The Unquiet Mind (The Greek Village Collection Book 8)

by Sara Alexi

  ‘Come on now, Yanni, whilst you’ve been snoring all afternoon, I’ve been working, another sale going through, but now I am hungry. Come, the food is on me, my friend. Let’s go!’

  ‘Water,’ is all Yanni can say.

  Babis leaves the room and returns presently. ‘Here.’ He hands him a glass of water. ‘I did think you were chucking it back my friend, but who was I to say? First you seemed all strung out, tense, tongue tied and then after a couple of ouzos, you found your stride. I couldn’t keep up. Anyway, it’s great you are here. Come, it’s late enough; let’s go eat.’

  ‘Could we not stay here?’ Yanni says, not quite sure where ‘here’ is, but the quiet seems preferable to anything he can recall of the mainland so far. How many times has he put his hands to his ears, so many people he could no longer tell them apart, and that bus, that jolting about, the speed with which the land passed, who could think that was a good idea? So many people pressed in so close together, and why was that man given such a hard time when he wanted his goat to ride with him, when there was a woman on the seat next to him with a dog on her lap? And that other woman who talked and talked and when she had worn one person to the point of getting off the bus, she began on another and nothing she said had any practical use to anyone listening. Yanni shakes his head gently to try to clear the fog.

  ‘Well it’s a bit of a mess here at the moment ... What with Mama going up to her sister’s in Athens. Thought she would only be a weekend, but she’s been gone two months already.’ He picks up a shirt and a tea towel and puts them on the back of a chair by the door. The chair already has an upturned bowl on it, which is none too clean. ‘But Auntie is getting better, thanks be to God, so we must not complain.’ He crosses himself and gathers together various parts of a newspaper that has spread over the floor. He folds it haphazardly and puts it on the upturned bowl, which it promptly falls off. ‘The thing is, what with trying to get myself established in Saros and everything that entails, l haven’t really had much time to clean up around here. Which you might find your way to helping me with, Yanni? Seeing as your time will not be as pressed as mine is … But come, let’s go. Stella and Mitsos make a good chicken and chips and we’ll go to Theo’s kafeneio again and watch the match tonight. You like football, right? Even if you don’t, it’s a good atmosphere and besides, I need to be seen in as many local places as I can, get myself noticed, be the name on everyone’s lips, if you know what I mean.’ He leaves the room, taking the empty water glass. Yanni manages to sit up, his feet over the edge of the bed. Bright light floods through the doorway and he can see past a table and into a sitting room. There are plates, shoes, shirts, plastic bags, boxes from the zaharoplasteio—sweet shop—on their sides, empty of the baklava and kataifi they once held, the honey and gooey remains puddling onto the tiles. Babis did not exaggerate when he described it as a bit of a mess. Yanni puts his hand to his temple again.

  ‘You want some Depon or aspirin?’ Babis brings another glass of water and two packets. Yanni shrugs. Babis opens one of the boxes and pops out two pills from the blisters. ‘Here you go.’ Yanni inspects the shiny pink pills in the palm of his hand. Very occasionally, his mama took these things when he was young, but very rarely, once a month if that. He wasn’t aware men could take them too, but if they will relieve this pain, then why not? He hardly notices them going down.

  ‘Right, let’s go then.’ Babis waits at the door with his arm outstretched as if to show the way into the sitting room. Picking his way through the things on the floor and using any surface that is not too covered in grime to steady himself, Yanni makes it to the back door. He is not taking anything much in, but that is probably just as well.

  ‘I don’t use the front door much.’ Babis trips down the steps. ‘It’s got a nice veranda that looks down onto the back of the roof of the kiosk and the rest of the square, which is great for watching people come and go, but it’s easier to come out of this side door then, look, here is the souvlaki shop. You hungry, by the way? You must be hungry. What time did you start out? The bus journey’s not fun is it? It used to be worse but they have straightened some of the roads.’

  Yanni shakes his head. The last thing he needs is the noise of a taverna; Babis’ continuous monologue on its own is proving too much. But he must show his appreciation for his second cousin so kindly putting him up. It would not do to reject his hospitality, and he is being very hospitable. Yanni blinks a few times and opens his eyes wide. At least it is dark. Maybe he can manage a taverna and a bite to eat. He will offer to pay. After that, he can make his excuses. He has no desire to watch any football match. He is here to deliver Sister Katerina’s parcel, buy a donkey, and go home—and that’s it. Three days maximum. He has already wasted the entire afternoon sleeping as soon as he got here, so he had better plan out his time carefully. At least his head is starting to feel a little better.

  ‘Hello Babis.’ A petite woman in a sleeveless floral dress greets him as they leave the house. Shafts of light from inside the taverna spread an inviting glow across into the darkness. Someone has wound a thousand tiny lights around the trunk of a tree that stands sentinel between the tables on the pavement, their wooden tops smooth with plastic cloths reflecting the glow. No one is sitting outside but there are sounds of voices from inside the tiny but brightly lit place.

  ‘Out or in?’ the woman asks, offering them a choice of any of the four outside tables, each only big enough for two people, with a sweep of her arm.

  ‘Stella, this is Yanni, my second cousin from Orino Island,’ Babis gushes.

  ‘Hello Yanni.’ Her voice is quiet and warm and her movements those of a girl but her face betrays wisdom only years can bring, and there is a just a fleck or two of grey in her hair. ‘Will this do?’ she asks, pulling out a chair from the table nearest the tree trunk. ‘The usual, Babis? Yanni, we don’t serve much, but what we serve is good.’

  ‘You need no more than you offer, Stella. The chicken is always perfect, the sausages are just spicy enough, and everything comes with chips, oh and Stella’s lemon sauce, which is to die for,’ Babis informs Yanni.

  ‘I can do you a salad if you prefer?’ Stella asks Yanni, a small frown on her forehead, a hand on his arm as he eases himself into the proffered chair.

  ‘Are we not going inside then?’ Babis looks from Yanni to the glow of the interior and back again.

  ‘Here’s good, Babis,’ Stella states, patting Yanni’s shoulder gently as she does so. ‘So what’ll it be?’

  ‘Right then, chicken and chips twice I say, with a couple of sausages and beer, right, Yanni?’

  ‘Water.’ Yanni’s head jerks up, he blinks to clear the swirling feeling. ‘Please,’ he adds, looking up at Stella.

  Babis scrapes his chair out and sits down. Yannis takes his time to try to orient himself. The house they have just come from is on the right side of the square, alongside the taverna where they now sit. A kiosk occupies the middle of the paved area, next to a majestic palm tree with a low circular wall around which a number of Eastern-looking men in shabby clothes sit slumped. Tables and chairs have been set up facing the kafeneio beyond, and a huge television sits on a spindly legged table in its open doorway. Farmers, slightly better dressed than the men under the palm tree, relax here with their ouzo glasses, taking little interest in the Western film that is splashing light onto the road. Mopeds putter by and greetings are shouted.

  In the top left-hand corner of the square is a shop which looks more packed with wares for sale than even the kiosk. Next to this is a pharmacy and a bakery.

  Next to the bakery, level with him on the other side of the road, is an open door, with a stool outside beside an open window. Balanced on the windowsill, a tray of sandwiches wrapped in cling film hovers half inside and half out. There is a movement at the back of the shop and a tinkling sound, suggesting someone inside is arranging bottles.

  A man with one sleeve tucked into his trouser tops brings bread in a cane basket, which he place
s on the table.

  ‘Hello, Mitsos. How are you? I would like to introduce you to my second cousin, Yanni from Orino Island. Yanni, this is Mitsos, Stella’s husband.’ Babis grabs at the bread, tearing a piece off and putting the oversized hunk into his mouth.

  Yanni moves his chair back, not sure if he should stand to shake the man’s hand or not. Mitsos puts down the bread, freeing his hand, which swings to clasp Yanni’s shoulder. ‘Well, hello Yanni. Stella says I am to ask if you want lemon sauce on your chicken.’ His smile is easy and reaches his eyes. Yanni feels Mitsos and Stella could be people who would be happy living on the ridge like him: no hurry, easy-going, and if this is the only eatery in the village, then presumably hard working. There is something of a farmer about Mitsos.

  ‘Yanni’s got the biggest goat herd on the island,’ Babis boasts.

  ‘Have a herd myself, although these days I don’t get to go out with them much, but still, I get involved when they are pregnant and so on. I spend more time here these days …’ He makes eye contact with Yanni, a wistful look as though he is searching for high, silent pastures to be reflected back at him. Yanni unlocks his hands from in front of him and reaches for his tobacco pouch.

  The chicken is delicious, not at all tough like the ones his mama cooks, but then they only eat their hens when they are old and they have stopped laying. The lemon sauce is amazing, and he wonders if his mama could learn to make it. The sausages prove too salty but Babis is hungry and takes them from him. While he eats, Babis does not talk, and Yanni encourages him to eat more. Eventually, Babis sits back, slaps his hand on his engorged stomach, and concedes defeat. The buttons of his silk shirt are straining and he undoes a notch of his belt. The tail end, which is capped in silver, clicks against the ornate clasp as he does so.

  ‘I would like to make a toast,’ Babis says, filling two glasses from the one beer bottle. ‘To cousins.’ He encourages Yanni to pick up the glass and drink. ‘Come on, to cousins! Are you not happy to be here with your cousin?’ Yanni picks up the glass and drinks, just a mouthful. ‘Oh, and to mothers. Single-handed she raised me, Yanni, and look at me now, making deals to sell houses worth hundreds of thousands, so to mamas.’ This time, Yanni only takes a sip. ‘Yanni, is that all your mama is worth? To mothers.’ Babis raises his glass and they drink again. ‘Oh yes and to work! Without which we would all starve.’ Babis clicks his glass against Yanni’s and the glasses are drained.

  ‘My first sale is going through. I told you, right? Within months, mark my words, I will be arranging the contracts for the sale of many of the houses around here. But Yanni, when I heard you were coming from Orino, I saw it all.’ He stops, takes a breath. ‘Yanni,’ he pauses, this time for effect, ‘within a year, I am going to make you a rich man, make us both rich men.’ Babis waits for a response. Yanni can think of nothing to say. The drumming in his temples has returned and he is thinking of the brief moment he felt quite pleasant after the second, or was it the third, shot of ouzo he had earlier in the day, when everything, suddenly, seemed more manageable. Babis raises his hand and clicks his fingers at Stella, who is leaning against the door post.

  ‘Two ouzos,’ he demands.

  Chapter 9

  He had heard about it. Poems, both Greek and English, alluded to it, like being struck by lightning some had said, finding the other half of your soul, he had read. A feeling of completeness, his mama had confessed. Utter nonsense, his baba had countered. Yet there she is. No one ever said it would be terrifying. No one ever said he would feel consumed with horror. But he does. He feels horror at the disloyalty of his emotions to his Sophia. But also horror for ever having loved Sophia in the first place when everything in his being now urges him to take care and protect this missing piece to his life at which he is staring, just a few footsteps away.

  Stella puts the ouzo glasses down, one on either side of the table, giving Yanni a sideways glance. He can feel her eyes on him but he cannot look away from the woman across the road who is now shifting her weight onto the stool by the sandwich shop doorway. Her navy calf-length skirt wraps around her knees, her white top twists against her chest. Her face is blank, bored. Her limbs loose, tired. Her hair pulled back into a ponytail, strands broken free and creating untidy halos around her ears. Yet she is perfect in every sense of the expression.

  ‘Yanni, are you listening to me?’ Babis pulls him back to consciousness. Yanni catches Babis looking over to see what has taken his attention, but his gaze does not linger, he cannot see what Yanni can see. It surprises Yanni, but at the same time, it doesn’t. She looks his way. Yanni grabs the shot glass and downs his ouzo in one.

  ‘Yia mas!’ Babis cries and he downs his, slamming his glass back onto the table top and attracting Stella’s attention. With a wink from Babis, she steps into her emporium and returns with the bottle, which she leaves on their table.

  ‘So what do you think?’ Babis is almost jumping about in his seat. Sweat marks are spreading in the armpits of his silk shirt and his brow is shiny in the evening’s residual heat.

  The woman has met Yanni’s gaze and Yanni is stunned. He cannot move.

  ‘Yanni, Yanni.’ Babis pulls on his shirt sleeve. ‘I don’t think you have listened to a word.’ He pours them both another measure. ‘Drink up and we will go up to the kafeneio and I will explain it again. Stella, the bill.’

  At these words, Yanni drags himself to the moment, looks quickly at Babis and then at Stella, who is adding sums on her notepad.

  ‘How many ouzos did you have?’ she asks. Yanni has no idea.

  ‘Two each,’ Babis is quick to reply.

  Yanni half stands and fumbles in his back pocket for money.

  ‘No, no. You are in my village now, Yanni, my guest. Stella, take nothing from him.’ Babis pays and Yanni looks back across the road, but the woman has gone inside. ‘Here you go, Stella. Keep the change.’

  ‘Thanks, Babis. Nice to meet you, Yanni.’ She gathers the empty plates, glasses and forks on top, bread basket on top of that.

  ‘Oh, yes, nice to meet you too.’ Yanni manages to break through his own reverie and smile at Stella. Her face relaxes as if she has been worrying about something but now is not.

  ‘Hey Babis, take care of our island friend, won’t you.’ She smiles now and grabs the ouzo bottle with her free hand to take it inside.

  ‘Of course. Why wouldn’t I?’ Babis retorts as he stands. ‘Come on, Yanni.’

  Yanni looks from Stella to the empty doorway across the road and then to the side road that leads to Babi’s back door.

  ‘Who … Sorry where …’ Yanni’s words and feet stumble in unison. The village is moving slightly as if they are at sea.

  ‘Up to Theo’s, yes? I’ll tell you my plan again and the football is on later.’ Babis is almost level with the first chilled drinks cabinet outside the kiosk.

  ‘Look, er, it’s been a long day.’ Yanni looks up the side road. His feet seem to have grown a size and one is catching on the other as he walks.

  ‘You have all day tomorrow to sleep, my friend. Come, how many times do we have such a great reunion?’ Babis says.

  ‘It is very kind and I do appreciate …’ Yanni has turned his hips in the direction of the back door of Babis’ house, but he is looking over his shoulder at the sandwich shop. He is experiencing the calm feeling he felt earlier in the day after the second ouzo, as if he is floating. He wants to see her again, just a glimpse, to know she is real.

  ‘You don’t seem to be appreciating anything much. Why the rush for your bed? Come, I will tell you the plan again and once you understand, you will not want to sleep for a week.’

  ‘I must get up and go to the convent tomorrow.’ He hadn’t intended to say that.

  ‘The convent, whatever for? I thought you were here for a donkey?’ Babis has stopped outside the kiosk. Yanni lowers his voice to reply; he does not want the woman in the kiosk knowing his business.

  ‘I have to drop a letter off for Sister Katerina
…’ As the sister’s name forms on his lips, he no longer floats. The woman in the sandwich shop becomes ... becomes what? He stops to think, a mirage perhaps. He looks back to where she was sitting. She is still not there, so how can he be sure she is real? Maybe she is an imagined temptation thrown to steer him off his course. No, to call her a temptress implies notions beyond her ability. A temptress she was not. She was angelic, serene, calm. What was he saying? Oh yes, ‘Drop a package off and maybe arrange to see one of the sisters there.’ It feels important to state this out loud, make it solid.

  The possibility of seeing Sophia is suddenly critical, a return to sanity, his real life. He rubs a hand across his chest, sucking in big lungfuls of air, images of the woman in the sandwich shop crowding his thoughts. One chaotic reaction has folded over another ever since leaving Orino Island; he has experienced such a wreckage of emotions since stepping off the boat that it is entirely possible he is losing all sense of reason. He is certainly struggling with his grip on reality. Falling asleep on the bus with all the noise and clamour around him, how was that even possible? And then he doesn’t even remember falling asleep again on setting foot in Babis’ house, only waking up and it being evening. He twists the ends of his moustache with one hand, his other seeking his tobacco pouch. It’s possible that his feet are not touching the ground. He looks down to make sure they are and, unbidden and, to his mind, wholly inappropriately, he finds he is chuckling.

  ‘Here, have one of these.’ Babis pulls out his soft pack and shakes two cigarettes free. They are the last ones and he screws up the empty packet and throws it in the kiosk’s swing-top bin, which advertises instant coffee.

  ‘If you want to see one of the nuns, you’d best go tomorrow during the day. In the evening, they will be in prayer and the day after, they won’t open their doors to anyone, as they will be preparing for their panigyri—celebration. Then there’ll be the open day itself, then the clear up day afterwards, so you won’t get another chance till after that at the very earliest,’ the lady with perfectly set hair inside the kiosk calls out to them. Something in her voice suggests it is her role to pass on as much information as she can.