by Sara Alexi
'They're gone.' Spiros came in with the menus. He went out again with a tray and returned with the salt and pepper pots, the napkin holders and the pots of toothpicks.
'You fancy an ouzo?' he asked.
'Oh, no, thank you.'
'Do you drink at all?'
‘No.' That was what she had always said when offered a drink. It was what her mama wanted her to say, and until now she had thought nothing of it. However, just in that second, there was a moment of curiosity. Might she in fact like it? Added to this, she considered that she could choose to be different, here among people whom she did not know and who did not know her.
Spiros went back outside and took off the clips that held the tablecloths in place and, like a matador, whipped off each cloth in turn. The awning that shaded the tables during the day had been gathered in and now the sky was dark and filled with hundreds and thousands of twinkling stars. Spiro’s face was highlighted by the moon. She turned back to the sink and made an effort to concentrate, to get the job finished.
The last pan was burnt black inside and out, and she scrubbed it, but to no avail.
'Oh, leave it to soak.' Spiros came in from the little courtyard, which surprised her as she hadn't seen him go out there. 'Come.' He held out his hand towards her. Vasso looked down at her own soapy, water-wrinkled hands and swilled them under the tap, but by the time she had dried them Spiro’s own hand was no longer on offer. He was standing by the door to the courtyard with an eager expression on his face.
What on earth was he expecting, she wondered? Could he possibly think that, given a bit of charm and a smile, she would fall willingly into his bed? What kind of man was he?
'Come,' he said again, and Vasso was horrified to find she wanted to obey him.
She stood rigidly. She was not going to give in to such desires. Mama would disown her! It was against all she had been brought up to believe.
'Please, I want you to see what I have done,' Spiros implored.
She took one tentative step towards the door and, on catching sight of a change in the courtyard, she proceeded with more assurance.
'Oh, Spiro!' she gasped.
A few of the lower branches had been sawn off the lemon tree, making room to walk easily under it. The floor had been swept, the pans and leaves had gone from the corner, and two chairs, one of which she recognised from her room, and another from the taverna, had been placed under the moonlit leaves. The side door was open and in the street beyond she could see the lemon tree branches and the pots piled up along with bags of rubbish. Spiros hurriedly closed the door to hide the mess.
But the nicest touch of all, as far as Vasso was concerned, was a candle in a bottle, flickering on the small table he had squeezed between the chairs under the lemon tree.
'I told Argyro that, really, she should have offered you a room at the house,' Spiros grumbled, the words sounding like an apology. 'Stamatis agreed.'
'This is so pretty,' Vasso murmured.
'I will get drinks.' There was relief in his voice now. 'Are you sure you won't have an ouzo with me?'
'No, thank you.' Pleasing him felt amazing, as if she had a great power. It filled her with a sense of importance that she felt sure must show on the outside. Everything around her seemed to glow with colour and the jasmine in the air was almost strong enough to make her dizzy. Even her body felt alive, as if her blood was tingling the inside of her flesh. With his hands on the back of one of the chairs he invited her to sit. Then he went back inside and she could hear a chinking of bottles.
'It’s just fruit juice,' he said, putting a drink in front her. His ouzo grew opaque as it mixed with the melting ice in his glass. She sipped with quick glances, trying to form her question before she spoke.
'May I ask you something?'
'Sure.' He seemed so at ease, stretching his arms to the stars, his chest barrelling outwards.
'Why don't they let you cook?'
'Ah.' His hands fell and his chest sank. 'It’s a bit of a long story.'
'Oh, alright.' Vasso tried to stop herself staring. His profile in the moonlight was just as perfect as his face in the sun.
'I don't mind telling you, if you want?'
'Tell me.' If he talked she had a reason to keep looking at him.
'Well, I grew up in this taverna. I learned to crawl on that floor.' He pointed through the door to the flagged floor of the taverna, which looked like it needed a good scrub. I learned to walk clutching at the table edges outside, from one to the other. I got so much attention from the customers.'
Vasso could imagine him as a child. The dark, fine hairs down the back of his neck, the long eyelashes edging his eyes in black, his nose probably smaller then but still with the slightly turned-up end. He would have been adorable.
'As I grew, I wanted to be like my mama.'
'Who? Argyro!' The words rushed out with force. Spiro’s eyes flashed as they glanced across at her, and he let out a snort and then nodded his head slowly as if he understood the emotion behind her words. The nod became a shake.
'No, not Argyro, she is not my mama. Baba remarried after…'
'Ahhh.' Vasso drew the sound out as she readjusted her thinking. It all made a lot more sense now, even though she did not have the details.
'My mama was the cook. My baba, Stamatis, he was the waiter and I washed up after school. We made a fine business here.' His eyes were unfocused and Vasso presumed he was far away in his memories.
She waited, and after a minute or two he broke his reverie and took a sip of his ouzo before continuing.
'They did well and I helped cook at weekends, learnt a little from my mama. But life is always unpredictable. Not long after I left school, Mama was dead, and then, only a short time later, Argyro was my stepmother.'
'Oh, I am sorry.' It seemed impossible to think what her own world would be like without her mama. Even then, in that very moment, it gave her such comfort to know her mama was at home waiting for her.
'After Mama died I offered to cook. Well, I didn't offer, I just expected that I would be the cook. It was logical. But Argyro was there by my baba’s side before Mama was even in her grave. It was she who convinced him that he should be the cook and for some reason he agreed with her. It was as if she had a hold over him. He did whatever she said. It wasn't long before the business stopped doing so well, and we were – are – getting poorer and poorer.'
'Oh dear.' Vasso was not sure what else to say.
Spiros knocked back the last of his ouzo and slammed the glass onto the little three-legged metal table. 'Stamatis – Baba – is a great waiter. The customers love him, he has a good memory for the orders and he is a kind man. But if I was the cook and he was the waiter, what difference would that make to her? There is no reason, no logic.’
'Ahh.' Vasso could see his point.
'So I did as my baba asked, and I became the waiter. She did the washing-up for a while. Until the ring was on her finger, anyway. Then she sat and drank coffee and smoked. The pots piled up in the sink until someone was forced to do something with them, but it was seldom her. It was usually me.'
'But…' Vasso began, but was grateful that her voice was very small as she had no idea what to say, how to sympathise. His words, if anything, made her feel angry.
Then a new thought occurred to her.
'But if you were not allowed to cook, how did you get to be so good at it?'
Chapter 8
There was that sad look again, and every fibre of her wanted to reach out and make his world better, like when Mama was sick, but much more, so much more.
'You seem pained at the thought.'
'She’s a dominant woman.' He stated this calmly.
Without a word, he slid from his chair and walked with a heavy step back into the taverna. A cork popped inside and he returned with the glass already to his lips.
'That won't help,' she said, but so quietly he didn't hear her; or maybe he decided to ignore her. After a minute’s silence she
wondered if he had forgotten her question, or decided not to talk after all. She searched for the best way to ask again, kindly, gently. But she had no need.
'One day she just pushed too far. She humiliated Baba in front of his friends and customers. I tried to intervene but he hushed me, told me I didn't understand everything, that I should not be so harsh on her.'
'”Son,” he said, “it’s better this way.”“What way?” I said. “Her telling us both what to do, you hating every day behind the grill, me wasting my time serving?”'
Spiros fell silent and looked into his glass but he did not drink. There was moisture on his bottom lashes.
'So I waited until everyone had gone and I faced her.' He looked up and into Vasso's eyes, looking for something there, but she could not tell what it was he sought – affirmation? Connection? Approval? Sympathy?
'What happened?' She needed to know.
'She was vicious,' he said. He sounded defeated and the way his shoulders rolled over reminded her of how Stamatis walked, with the same stoop, the same defeat. 'She told me I knew nothing about cooking, that if anyone had ever told me I was good at it they were probably being kind, taking pity on me because my mama had just died. That caught me off guard and I fell into the place of sadness that I feel when I think of Mama. Then she said that, from what she had eaten of my food, it was the worst she had ever tasted.' He drank now and then continued. 'I told her she didn’t know what she was talking about. I was shouting at this stage and I said that my mama had taught me and my grandfather had taught her and then she went quiet and this look of horror twisted her face…'
But Vasso did not care about Argyro. She cared about Spiros and right then she wanted to reach out and put her hand on his arm, to show him she believed in him. But she faltered. To actually touch him would be too much, it was not right. Spiros was oblivious, however, and he continued his recollection.
'"Stop!" my baba shouted, and he rushed over to be by her side. "Ah, I see", Argyro said quietly then. "So you bring your grandfather into this, do you? Now I understand." Or something like that. Anyway, that was all she said and my baba’s arms were around her and he looked at me as if I had committed the worst crime on earth whilst she wept into his shoulder. Well, she made the noises, anyway, but when she lifted her head his shirt seemed dry.
'But I was mortified at the look he gave me. I felt abandoned. "Baba, tell her I can cook!" I demanded. But my baba did not answer me so I stormed out of the taverna.' Spiros glanced at Vasso, who became conscious that her mouth had dropped open. 'This was only two years ago, but I was a lot younger then. My temper was shorter and my ego was larger.' He took a mouthful of ouzo, swilling it around his cheeks.
'What happened when you went back?'
'Ah, well, that was the thing. I didn’t go back, not until three weeks ago.'
'Three weeks?' At this, Vasso readjusted her perceptions. She had presumed she was walking into a steady business. Actually, steady wasn’t quite the right word. When Argyro was there the place felt tired, as if no energy had been injected into it for years. But then there was the lunchtime service. How had the whole lunchtime event become so well established – so seamless – so quickly? Had it been orchestrated or had it just happened? She was about to ask when a further thought caused a frown to rimple her brow. If things had changed so dramatically quite recently then there was also the potential for them to change quite dramatically again in the future. Like Dimitri said, it would only be a matter of time before Argyro and Stamatis found out about the lunchtime service, and then what? Might she lose her job because she had been party to it all? Or would Spiros have to go? If that happened could she stay – and would she want to stay?
Also, her mama had arranged her appointment here more than three weeks ago – presumably before Spiros had returned to the island. Now that he was back, was she still really wanted or was she being kept on out of politeness, or, worse, out of pity? Why had they not informed Mama that their son had returned, and that she wasn't needed?
It all suddenly seemed so very complicated. If she were to take the initiative, and bring up the subject herself, would that be a positive thing? Or might it give Stamatis and Argyro the opportunity to tell her she was not needed? Perhaps it would be better to leave it all up to Mama and Stamatis. Then again, surely at sixteen she should have some input into her own life? One thing was sure – putting distance between her and Spiros was the last thing she desired.
'When I walked out I had some money on me.' He patted his breast pocket, where the drachmas from lunchtime bulged. 'So I caught the last boat across to the mainland. I had nowhere to go so the first night I just slept on the jetty, looking back over here, trying to get a better perspective on everything.'
As Vasso watched him talk he seemed to become more and more lost to the outside world. His words filled her own head with the images, and she could see – and feel – the story he told.
Chapter 9
The island hadn't seemed such a great distance away. When he was younger, he and his friends had once or twice dared each other to swim across, but they very seldom went further than the last of the fishing boat buoys. It had seemed such a long way, back then. Now he was actually on the mainland it did not feel far enough. What had possessed Baba to marry such a woman? Sure, he was sad about Mama, they both were, but that didn't excuse – or explain – him running out to marry the first person that came along.
But, to be fair to his baba, had he actually had a choice? For days, he had wandered from room to room, down to the port and back, looking like all the muscles had been removed from his face. He had hardly spoken a word for weeks, and every morning Spiros emerged from under his own sheet of gloom to check that his baba had lived through the night, that he had not gone and thrown himself off the coastal path into the sea or taken the bread knife to his veins. Had he even had a chance to emerge from this deep state of mourning to make a clear-headed decision about anything, let alone marriage?
Argyro had adhered like a limpet almost from the day of the funeral… No, it was before that. She had been there the first night, making coffee, washing up. Listening to Stamati’s first rush of words, when he was angry that he had been left, abandoned by his wife and therefore by God. He had raged for those first few days and Argyro had not batted an eyelid. She had continued to come, to listen, to make food that was left uneaten, and pour coffee that went cold until the rage evaporated into silence and the coffee was drunk in spasmodic gulps and plain food was shovelled in with no pleasure. And there she had remained by his side, until the fog cleared enough for him to speak and she clung all the tighter.
‘Being neighbourly,' Spiros had heard her tell enquirers.
'Go to hell!' he shouted across the water to her.
And there was something neither she nor his baba was saying, that had something to do with his grandfather. What in heaven’s name did his grandfather have to do with Baba marrying Argyro and putting up with her unpleasant and bullying ways?
'Go to hell and back!' he shouted, even louder, but the wind whipped his words away. He sat for what seemed like hours, watching the lights on the island go out one by one until only the dotted street lights were left. He counted them – twelve – across the whole of the town. He counted them again, to pass more time because he had no idea what he was going to do.
When morning came, after a disturbed and uncomfortable night, his anger still raged but a solution was not forthcoming. But one thing he did know, he could not face going back. He would be like a dog with his tail between his legs and she would be stronger than ever. No, he was not going back. So he splashed his face with seawater and set off, with no clear aim or direction. At first he walked, one foot in front of the other along the cracked tarmac lane, noting the weeds that broke through at the edges, wiping his neck as the sun caused him to sweat. Soon the narrow lane joined a wider road, and a farmer stopped and offered a lift in his battered truck. Spiros hopped on board, indifferent to where they were goin
g, but glad to have the speed of his travels change to break the monotony. There were more lifts – and more walking – but none of it mattered much. He slept by the roadside and ate what was offered by kind people he met. When the third evening came, he was in no better position than he had been the day he left – just further from the sea and more hungry. But he cared little about either.
That evening he found himself in a village made up of a tiny gathering of cottages. The nearness of so many people brought back memories of his friends on the island and he yearned for a little company. But, as twilight settled, the inhabitants shut their doors against him and all became silent, and he felt very alone. He slept under an olive tree, the twisted roots curled around him, the warm ground holding him. He slept deeply and dreamlessly, grateful to sink into oblivion.
He was woken in the morning by a dog licking his face.
'Go away.' He pushed at the dog, but the animal was insistent and so he scratched it behind its ears and it twisted and whined in ecstasy. Soon the dog ran off, and Spiros had a raging thirst. The village would have water, but he hesitated, recalling the closed shutters and doors from the night before. The place felt unfriendly, and the little pride he had left made him reluctant to return.
Up ahead, the dog yelped.
The way it was going, there was a definite track but it appeared to lead into the hills. Better to go back down to the road and move onward.
The dog yelped again and came hurrying back towards him, tail down, expressing a sense of urgency.
'Here, boy – here!' he called, but the dog ran off again, looking back and yelping. It was odd, not a natural way for a dog to behave, so he followed. The olive trees ended at a rocky outcrop and the dog dodged around behind the boulders. Spiros followed, and there, between two large rocks, a cottage nestled – whitewashed, with a burnt-orange tiled roof and bushes of flowers in pink, white and pale orange softening the edges. The dog stood at the door, whining.
