Float the Goat

by Katerina Nikolas

  All the men stared longingly at Masha, her eyes sparkling with passion, until she put a damper on the moment by saying, “of course that was before I married Vasilis. Now the only wolves I ‘ave to worry about are my over eager fans.”

  “I don’t think my uniform will excite your imagination so much as a Cossack in all his glory, Masha,” Irakli said, earning him a clip round the head from Mrs Kolokotronis who considered all this chatter about uniform fetishes quite inappropriate.

  “At least yous will only ‘ave to do nine months Irakli, back in my day it was a mandatory two years,” Prosperous Pedros piped up. “Appen after yous basic training yous will get an easy posting to an office.”

  “It’s not likely, I don’t have any useful ‘visma’,” Iraklis said, referring to powerful connections who could wangle him a cushy number.

  “Perhaps Lecherous Lukas has some handy connections, what with him being so rich and having lived in Athens so long,” Moronic Mitsos speculated.

  “Po po, the malaka didn’t even ‘ave enough ‘visma’ back in ‘is day to wangle ‘is way out of his own conscription,” Takis chortled. “He was that desperate not to be sent to the army he tried to make out he was a conscientious objector, even though everyone knew he was just bone idle, ‘aving never done an honest day’s work in ‘is life.”

  “Did it work?” Sophia asked, buoyed up by the thought Iraklis was very conscientious.

  “Po po, did it work? It nearly got him locked up,” Takis roared with laughter, explaining, “He made out he’d gone Jehovah’s witness to get out of serving ‘till he found out the only exemption they got was a prison sentence. Yous ‘ave never seen anyone convert back to Orthodox so fast.”

  “Forget the visma, Irakli. Yous is so feeble lookin’ yous isn’t likely to ‘ave to do anything more strenuous than pickin’ up old cigarette butts or moppin’ out toilets,” Prosperous Pedros reasoned reassuringly.

  “I just ‘ope they assign ‘im to the kitchens,” Mrs Kolokotronis sighed. “After all Iraklis ‘as a real knack for oiling salads.”

  “Where’s that old fool Vasilis this evenin?” Yiota asked, taking mail order Masha’s order for fried feta with honey and sesame seeds.

  “He’s at ‘ome with Onos and the new baby donkey, but should be ‘ere shortly,” Masha replied, looking forward to her husband’s arrival. Masha had berated Vasilis mercilessly for being inebriated on ouzo and breaking the promise to stay sober he’d made after being buried alive in his coffin. After several hours of her incessant nagging the old fool had been putty in her hands. Willing to agree to anything to put an end to her Russian expletive laden diatribe, Vasilis had almost welcomed the arrival of the Botox technician who had agreed to a home visit. Masha had bribed the rather suspect needle wielding woman to try and sort out the worst of Vasilis’ saggy wrinkles in the hope he wouldn’t look quite so past it when he was pushing a pram.

  “It’s a good job that old fool’s not ‘ere yet. All this army talk might ‘ave set ‘im off reminiscing about the war,” Yiota observed, rolling her eyes.

  The taverna customers burst into spontaneous applause when Tall Thomas arrived with his head neatly wrapped in a bandage. He clutched a bunch of paper wrapped flowers newly purloined from the graveyard.

  “How’s the head?” Vangelis the chemist enquired.

  “I’ll live, I was just a bit concussed,” Tall Thomas replied, before turning to Prosperous Pedros and quietly asking if Lecherous Lukas had been in yet. “I want to go round to ‘is ‘ouse to call on Voula, but would rather wait till Lukas ‘as gone out.”

  “’Ere he comes now,” Prosperous Pedros, pointing out Lecherous Lukas strolling up.

  “Your finest table Yiota, I am treating my poor downtrodden niece to dinner,” Lecherous Lukas declared loudly, wanting to impress upon everyone that he was a man of substantial means.

  “So that will be two pita gyros to put on the grill, Takis,” Yiota said sarcastically.

  “’Ang on, ‘as she really got the nerve to think she can bring her own food in ‘ere?” Takis asked angrily when Stavroula arrived, closely followed by Slick Socrates staggering unsteadily under the weight of an enormous pan.

  “Uncle Luka, I’d like you to meet my fiancé Socrates, he’s a lawyer,” Stavroula introduced. Nodding at Lukas, Socrates asked Yiota if he should take the enormous pan he was carrying through to the kitchen before he dropped it.

  “It’s my famous homemade chicken soup,” Stavroula boasted.

  “Yous can’t be bringing yous own cookin’ into my taverna,” Yiota stated.

  “Heavens above,” Stavroula exploded. “’Ave yous any idea of the traumatic day I’ve ‘ad with my grand opening ruined an’ my annex destroyed? The whole place stinks of fish an’ donkey an’ I can’t even open the taverna again until Achilles blocks up the annex archway.”

  Pushing Socrates through to Yiota’s kitchen Stavroula continued, “An’ if that’s not enough I ‘ave to come ‘ere to eat with pervy old Uncle Lukas an’ I’m not in the mood as yous can imagine. Yous know as well as I do Yiota that the tight fisted old git won’t be payin’ for anything more than a single gyro an’ I’m so hungry I could eat a scabby ‘orse.”

  “It looks like yous brought one with yous,” Yiota said in disgust when Socrates put the pan down and lifted the lid to reveal the scummy contents still bubbling away with a layer of unplucked boiled chicken skin floating unappetisingly on the surface.

  “’Ow dare yous, this is my finest chicken soup,” Stavroula protested. “There’s not a bit of the chicken wasted, it’s all in there.”

  “Along with most of the leftovers from the free meze lunch,” Socrates hissed to Yiota, grimacing.

  “This soup is Lukas’ favourite from Granny’s recipe,” Stavroula pleaded to Yiota’s better nature.

  Yiota was fully aware if Lukas invited anyone to dinner he would consider it the gravest insult if they tried to split the bill, yet his legendary stinginess meant he would rather starve his guests than buy them more than a single gyro. If the soup softened him up enough he may well throw caution to the wind and splash out on an extra half kilo of wine.

  “Oh for goodness sake,” Yiota relented. “Just this once yous can bring yous own food in ‘ere Stavroula, but only ‘cos I sympathise with the ‘orrid day yous ‘ave ‘ad.”

  “Thank yous Yiota, that is very gracious of yous,” Stavroula said, squaring her shoulders. “Now we ‘ave to go out there and make nice with the lecherous malaka if we’ve any chance of extorting a dowry out of ‘im. Come on Socrate.”

  Stavroula and Socrates joined Lukas who was leering lasciviously at Evangelia who had just arrived with Melecretes. Evangelia was positively glowing following an afternoon spent shaking the sheets with Mel who had for once lavished more attention on her than his embroidered cushions. Mel’s explanation that he’d like a relationship with her, but not a live-in-one, had gone down much better than he’d expected. Evangelia liked the idea of a traditional romantic courtship, guessing a live-in Mel would expect to be waited on hand and foot in typical manly Greek style.

  Lecherous Lukas managed to tear his eyes away from the glowing Evangelia when Stavroula demanded his attention by kicking him under the table.

  “Dinner is my treat tonight, I have already ordered for us,” he said loudly, inwardly seething that Stavroula had brought her fiancé as he hadn’t calculated on paying for an extra pita gyros.

  “Well that’s very generous of yous Uncle Luka. I brought some home-made chicken soup along too. I remembered ‘ow much yous love it,” Stavroula said.

  “Is it from the family recipe with lots of boiled skin?” Lukas asked, licking his lips. “That was always my favourite.”

  Socrates covered his mouth to stifle a contemptuous laugh. Much as he adored Stavroula and loved her cooking, her old family recipe for chicken soup was beyond nauseating.

  “How’s the new housekeeper working out Uncle?” Stavroula asked, thinking Lukas hadn’t even bothe
red to thank her for organising his hired help. She reflected he was so self-absorbed he hadn’t even sympathised about the destruction of her new annex or the forced closure of her business.

  “She seems capable,” Lukas replied glumly, still disappointed his niece hadn’t found him someone young and pretty, and having no idea his grubby underpants had been treated to the heavy pots and pans cycle of the dishwasher before Voula experimented with drying them out in the microwave.

  Table talk ceased as everyone became transfixed by the doddering entrance of that old fool Vasilis whose face had undergone the most bizarre transformation. His signature sagging skin no longer flapped loosely since the folds of flesh had been blown up to balloon like proportions with far too much plastic filler. In addition a surfeit of Botox injections prevented him from moving his rigidly held in place facial muscles, exposing his stretched gums hosting teeth looking like a vandalised graveyard. The dermal fillers had drained his face of all character, leaving the octogenarian looking like a grotesque waxwork replica of himself. Mail order Masha decided the best response was to simply ignore her husband’s physical changes in order not to draw attention to them.

  “’Ow’s the new donkey?” she asked.

  In response Vasilis’ attempted to put his gaping mouth into motion but failed miserably, leaving him looking like a startled goldfish. Staring pointedly at Stavroula, Masha voiced the ridiculous opinion, “no one would guess my ‘usband is old enough to ‘ave a middle aged daughter.”

  That old fool Vasilis flapped his mouth in a futile gesture, being under strict instructions from Stavroula not to reveal her true paternity in front of her wealthy uncle. Lukas was too busy lusting over the voluptuous Russian’s ample silicone assets to take any notice of the words she’d uttered.

  Approaching the tables full of alfresco diners Bald Yannis made a commotion, dragging along a set of gaudily painted safety barriers in the shape of a three-sided square.

  “Yous can’t be puttin’ them up now Yanni, people are eatin’,” Takis remonstrated.

  “Suit yourself, yous said it was an emergency,” Bald Yannis retorted.

  Pancratius the village policeman had been on Takis’ back citing numerous anonymous complaints that the outdoor tables created a vehicular obstruction. Pancratius was well aware all the complaints were made by Stavroula putting on different but recognisable accents, determined to put a spoke in the popularity of the competition. Unfortunately after picking the sly brain of her slick lawyer fiancé, Stavroula was well versed in obscure bylaws, including the one which put Takis’ outside tables under threat. Eventually a ludicrous compromise had been agreed entailing the erection of safety barriers alongside Takis’ tables to prevent any passing cars from mowing down his customers.

  “I can do it now or I can come back in two weeks, I ‘ave a very busy schedule you knows,” Bald Yannis stated flatly, having no intention of dragging the barriers all the way back to the hardware shop. “But I want payin’ for the barriers now, either way.”

  Knowing the deadline for the barriers being in place was in two days time or he faced a hefty fine, Takis had no choice but to give Bald Yannis the go ahead or risk losing his customers. No one would willingly eat indoors in such high temperatures, exacerbated by the heat of the indoor grill and the bright overhead fluorescent lights.

  “Start at Stavroula’s table,” Takis instructed the handyman, wondering if she would have the cheek to complain about the disturbance her endless anonymous complaints had caused.

  “I think now is a good time to slip away an’ call on Voula,” Tall Thomas told Prosperous Pedros with a wink.

  Chapter 33

  Deirdre Drifts in the Dark

  Deirdre stretched out drowsily, trying to recall when she had last enjoyed such a relaxing sleep. Opening her eyes, the darkness confused her and she called out,

  “Quentin, why didn’t you wake me? Turn the air conditioning off, it’s getting cold.”

  The sudden awful realisation hit Deirdre that she hadn’t woken up at home unless Quentin had surprised her by indulging her secret desire for a water bed. The darkness surrounding her was all encompassing. Looking up at the stars she failed to appreciate their beauty when it suddenly dawned on her she was floating out at sea on the inflatable pink flamingo.

  Shivering, she adjusted her sarong, pulling it over her shoulders, leaving her bare legs exposed to the cold breeze. Her movement caused the flamingo to wobble dangerously. “Keep calm, keep calm,” she intoned, trying to remember her deep breathing yoga techniques and at the same time realising this was not the moment to let hysteria get the better of her. Her stomach rumbled hungrily, making her wonder how long she had been drifting. It was far too dark to see any landmarks and a cold nauseating panic gripped her. Geography had never been Deirdre’s strong point and she desperately tried to conjure a mental map of the Mediterranean Sea, wondering where the currents would carry her. She had a terrible feeling if she drifted too far south she might end up in Libya and arriving in bathing attire would be quite inappropriate.

  “Keep calm, keep calm,” she muttered aloud, “a scrambled brain won’t help. Maybe the beach is really near and I could swim in, holding onto the flamingo. But which way is land?”

  Deirdre had utterly lost her bearings in the total darkness. The complete absence of any lights shimmering in the distance made her think she was far from land, but then again it may be so late that all the lights on land had already been extinguished for the night.

  “Quentin will get help,” she realised with relief. “Keep calm, keep calm, help is on the way,” she repeated over and over, longing for a sip of water.

  The flamingo was suddenly catapulted through the water, buoyed on by something unseen in the darkness. Thrown abruptly forward, Deirdre clung onto the long stalk like neck of the flamingo for dear life, finally unleashing the hysterical scream she’d been suppressing ever since awakening to this watery nightmare.

  Chapter 34

  Tall Thomas Goes Courting

  Slipping away from the taverna unnoticed, Tall Thomas headed towards the finest house in the village, his head swirling with fanciful images of the smiling angel with the hazel eyes who had gazed down on him earlier, precipitating palpitations. Flattening his hair with his fingers he wondered if Voula would notice it was in dire need of a cut, the long ends of his thinning hair brushing the collar of the shirt he hastily sniffed for any tell tale signs of fish. It was so long since Tall Thomas had last gone courting he struggled to remember the rules. Slapping his bandaged head he muttered “malaka, I should ‘ave brought a bottle of my olive oil to impress ‘er.” Deciding he may lose his nerve if he trudged home to decant some oil from his one hundred kilo wooden barrel, he hurried on, hoping she would find the flowers a romantic touch.

  Voula was in a dreadful tizzy attempting to fathom the workings of Lukas’ new-fangled vacuum cleaner when she heard the door bell. Expecting to see Soula she threw the door open, saying,

  “I hope to goodness you can show me how to work this contraption before my new boss finds out how useless I am.”

  “I’ll be ‘appy to take a look at it for yous,” Tall Thomas replied, relieved to be faced with a practical dilemma.

  “Oh, what must you think, I thought you were Soula,” Voula cried, her hands flying up to tidy her hair as she realised her gentleman caller was the concussed mobile fishmonger.

  “Should you be up and about with your injury?”

  “I’m much recovered and ‘ad to come and thank yous for the tender care,” Tall Thomas stammered, suddenly remembering to present her with the flowers. Neither of them knew how to dampen their blushes nor where to look, so Thomas took manly charge by grabbing the vacuum cleaner.

  “You must think I’m a real peasant but this house is full of fancy appliances the like of which we never saw up in Osta,” Voula said.

  “Well I’m not sure there’s much call for ‘em ‘ere in Astakos either,” Tall Thomas assured her, equally ig
norant about the workings of the vacuum cleaner but determined to come to Voula’s rescue.

  “It beats me why anyone wants one of these new-fangled floor cleaning things when a mop and bucket does the same job without running up the electric bill,” Thomas opined.

  “Oh my,” Voula squealed as the vacuum roared into action and sucked up the flowers Tall Thomas had brought her.

  “They must be in ‘ere somewhere,” Thomas said, working out how to open the machine. “Ah, here we are,” he exclaimed, retrieving the now extremely dusty floral offering.

  “No one’s ever brought me flowers before,” Voula admitted, delighted by the gesture.

  “I was ‘alf way ‘ere before I remembered the done thing is to bring olive oil,” Thomas confessed.

  “Flowers are so much nicer,” Voula gushed as their eyes met.

  “’Appen I can ‘elp yous sort out ‘ow the other new-fangled things work,” Thomas offered.

  “I’d be so grateful. Come through, I can’t work out why this washing machine isn’t getting the grime out of Lukas’ collars,” Voula said, leading him towards the dishwasher that was spewing the soapy evidence of washing powder all over the floor.

  “Now, I’ve seen one of these before in Takis’ taverna kitchen, it’s for washing pots and pans, not clothes,” Thomas explained helpfully.

  “That must be why it didn’t get the skid marks out of his underpants,” Voula mused to Thomas’ amusement. “I ended up scrubbing them by hand, but that’s what I’m used to.”

  “Well there’ll be no need for that anymore, I’m sure Lukas will have a washing machine in the bathroom,” Thomas said. “Now are there any other appliances that are confusing you?”

  “Well Thoma, I have to say I have never seen such a thing as he has in his living room. A big black box on the wall and when I turned it on it was full of, oh, I can’t say, it was too embarrassing for words,” Voula tapered off, burying her blushing cheeks in the soft warmth of the piglet that trotted over to her.