The Rush Cutter's Legacy

by Sara Alexi

  She could not have been more in love at that moment, and she took his hand under the table and put it on her belly.

  Chapter 26

  Down at the port they ate, drank ouzo and local wine, and danced, and it seemed that everyone on the island joined them. Although only a handful of people had actually been able to fit inside the tiny church, everyone agreed that the ceremony had been one of the most beautiful they had ever witnessed.

  Speeches were given and largely ignored, and the wine flowed. Stamatis became very drunk, and the drunker he got the more he grinned, until finally he was taken home, arms over the shoulders of two friends, still smiling but with his eyes closed.

  Vasso was kissed on the cheeks a thousand times over, and had blessings whispered in her ear, and Spiros never left her side. When the celebration was at its height he danced her down to the water’s edge, and when no one was looking they slipped away back home, eager to consolidate their vows.

  The morning saw them take the early boat across to the mainland, where they changed ferries and headed for the rocky outcrop of Monemvasia, where they would spend their honeymoon.

  As they approached the peninsula from the north and landed at the mainland town, they saw nothing of the deserted village of Monemvasia itself, nestled on the sheltered southern slopes of the domed outcrop.

  They arrived tired and hungry and agreed to find a place to stay and then get something to eat before exploring. Houses advertising rooms to let lined the waterfront. The first place they enquired at was full, but the kindly woman pointed around the bay, past two fish tavernas, to where her sister had rooms to rent. Vasso was glad that she had changed into sensible shoes and grateful that Spiros was carrying the bags. The room they found was spotlessly clean but both Vasso and Spiros agreed, with giggles, that the decoration was more suited to their yiayias than to people of their age. Handmade lace dollies adorned all the wooden surfaces. Along a shelf, folded and cut sheets of newspaper provided a replaceable, decorative covering, and there were several plastic vases in the shape of swans that displayed faded handmade paper tissue flowers.

  After exploring the room their laughter subsided and Spiros declared, ‘I think I might have overdone things yesterday.' His hands were in the small of his back and he flexed his shoulders.

  'And you never stopped with the preparations!' Vasso added, massaging his neck.

  'Do you mind if we rest a while before we go out to eat?' he asked, and he lay down, smoothing the sheets next to him for her to join him, and then closed his eyes. She must have been tired too, because when she woke the blue of the sky through the window had turned to navy. Spiros was grimacing and rubbing his chest.

  'Are you alright?' Vasso asked.

  'Sure.' He stopped rubbing. 'Hungry, I guess.'

  The taverna had tables right by the water’s edge, and, as they ate, hopeful fish gathered and fought for scraps of bread. The shoal heaved and writhed, fighting for the food, some fish sliding up the backs of others and out of the water to secure the morsels. The larger pieces were nudged and chased to the rocks where tiny crabs waited to seize the opportunity to pull the soggy dough into crevices, or higher onto the rocks where the fish could not reach.

  A cat wound round their chairs and Spiros delighted in feeding the silent guest.

  At one point, limping across the road to the tables, came a dog, its back leg dragging and useless.

  'Oh, the poor thing,' Spiros said and gave it a succulent morsel. It ate eagerly and waited for more but, when no more came, their plates empty, it bounded away, no sign of a limp.

  'Did you see that?' Vasso said, as the waiter brought a plate of watermelon.

  'Ah, him. He’s smart dog, don't believe his games. One day a leg, the next a paw – he is as crafty as a gypsy!' The waiter hissed and stamped his foot at the dog who was now trying the same tactic on other diners.

  Spiros took Vasso’s hand.

  'When our little one is born we shall bring him–'

  'Or her,' Vasso interjected.

  'Or her – here to see the naughty clever dog?' His thumb rubbed across her knuckles and they both knew it was time to return to the hotel.

  After sleeping deliciously late they rose together and made their way to see Monemvasia itself.

  'I’ve heard that it’s nothing but ruined buildings, built a very long time ago. I’m not sure what there is to see, but they say it is very beautiful. I think it was built there because they could easily protect themselves. At the top of the rock is a fort, but the main town is on a rocky slab by the sea,' Spiros told her.

  Vasso didn't really care. She had her prizes with her, one holding her hand and another in her belly.

  They walked across the causeway that joined the island to the mainland. The road around its perimeter went only one way and they followed it anticlockwise, vertical rock on their left and the sea on their right. They kept walking until they reached a decorated arch in the city walls, which led through to the narrowest cobbled path, with a sweet little bakery on the left and a shop selling handmade souvenirs on the right.

  'So much for it being ruins,' Vasso quietly commented, as a woman in black, standing in the next doorway, asked them if they wanted to rent a room for the night. The doorway was tiny and they would have to bend to avoid bumping their heads, if they were to enter.

  'Breakfast included,' she added, as they thanked her and moved on. On either side of the narrow street the cottages butted up against each other, with occasional gaps where steps led up to the next street or down to the sea.

  Although the houses on this main street were in good order, many of those away from the centre were in ruins, with crumbling stone walls and roof beams exposed to the sky. In many places the narrow lanes were blocked with bags of sand or cement. Signs on the main street advertised hotels and gift shops.

  ‘I bet it was wonderful before the tourists took over.’ Vasso ran her hand along the cornerstones of a building. ‘Look how they do the doorways, so low and then with the quarter-circle pieces facing in at the top corners. Normally, the curve would go the other way to round the opening.’ She laughed. ‘I bet I would endlessly bump my head on those!’

  At the far end, the narrow street opened into an area of rough, boulder-strewn ground with a high castle wall around it.

  ‘You know what Monemvasia means, right?’ Spiros asked.

  ‘I’ve never thought – but mone means one or only… and emvasia as in to transfer or enter. I don’t get it. Oh, yes I do! One entrance.’

  They looked up at the wall that signified the end of their walk in that direction. Two men were perched precariously on top, restoring the fortifications and talking loudly. At one point in the wall was a heavy wooden door, tightly fastened.

  ‘Well, when they have finished that, they will have to call it Diploemvasia,’ said Spiros, and as Vasso worked out his joke he grabbed her hand and turned back the way they had come.

  ‘There’s not really much here, is there?’ she commented.

  ‘Let’s go up this path,’ said Spiros, and he led the way up a set of worn stone steps, which ended in a small courtyard where a woman in her nightdress was sharpening a pair of scissors on a stone.

  ‘Kalimera,’ Spiros greeted her.

  The woman glanced briefly at her nightgown, but quickly looked up with a broad grin.

  ‘Kalimera. You are taking a walk?’ She smiled again and then resumed sharpening her scissors. ‘You know, they come down from Athens but they do not care.’ Spiros and Vasso looked at each other, unclear of her meaning, but happy enough to be there, in each other’s company, sharing this experience. ‘It is not their sweat that has restored our ancestors’ home,’ she continued, ‘so why should they, I suppose.’ She smiled as she spoke, as if the culprits were already forgiven. ‘My children are not so bad. They leave their towels and clothes about the place, as if there is a maid to pick up after them. But the grandchildren! Look what they did to my scissors.’ And she happily ground the b
lunt edge against a stone. ‘“We are cutting wood to make a bridge,” they told me. I had not realized what they were doing. You should see my chair!’

  ‘Are you from here, then?’ Vasso asked.

  ‘I was born here, and raised here, but I got married and lived in Athens for… Oh, many years!’ She waved her hand in a circular motion, as if the years were too many to count. Vasso noticed that a tiny sprig of rosemary was caught in the woman’s hair and she wondered if she should offer to remove it.

  ‘Then he died and now I am alone. They come to visit me but Athens is a long way.’

  ‘You have neighbours?’ Vasso asked, with a twinge of concern that the woman might be lonely.

  ‘Neighbours! Ha!’ She waved a dismissive arm at the only house within view that was not a ruin. ‘The people who have bought that are French, and never here.’ Then she pointed at a crumble of walls. ‘There,’ she said, ‘are Germans, but they do not repair. And here are Americans, who come every two years or so for a week.’

  ‘Are you lonely?’ Vasso could not hold her question back. Spiros squeezed her hand, perhaps wanting to move on.

  ‘Oh, no!’ The woman was emphatic. Spiros released his tight grasp and looked up at the wall of rock that towered over the town. ‘I was loved, you see, by such a good man.’

  Spiros gave another little tug, more clearly a suggestion that they should move on, but Vasso held her ground.

  ‘I think when you have been loved, truly and deeply, there is no room for loneliness. You can remember and recall. I still talk to him as if he is here, and I know what he would reply, his humour.’ She laughed. ‘I think it is when they have never experienced a meeting of minds that people get lonely. They do not miss so much what they had, but what they never had, do you know what I mean?’ She looked long and hard at Vasso. ‘Then, when their partner is gone they can afford to mourn for the connection they never had in the guise of mourning for the partner.’ She rolled her eyes as if such behaviour was futile. ‘But sometimes when I would just like a cuddle I have to wait for my children to visit.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Spiros changed the subject, pointing at a cave high up in the rock face.

  ‘Ah!’ The woman put down her scissors. ‘A very holy place! Years ago an icon was found there. No one had put it there, it was a miracle!’

  ‘Is it still there?’ Vasso asked.

  ‘It is a dedicated church now, and there are many icons.’

  ‘Come, Vasso, let’s have a look.’ Spiros seized the chance to leave.

  ‘Yes, take a little walk,’ the woman encouraged, ‘but be careful. The way is steep and at the top very narrow. Light a candle for me.’

  ‘Come with us, show us the way,’ Vasso gently teased the woman whose back was too bent to go far and whose slippers would not have managed the rough track up the hillside.

  ‘Ach! I am too old now. You young people go.’ And she returned to sharpening her scissors, with a smile on her lips.

  As Vasso began to climb, she could hear the woman talking to herself. ‘They asked me to show them the way! Can you imagine, with my knees, but do you remember the times we went up there before the children were born?’

  Her voice faded as Spiros led the way around the corner of the final house on the slope. Before them now were boulders and loose stones, tufts of dried grass.

  ‘I think if we go up that way it will lead to the track you can see further up.’ Spiros said, and before his words were finished he was off, putting distance between them.

  The going was hard. Some parts were very steep and the stones beneath her feet tended to slide. There was nothing to hold on to. Spiros was a good distance ahead and so she continued, pausing to catch her breath as the way became even steeper, until finally she was climbing using sharp handholds and loose crevices for her feet.

  ‘Be careful,’ she called up to Spiros, but the breeze and the rocks swallowed her words. She emerged onto a narrow track that hugged the cliff. Spiros was leaning against the rock face, his hand on his chest, and his face was contorted.

  ‘Spiro? Are you alright?’ Vasso panted.

  ‘Yes, just wanted to look at the view for a moment.’ His hand still held his chest.

  ‘Do you have a pain?’

  ‘No, no, nothing like that. Just a bit of indigestion. Look, the path becomes very narrow against that rock face.’

  ‘Ah, but there is a wall.’

  ‘It’s ankle-high. It will stop your feet slipping. Are you sure you want to go on?’

  ‘Don’t you? Is the pain bad?’

  ‘There is no pain now.’ He let go of his chest, but a darkness crossed his eyes; there was something. ‘You go ahead and I will follow, unless you are scared.’ There was a teasing note to his voice.

  The way forward looked exciting and she could not wait.

  ‘Go, I will follow in a second.’ He dismissed her and his gaze roamed over the huge expanse of sea below them.

  The way was narrow and Vasso kept her back to the wall of rock. The cave entrance was small and inside was whitewashed and decorated with icons in frames hung from rusting nails. There were also tamata – palm-sized square tin plates that had been hammered out into primitive pictures. One showed a knee, another a baby, and another a crutch. These, too, hung from nails on what once would have been colourful ribbons, now faded with time. An altar had been laid out on a slab of rock, with a bottle of oil, the base of an oil lamp, a box of matches.

  Spiros crossed himself three times as he came in. He looked at everything in silence and then took Vasso’s hands to look in her eyes.

  The way he looked at her suggested he saw more deity there than in any of the relics, and Vasso felt a little irreligious. His look told her that he would be part of her forever and he would never stop loving her or idolising her, no matter what the future brought. It was such an intense and fierce look that Vasso felt slightly afraid, and in her fear she released one of her hands from his and placed it protectively over her belly. Her movement broke the spell and he smiled and felt her belly too, laughing now. Back out in the sunshine they slipped and slid their way back to the town and hurried back to the rented room.

  Chapter 27

  The honeymoon felt like it was over before it began, but, once back on Orino Island, Vasso found that the room above the outbuilding, now their room, was all the nicer for Spiros being there. They were together by day in the taverna and also together at night. In the few days after their return, Stamatis was ever cheerful and Argyro was mostly silent. Whilst they were away, Stamatis said, the taverna had been quiet but with Spiros back it was becoming busier by the day. It seemed everyone wanted a repeat of the tastes they had enjoyed during the festivities.

  'Argyro, have you ordered more beans? We have very few tomatoes left, and the onions we have are soft.' Argyro thumbed through her latest magazine.

  'I’ve ordered them from Panayiotis.'

  'Panayiotis! Why, Argyro? His quality is not good. Please could you–'

  'Don't start, Spiro. I have ordered what I think is right. You go off on your honeymoon and do not give us a thought and then you come back and parade behind your counter thinking the whole show is about you. This is a business we are running.'

  'And we are busy, and to continue to be busy we need to have quality ingredients.'

  'The books have to balance. Where do you think the money came from to feed so many at your wedding?'

  'Out of my pocket!' Spiros snapped back.

  'You mean from the earnings you took when you used this place as your own, paying no rent? You call that your money, do you?’ Argyro snarled.

  'I bought the ingredients, good ingredients too. None of the wilted, flavourless stuff Panayiotis has.'

  'Which is fine when you are cooking for a wedding or for one or two friends, but this is a business we are running. Besides, there isn’t only us now, there is also her.' She pointed her cigarette at Vasso. 'And soon there will be another mouth to feed as well.'

 
; 'If we do not have good ingredients we will lose all our trade. Tell Panayiotis we do not want that order.'

  'Please stop!' Vasso found her voice.

  They did. They stopped and stared at her.

  Vasso had noted a shift in Spiros since their honeymoon, since that day on Monemvasia, in the cave up on the hillside. She had tried to persuade herself that it was in her imagination but the more time passed the clearer it was that something had changed. Hearing him now, standing up to Argyro, cemented these thoughts, but for now he would have to work it out for himself. Her concern was the unborn child.

  'They say even babies in the womb can hear everything. Please don't let him hear this.'

  'It was only a matter of time, wasn't it?' Argyro snapped.

  'What was?' Spiros asked.

  'Before she started to feel superior because she is pregnant, and now she is telling us what to do, using the baby as a weapon. I saw this coming.'

  'That is unfair, Argyro. Vasso neither feels superior not wants to tell us what to do. That is not who she is at all. How could you say such a thing?'

  'All women are like that. Get them pregnant and they start to act like they are something special, like they have done something clever.'

  'This is not about Vasso at all, is it? This is about you, Argyro!' Spiros faced her, fists clenched.

  'What sort of man are you, Spiro! To throw it in my face that I cannot have children? What sort of monster would do that? It makes me terrified to think what sort of baba you are going to make.'

  'Oh!' Vasso cried out.

  'What is it?' Spiros dropped his tongs on the grill and hastened around to her side. She stood looking at the floor. At her feet, a chip of marble, displaced from the smooth floor, proved the force of the falling knife and the sharpness of its point.

  'I’m alright. I just dropped it,' Vasso said, Spiro’s arm around her.

  'And yesterday you dropped a bowl on your foot.' Spiros spoke kindly, with a small laugh, designed to put her at ease.