still remain a tight line.
They eat breakfast in silence, but even that does not shake Sakis' high spirits. After breakfast, he picks up his instrument again and continues to strum. New melodies leak into old, tiny riffs take on bigger forms. He watches his hands almost as if they are not part of him as inspiration after inspiration manifests. He feels caught on a wave of creativity, as melody after melody crescendos and falls away. It feels like there is no end to them, as if these notes have been waiting all this time just for
him to come to this garden and find them so both the notes and Sakis can rise above the orange trees and fly on their wings.
Jules stands up so suddenly, his chair rocks. Without a word or a look, he goes inside and comes out again with his small rucksack. It is bulging.
'Ahh, yes, we need to get a washing machine,' Sakis says as he looks at the bag and continues to strum. Words are floating in his head. This tune is a sad ballad about people who remember once living in the city, where they behaved like the chickens, pecking and strutting but finding no corn. He keeps hold of the words in his mind as he speaks, 'We should have got one the other day. I don't suppose there will be a laundrette in the village. Are you going into Saros?'
'No. Athens.'
Sakis stops strumming.
'I have a plane to catch,' Jules adds.
Sakis puts down his instrument, worried he might drop it.
'A plane?' He hears the sound of his own voice. His throat tightens to laugh, but he is not sure if it is a joke.
'I have always had my ticket, Sakis.' The words are spoken softly, as an apology.
'To where?' Sakis breathes the words rather than speaking them.
'Come on man, you know. I want to work for Underground Unchained. Nothing has changed for me.'
'But …' Sakis looks around to the house, the area of ground that they marked out with sticks and stones where the extension will be.
'But what?' Jules’ voice is gentle, his French accent strong. 'You knew from when we first met this was my dream, that I was going for it.'
'But the house. What was all this designing and planning with the house?' Although he is sitting down, he feels as if he is falling and a little bit dizzy, as if he has drunk too much coffee. His breakfast turns in his stomach, an empty gnawing sensation that leaves him feeling slightly sick.
Jules puts down his bag and pulls his chair up close to Sakis before he too sits down. With a hand on Sakis' shoulder, he looks him in the eyes.
