by Sara Alexi
'You have everything here,' Spiros said.
'Do I?' she asked and her hand reached out and ruffled his hair as if he was just a boy, and he understood.
'But in all the years that have passed you must have spoken to him, talked about all that happened, found some common ground at some point?'
'You would think so, wouldn't you? But the funny thing is that every time we talked the emotions rose up and it was as if the argument was fresh all over again, even fifty years later. I think our memories forget so many things. Names, places, conversations, but we never seem to forget emotions. They come back fresh and new, time after time.'
Spiros was distressed, hearing her say she felt petty and stubborn. Had she not told him that her husband had been consistently rude and unkind to her and even threatened her with violence? It made him consider the way Argyro spoke to him. It was all about the way she said things. If she asked, like Leontia did, he would do all she wanted in a flash because he would want to – but the way Argyro spoke! He involuntarily shuddered. Yes, he could see how Leontia could end up here all her life. Ha! And he was no different. He had ended up here, too, for similar reasons.
'We are the same,' he said.
'I know,' she answered and she ruffled his hair again, and this time he did not mind.
Chapter 11
That night’s conversation changed things between them. The next morning she darned his socks, and slowly they both allowed her to act more like a mama towards him and he grew ever fonder of her.
The next few months were a delight of eating and learning to cook and, on one occasion, whilst they cooked, she told him that he was her heir. But he had already realised that. After stating it out loud, she seemed desperate to pass on her knowledge, but as the days passed she became more relaxed and they laughed a lot. Her ankle got steadily better and their friendship grew stronger by the day. They worked side by side in the vegetable garden, and, under her direction, he carried out a great deal of maintenance work around the cottage, making sure it would no longer leak or let in the cold winds in the winter. Then they set about making it harder for the mice to find a way in. Spiros mixed buckets of mud to block up the holes in the walls, and had begun smearing it into the first crevice when the woman had thrown handfuls of crushed garlic into the mix.
'A guarantee.' She had chuckled. 'They may scratch through mud and gnaw through wood but they will never eat their way through garlic!' The house had smelt of garlic for days.
Together they bound the straw in the donkey shed and covered it with a sheet. She swept the floor and he fixed the door. They talked little, smiled a lot and cooked small exquisite dishes three times a day.
He was happy and, as with all happy situations, the time passed by very quickly. Summer turned to winter and they congratulated themselves on the absence of mice. As it got colder they dragged his straw mattress into the main cottage to put it before the fire.
As night rolled in they would wish each other good night.
'Good night, Spiro,' she would say.
'Sleep well, Leontia,' he would reply, and then they would listen to the night sounds and float off to sleep.
On one such night they had settled down as usual.
Good night, Spiro,' she called from her narrow bed. He was particularly tired that night and he replied, 'Sleep well, Mama' – and the night sounds were overlaid with a tension as they tried to fall asleep.
The following morning, Leontia said nothing and Spiros decided it was probably best to ignore his mistake, too. They worked hard through the morning and it was with relief that they sat down to a bite to eat in the afternoon. But no sooner were they sitting than Leontia's voice became low and serious.
'Spiro, I have made mistakes in my life and now it’s too late to make them right. But it is not too late for you. I enjoy you being here, you know I do. I have grown to love you, and I have become lazy and now I even need you, but I will be no substitute.'
'Substitute?' He did not understand.
'You lost your mama and you gained a step-mama you do not get on with. You ran away' – he began to object but she put up a silencing hand – 'you ran away and found me here, and I am not the step-mama, but I have become a substitute for your real mama.'
'And what is wrong with that? She is dead.' Spiros did not like this conversation.
'Yes, she is dead, and I'm sorry for that. But your baba is not, and by making me into a substitute you are choosing between me and your baba, and I wonder how much by choosing me you are punishing him for his choice of new wife?' He began to object again, but again she silenced him, this time with a look that said she was not finished. 'I would like you to go home. Go home and sort your relationships out. Then, if you want to come back here you will be coming because you want to, and not because you are running away and hiding. Like I did.'
The idea came as a shock. Go back? Go and deal with Argyro. Make his peace? But as the idea percolated through his mind he began to miss his baba and to feel sad for the pain he was causing him. His baba had no idea if he was dead or alive, and that seemed a cruel punishment for taking a wife who could not hold her tongue. He didn't want it to be so but he knew Leontia was right. He might not make peace with Argyro but he should go back and make peace with his baba, or at least let him know he was alive and that he had a new life. So, with some reluctance, he agreed.
Deciding when he should return was the difficulty. There was one more dish she wanted to teach him, one more crop of vegetables he wanted to see ripen… Then the summer had passed and they were at the beginning of a second winter and she caught a cold. He could not leave then – she needed him.
The cold grew a little worse and because he did not know what to do Spiros begged her to let him get a doctor, someone to help from the village, but she laughed and coughed and told him to get out the box of pomegranates they were storing. From them she told him how to make a juice.
'It is full of goodness,' she said. 'It is full of antioxidants. Have you ever heard of them?' Spiros tutted his 'no' as he followed her instructions.
'More antioxidants in a pomegranate than any other fruit or vegetable we know. It won't get rid of my cold but it will speed my recovery,' she said as he offered her the pungent mix. She sipped it.
'Hmm, a little more orange juice next time,' she suggested, ever the cook.
'I will do it now.' He jumped up, intending to pick the juiciest orange he could find, straight off the tree.
'Please don't,' she begged. 'Just seeing your energy exhausts me.' He had never seen her so tired.
He continued to take care of her as they watched the spring arrive, bringing blossoms all around the cottage that promised the abundance of summer, and as the days grew longer Leontia grew in strength until she was her old self again.
One evening, when they could feel summer just around the corner, they sat down to an amazing dinner of roasted squash and potatoes in a fine light sauce that almost tingled on Spiro’s tongue.
'You need to go home,’ Leontia said quietly. ‘I am well now.'
'But I am happy here.' His words were heartfelt and sincere and they came out fast.
'I am happier than I have ever been in many a year, but I am keeping you here. You are young, you have a life to lead. Maybe it is best if you go home, make your peace, and then you know that whatever you choose is actually a choice and not just a reaction to avoid what is unpleasant.'
The truth of what she said filled him with sadness. His baba still didn't know if he was alive or dead, and, if Spiros allowed himself to think of him, he missed him. He needed to return and make his peace with the whole situation.
'It is Friday, I believe,' she said. Spiros had lost track of the days of the week long ago. 'Monday is always a good day for a new beginning, so you will go on Monday.' He looked at her in disbelief, and opened his mouth to argue, but he could tell her mind was made up.
That evening, it had felt as if the parting was already happening. He hung on her every w
ord and the next day he found reasons to work beside her.
'Do I really need to go?' he had asked.
'There is always a time to move on,' she said with a tiredness to her voice he had not heard before, and he wondered if he had outstayed his welcome.
On Saturday, they dragged his bed back to the donkey barn. She would not be able to do it after he had gone, she said; she no longer had the strength.
‘Will you be happy when I decide to come back?' he asked.
'You may choose to stay,' she said, and her eyes moistened and she pulled him into a hug.
'I am so happy,' was all she said when they went to their beds that night.
The next day he was up with the cockerel as usual but Leontia, who was generally up before him, was not tending the vegetables, nor fixing the wall that they had started work on; nor was she up in the hills foraging for wild rocket and other foods. Maybe she had gone to the village. But that possibility was so unlikely he dismissed it. The dog was there, lying by her door, and as Spiros approached to pat its head it growled, something it had never done before. ‘Quiet, dog,’ he said, but a panic gripped his heart and he burst into the old lady’s room.
She was there, on the bed, eyes closed, looking so peaceful, but no breath came or went and the dog crawled under the bed, whimpering. He looked at her face, her wrinkled skin all relaxed, and he could see the young woman she had once been. The smooth skin of her cheek, the curve of her jaw, the height of her brow were all still there, hinting at the days of energy and youth. He cried for her, he cried for her lost youth – the love she had never had, the fun she had never known, the children she had never borne – and for the reality that he would miss her, his friend. He also cried for his mama, for the times she would never know, the grandchildren she would so have like to have seen, and the abandonment he felt because she was not here to help him through this time, when her very presence would make Argyro disappear and make his baba content again, his old self. And he cried for himself, over the loss of his soft protector, his baba and his home and family, and over the long fingers of loneliness that stretched before him and clawed at his future.
Then he got up, went outside and, through blurred vision, tried to finish the wall they had begun as if this would fix the situation, as if this would heal his heart, bring life to the old lady’s bones, return his mama to him and seal Argyro into the underworld. Soon he threw his tools to the floor and looked to the sky, taking a deep breath to calm his raising pulse. He picked some flowers and took them in to her, put them in her hand and kissed her cheek, which still held some warmth. His tears flowed anew and he let them. He let himself cry and moan and even howl like a dog for his loss. He told her how much he was going to miss her and he shouted at her for leaving him, but most of all he told her how much he loved her. When his emotions were temporarily spent, he brushed her hair across the pillow, said goodbye and firmly closed the door behind him.
The dog came when it was called and the two of them walked down to the village and up to the kafeneio. The dog sat waiting patiently outside whilst all eyes watched Spiros. He walked past the man who had given him a lift into the village the year before and straight up to the kafeneio owner, who was a wizened old man with a turned-down mouth and crooked hands. With a few simple words he explained to Vasilis that Leontia was gone and he watched as tears gathered in the old man’s eyes. The old man made eye contact, briefly, and then his head dropped and his hands twisted on themselves. He turned without a word and disappeared through a back door.
As Spiros left the kafeneio and stepped back into the sunshine, he told the dog to stay, and it sat on the steps watching him go.
Only one man got up and stood by the door to watch him walk out of the village. It was the man who had given him the lift. When Spiros turned for a last look at the place he knew he would never visit again, the man on the steps waved, briefly, with hesitation, and then his hand dropped to rest on the dog’s head.
Chapter 12
Vasso did her best to hide her tears and to sniff quietly. Her cheeks and her chin were wet and her hand was on his arm, the end of her fingers stroking and comforting. His hand was laid on hers and their fingers became interlocked.
'So then you came back,' she whispered.
'Then I intended to come back.' He released her hand and went into the taverna, coming out with a handful of paper napkins that he dabbed ineffectually at her cheeks and her eyes.
'But, as I wandered towards home' – he sat back down and looked away as she blew her nose – 'at the next village I was offered a job as a cook in a taverna and one thing led to another. I worked in six tavernas in different villages and towns as I headed back here. That took another year, but it was a good year and I learnt much about cooking for customers – timing the food, that sort of thing.’ His voice trailed off.
'And still Argyro does not let you cook?'
'I came back expecting to turn the taverna around, but she won't even let me try. She said I had made my decision when I left and if I wanted a job I could have one as a waiter, at the usual waiter’s pay.'
‘Why is she so angry?’ Vasso looked around for somewhere to put the used tissues but then scrunched them into a ball in her hand. 'So what will happen if she finds out about your lunchtime service?'
'I have no idea. I think it’s unrealistic to hope she won't find out. I didn't really intend it. The first time I only cooked for Dimitri, who had turned up with a couple of fish. Then he told his friends but the quality of the food Argyro had in the fridge was so bad I told them I wouldn't cook. The next day they turned up with Ilias and his morning catch and a group of friends. That was only last week – and now see, all the island is here.' He sighed, but he was smiling. 'So you’re right, she’s bound to find out.' He sighed again but this time the smile had gone. 'I guess I will try to talk to her. If she listens and lets me cook then all my takings will go to the taverna. But if she doesn’t listen then whatever I have made so far I will use to open my own taverna.'
'What? Here on the island? You want to open one here?'
'Yes, why not?'
'Yes, why not. Although… I don't know how these things are, but wouldn't that be a little bit like declaring war on Argyro? I mean, how would your baba feel?'
'To hell with him!' Spiro’s chair toppled over backward as he stood and his voice was loud. Vasso put her hand to her mouth, wishing she hadn’t spoken.
'Sorry, Vasso, I didn’t mean to scare you.' He turned to her and bent his knees so his face was level with hers. One hand was on hers, and the other smoothed a wisp of hair from her brow.
'Did I tell you how beautiful you are?'
'Are you teasing me now?'
'No, I’m not teasing you.'
'I know I am plain.'
'It’s true you don’t curl your hair or cover yourself in make-up, but that is part of why you are beautiful. You’re real. There’s nothing fake or dishonest in your looks. You are natural and, although we are young, you remind me, in your nature, of the old woman.'
His face moved closer to hers and she was overcome with an urge to kiss him. His chin extended forward and she knew she should draw away but she could not. The softness of the touch, the gentle brush of his lower lip on hers sent thrills like ice water down her spine and she involuntarily shivered, which made him stop, which left her both thankful and horrified.
'Are you alright?' His voice was a whisper, his face so close he was almost out of focus. Her throat closed and her stomach knotted. There was no way any words could be spoken but she managed the slightest nod of her head. He looked at her mouth and moved in again and this time they locked together, his hands in her hair, hers around his shoulders. Colours swam in her head, thrills chased each other through her body, her outer layer melted and she could have sworn that his did, too, and that they became one. Then from some dark, primal place deep inside her came urges that she had been warned all about, not only by her mama but by the priest, and she pulled away, her hea
rt racing, eyes wide.
She must control herself. She must stop. But would he? If the tales told by the old women who gossiped in the village, or her friends at school, had any validity, he would, at best, persuade her to follow these urges now. At worst, he would force himself on her.
He smiled. He said nothing. He did nothing. He just smiled and looked in her eyes and all her fears melted. But he did not try to kiss her again. Instead he stroked her hair.
'I’ll go now,' he said. 'I’ll lock the taverna doors but the side gate in the courtyard is open so you are not a prisoner.' He chuckled at his words.
Part of her wanted to pull him back, continue the adventure they were having. How could something that felt so perfect, so true, be considered wrong?
She lay a long time on her new bed, staring at the ceiling, playing the conversation and the events over in her mind. She stayed awake so long that by morning she was as tired as if she had not slept at all and Argyro had to come in and shake her by the toe.
'I hope you’re not one of these people who can’t get up in the morning?' she said, and bustled back to the taverna, stopping by the little table under the lemon tree and staring pointedly at the two glasses, before gathering them up with sharp movements, making the glasses ring so hard together that Vasso feared they would break.
Vasso hurriedly washed and dressed, but today she did not braid her hair tightly. She took a lock from either side of her face and twisted these behind her head so most of her hair fell free.
