by Sara Alexi
‘That’s not right. Rushing is rarely, if ever, a good idea. Life is too precious to hurry. Better to savour every moment, even the low ones.’ Miltos slowly taps his short nails against the cup.
Theo shrugs and reaches into his pocket, takes out a packet of cigarettes. Miltos declines and Theo stands slowly puffing away.
‘There must be a way to control a feisty woman.’ Theo speaks quietly, after a long pause. ‘After every wedding we attend she even promises that we will be the next.’ He looks out of the window and down the street, but his eyes are glazed.
‘I dated a feisty woman once. Scottish. Temper like the devil himself. Red hair, skin so white – she was such a beauty. Not beautiful in the traditional way – she had a high forehead, puffy cheeks, her lower lip bigger than her upper lip – but there was just something about her.’ Miltos allows himself to dwell on her for a moment, sinking into her essence, remembering her fully.
‘What happened? Did you find out how to control her?’ Theo looks hopeful.
Chapter 10
The sun is slanting through the large windows, lighting up half the floor and half the tables and chairs, forcing the men into the shady side of the room. A butterfly hurls itself repeatedly against the large front window, stopping periodically for a rest before beginning again. It is too high to be reached with cupped hands.
‘I was in Hebron,’ Miltos tells Theo. ‘In Israel,’ he expands, in response to his new friend’s blank look. I was staying on a kibbutz and I thought that whilst I was there I should visit Jerusalem.’
Theo nods his head as if this is the most natural thing in the world.
‘Well, from where we were to Jerusalem, the most direct route was through the West Bank and a town called Hebron.’
He hasn’t thought about this since the day it happened. Why was he walking in Hebron, and not on a bus? He would not have the courage now to do half the things he did back then, but then he probably just thinks a little bit more before he does things these days, is more aware of the consequences. He goes on.
‘Isla was with me, this fiery Scottish girl. We met on the kibbutz and I was taken by her colouring, her temper, her accent, but she showed no interest in me. She told me the worst of all things that she could have told me. She said she thought of me as a brother!’ He pauses, sighs and takes a sip of coffee. Theo chuckles his understanding. ‘So we were walking through Hebron, with me wishing I was not in a brotherly role. At the time there was peace in Israel, but it was tentative peace. The people were not happy and Hebron did not feel like anywhere else in Israel. There was a tension, you know, like it was an unsafe place to be, and there were only men out on the street, no women at all. But I was walking with Isla down the main street. We could hear the roar of a crowd as we drew near to some gates, and beyond we could see the concrete terracing of a small football stadium. But the sound was not a cheer for a goal, or a foul, it was people arguing, a lot of people, and we realised a meeting must be going on.
‘Isla had on a long skirt and a long-sleeved top but her hair was blazing in the sunshine and she looked so Western she was attracting attention just being there. Like I said, there were no women on the street, only men, everywhere you looked. So I suggested that we turn around, or find a hotel, anything to get us off the streets.’
‘“I dunna care,” she hissed. “No man’s gonna intimidate me.” And she strode on in front of me.’
Theo stubs out his cigarette and begins the process of making a coffee, but no one has asked for one and so Miltos presumes he is making it for himself.
‘Well, just as we drew level with the gates of the football stadium they must have finished their meeting, because a sea of men swarmed out onto the other side of the street. Isla’s red hair was catching everyone’s attention and I felt suddenly under threat.
‘I leaned forward and hissed “Cover your hair” in her ear. She turned to defy me but she saw the men and quickly brought the scarf up from around her shoulders and over her head, and pulled it forward so her hair and most of her face was covered. But the men flooding out of the gates continued to stare as we walked, with Isla a pace ahead of me, and that’s when I realised what was wrong. She should have been behind me.’
The quickening of his heartbeat felt so strong. The crowd had begun to filter across the wide street, and he feared for himself but, more than that, he felt terrified at the possibility of what could happen to Isla. His mouth was so dry, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. His fists were balled and his legs twitched as he walked, ready to run, but he knew he would not run, not unless Isla was running too. Without moving his head he swivelled his eyes, taking in who was where, how big they were, the way they were looking at him and, knowing he was outnumbered, he thought quickly.
‘Rather than draw attention to her being a step ahead of me, I took control of her,’ he tells Theo, who is pouring his own coffee, slowly and carefully. ‘I put my hand on the back of her neck as if I owned her. At first she shrugged to loosen my hand but I tightened my grip and I pushed her in front of me. It felt strange, aggressive, but it immediately had a pacifying effect on both Isla and the men. Within a few minutes we had moved quite a way down the street and lost the attention of the men. It was as if I had performed a magic trick. But all I had done was imply my ownership. I thought that the moment the streets were clear and we were alone again Isla would slap my hand away and say something. But she didn’t. My hand stayed there and I slowly changed it from a dominant gesture to a loving one, and by the time we arrived, I forget where now, I was fondling her earlobes and she was a kitten, cosying up to me and showing me such affection.’
‘Hummmm,’ Theo says thoughtfully, his elbows on the counter, balancing his little coffee cup on the ends of his fingers in front of his nose. ‘Hummmm,’ he repeats, his eyes losing focus, lost in his own world as he stares across the china rim.
Miltos didn’t like it then and he doesn’t like the memory now – that feeling of dominance does not suit him. Isla gave him all the signals later on that day that she was open to having a relationship with him, but it didn’t take much imagination to see how that might unfold. Her quick temper firing up at the least provocation, him putting up with it until he could tolerate it no more, and then only being able to settle her down again by letting his irritation come out as dominance. It would be a never-ending cycle. No, he wasn’t ready to lead such a life, so he left the kibbutz life and Isla behind him.
It is strange how one minute he can feel so sure of what he wants. Like just before he came into the kafenio, when he felt sure the answer to his dreams lay in a Greek woman who would flout the rules, run to the beat of her own drum. He had even used the word ‘feisty’ in his head. But now he is not so sure. He wants a peaceful, slow life, no more drama.
‘So you think if I was to dominate Anastasia she might succumb?’ Theo asks.
‘Who knows? It was just something I remembered. Only you know your relationship.’ He is tempted to get a second coffee, it is so good, but he would be better off lining his stomach with some food first.
‘I have never dared. To be honest she frightens me just a little.’
‘I understand. That’s how it was with Isla. But when the fear was gone, so was the excitement.’ His eyebrows lift at his own words. ‘I never thought of that before. But yes, that was her attraction. Once I knew how to be in control there was not much left for me and her.’
Theo looks a little saddened by his words, and he still has a contemplative expression on his face.
Miltos is intrigued by his own revelation. He doesn’t want someone bossy, then, or domineering, or feisty. Maybe all this time he has been drawing in the wrong type of woman. Does that mean he wants someone sweet, with no edge? Maybe that’s just how it is as age creeps up on you. He shudders at the thought, mentally defying his advancing years. There is still time for adventures. Maybe he should go back to Thailand, Cambodia, Vietnam, maybe even Burma, and spend some more time there, become
lost once again in their unspoilt beauty.
‘Theo, can I get some service here?’ a grey-haired man at one of the tables calls out. Theo puts down his own cup and, with a spring to his step, his hair bouncing, is quick to attend the customer.
Miltos fishes in his pocket for a euro and leaves it by his cup. He will find some breakfast now and spend a little time thinking. If he is to go to the Far East, what are his plans exactly? When will he go, and does he intend to come back? The Thai girls are as sweet as they come, but, from his experience, they cannot be pushed around. The ones he has known have had very stubborn cores. But maybe that is exactly what he needs.
Chapter 11
Miltos leaves the kafenio and as he passes the kiosk he turns to look between the fridges and into the shade of the awning for a glimpse of the woman who serves there. If he could think of something to buy he could talk to her again. It is a pleasant surprise to see that the woman from the corner shop is also there. She seems to be just passing the time. The two women speak quietly, the woman inside leaning out, the one outside leaning in, their heads meeting over the boxes of sweets on the counter. They chat as if they are sharing secrets. The lady from the corner shop’s blue dress suits her, hugs the curves of her waist, which, thank goodness, is not unnecessarily thin. Both she and the lady inside the kiosk are handsome women; the kiosk lady is taller and more vivacious, but the one in blue has a twinkle in her eye that promises fun.
There’s nothing he needs to buy, though, and the women do not make eye contact as he passes them.
Past the kiosk a fluster of voices can be heard within the eatery. Opposite this is a tiny sandwich shop, with a selection of sandwiches and cakes in the window. The girl in the doorway looks up blankly. She is dressed in jeans and a light-blue sweatshirt the colour of the sky, her dark hair up in a ponytail held by a matching ribbon. She is nice-looking but too young for him, perhaps in her twenties. He strolls towards her.
‘Can you believe it?’ She addresses him before he is much closer. ‘Nothing happens forever in this village and then everything on the same day. Look!’ She waves her hand in the direction of the eatery. The double doors across the road are open and the grill top is visible behind the counter. The acrid fumes of the charcoal mix with the smell of the sandwiches, which in turn mingles with the aroma of fresh bread that is leaking from the bakery next door. A childlike woman in a floral dress is standing, hands on hips, in front of the grill opposite and it is her voice that is projecting for all to hear. A tall, broad young man who cannot stand still is speaking in harsh but very hushed tones as if he does not wish to be heard by everyone.
‘But how many times do you think we will baptise him?’ he hisses, the tension audible in his voice. ‘So far Irini does not know, but when she finds out everything is double-booked what do you think she will say, Stella?’
‘Petta, I do not know what you expect me to do. My role may be the godmother but I am not a fairy godmother.’ She makes an attempt to laugh but she sounds exasperated. ‘I cannot undo what is done. When I suggested doing the catering and having the celebration on the square it never occurred to me that it was the same day as Loukas and Ellie’s wedding day.’
‘Why can’t they have it at the hotel?’ Petta asks, his voice cracking like a child’s about to cry.
‘Because they work there, Petta. They wanted a break from where they work on their wedding day, to be with the village. And besides, Theo is doing all the drinks as he’s Loukas’s gambros, so it is natural that it should be on the square outside Theo’s kafenio, isn’t it?’
‘But with you and Mitsos as the godparents it is natural that we should have our baptism celebrations on the square near the eatery.’ Petta exclaims. ‘Besides, I think after the years it has taken my mama to build up that corner shop, surely she deserves to have her first grandchild baptised in the village church and have the celebration on her doorstep.’
‘What I don’t understand is why the priest double-booked you, or is he packing you in one after the other?’ Stella asks.
‘It sounds as if they have a problem,’ Miltos says to the girl on the stool. ‘But I have to say, as problems go, it’s not so bad.’
Her eyebrows lift and she looks at him, waiting for an explanation.
‘The whole village thing,’ he says – but, judging by her eyebrows, which are still held high, she has not understood him. ‘I have no family,’ he explains, ‘and no village. I have nowhere I belong, so there is no one and nothing with which I could double-book anything. Hearing two people arguing about weddings and godparents and baptisms, and everybody integrated with everybody, the whole village life bit, it all seems, so – well, so … lovely,’ he ends lamely.
The girl slides from the stool.
‘Well, it’s not lovely for them, they have a problem,’ she says matter-of-factly, and her tone makes him realise that she has no idea what it might mean to be without a village or family or friends. ‘Can I get you anything?’ she asks.
‘Oh, yes, right. Do you have any bougatsa left?’ He wonders if perhaps he has annoyed her a little, but he cannot put it right, and nor does he want to waste his energy actually trying. She will forget him the minute he leaves.
‘Sugar or cinnamon?’ She packets the custard pastry and her hand hovers by two canisters, each with holes in the top, one dusted with white and the other brown.
‘Cinnamon, please.’
She picks up the brown-topped shaker and shakes cinnamon liberally into the packet.
The pastry tastes good, and Miltos had not realised how hungry he was. For a moment there is nothing else in existence. He closes his eyes against the sun and lets his taste buds have his full focus. His tongue swirls around the flavours in his mouth; his teeth grind against the flaky pastry. The sweetness warms against his tongue before it slithers down his throat. It seems like seconds before the sugar gives energy to his limbs and he opens his eyes again and becomes aware of the strength of the sun. He would be better off out of its direct glare. He remembers that beyond the kiosk, not visible from where he is standing now, is a bench in the shade of the wall that runs along the back of the square. It is the foundation wall, if he remembers rightly, of the first of a line of houses that are built one behind the other up the steep hill behind the kiosk. He will sit there.
With long, easy strides, his eyes half-closed against the light, he walks beyond the now-unmanned kiosk and prepares himself to sit before the next bite. But he is brought up short. The man who was in the eatery just now, the man who was addressed by the woman in the floral dress as Petta, is sitting there, an elbow on each knee, his head in his hands. He must have walked there whilst Miltos was paying for his pastry.
Miltos moves more slowly, softening his footfall, and sits carefully so as not to disturb the man.
Chapter 12
Miltos nibbles at his bougatsa, but the young man’s obvious distress, just at the other end of the bench, tempers his enjoyment somewhat. Maybe he can cheer the poor fellow up? He tries to weigh him up with a sideways glance. With wide-set eyes and a generous mouth, he is a good-looking young man, and built like a horse. His nails are short and his hands look like they have seen some work, but he is wearing deck shoes with no socks, which seems odd in this rural farming village. Maybe he is a fisherman.
‘You sail?’ It is a shot in the dark but the young man’s despair is almost tangible and it seems worth a try. There is no reply, but then he looks up, not sure if it is he who is being addressed.
‘Sailing? Do you like it?’ Miltos asks again.
The man answers with a forced laugh that nevertheless seems to release a little tension. ‘Best feeling in the world,’ he says. ‘Sailing, motoring, anything on the water. I used to run a taxi boat service’ – his thumb points over his shoulder – ‘on Orino Island, over the hills there.’ As he speaks, the energy in his voice increases and he becomes decidedly animated.
‘I have been on the water a fair amount myself too,’ says Milto
s. It’s good to see the young man smile, and it’s a nice smile: open, warm.
‘Miltos.’ He offers his hand.
‘Petta.’ The young man’s shake is firm and strong and he sits upright, his worries temporarily forgotten. ‘Where have you sailed?’ he asks.
‘Well, I skippered a flotilla of sailing yachts here in Greece one year, and I won’t ever forget that,’ Miltos says, and they laugh together. ‘Then I got into delivering yachts from France. You know, bringing over the new boats. Bavarias, Beneteaus, Jenneaus. The straits of Messina, now those are strange waters. It was like the ocean was billowing up from the bottom and creating huge cushions of water on the surface. Almost like the whole sea was boiling, but in slow motion.’ He can still envisage that in his mind, images that can be recalled so clearly. ‘They say the legend of Scylla and Charybdis comes from there, and I can believe it! We saw whales, and lots of dolphins. But the best bit of sailing I ever did, can you guess where that was?’
The expression on Petta’s face shows that he has forgotten all about his troubles, and Miltos slows himself down; there’s no need to hurry now. He takes a bite of his bougatsa and waves his free hand about to indicate that he will talk after he has swallowed. He takes his time, lets Petta anticipate. Anticipation is one of the most enjoyable feelings. There is something about the excitement, the waiting for the pleasure, that can often be even more enjoyable than the experience itself. The bougatsa filling is delightfully creamy and sweet, the contrast with the crisp pastry exquisite. His lips hover over it before taking another bite. How often has he wallowed in anticipation? The anticipation when he meets a woman, the chase, that unsure feeling of not quite having established a relationship, is so exciting. But then, also, how often, as soon as the anticipation is over, and the relationship is sealed with a kiss, has he thrown the whole connection off balance again so that neither of them is on firm ground, just so he can have the whole experience over again?
