by Alex A King
"I have to go out. Do you want me to fix you a little snack before I leave?"
Silence.
He will come around, she thinks, in time.
Helena has nothing but time. So much that it pours from her hands.
* * *
Through the bus's window the gulf appears scratched, dusty, ruined. Helena sees only its flaws.
It is a seven kilometer ride from Agria to Volos, all of it waterfront road. The bus rolls toward the Panayia Tripa of Goritsa temple—
* * *
Sometimes translations are … unfortunate. This one is both unfortunate and funny to people whose senses of humor tilt towards unclean.
Goritsa is a place. Nothing funny about that.
Panayia is the Virgin Mary.
A tripa is a hole.
* * *
—resting on the rocks below. A Romani man stands at the side of the road not far from the bleached steeple, peddling bananas.
Bananas.
The sign says he wants ten euros per kilo. A small fortune. But there are people who will pay it because bananas are not an everyday fruit in Greece.
Stavros loves bananas. Maybe these he will eat.
Helena jerks the string that tells the driver to stop.
"I want bananas," she explains. "Stop here."
"It is not a stop," the driver complains into his convex mirror.
"If the bus stops and you let me off, then it is a stop, yes?"
He stops, but only because her logic is flawless.
She gets off the bus, steps into an unforgiving sun. It sees her faults, points out every one. What kind of mother is she? A good mother does not become the accomplice of a doctor who wishes to banish her child.
The sun speaks only truth. It knows nothing of night and its shadows.
When she turns, there is no man, there are no bananas. Only dust from the land and salt from the sea.
Hades, she thinks, is toying with her. She will not be a god's plaything.
Arms outstretched, she screams at the god of the underworld and all his siblings. "What else do you want from me? You have taken everything. Everything!"
38
Leo
Outhouses suck.
Not easy trying to figure out which is worse: proper toilet stuck in a closet at the back of the yard, or one of those holes-in-the-ground inside a lot of Greek bathrooms.
The high school used to have a row of holes. He wonders what it's got now.
When he was a kid, every time he came out of the outhouse—this outhouse—sure enough, there'd be a hot girl walking by.
It's hard to be cool when a girl suspects you just took a dump.
He flushes. Opens the door.
"Leonidas!"
Just like old times. Except it's not a hot girl, it's Kyria Dora.
"Kalimera, Kyria Dora. If you're looking for my grandfather, he's not home."
"For what would I want to talk to that old fool?" The woman jiggles closer, cutting a path through the chickens. "I came to talk with you!"
"Coffee?"
"Maybe a small frappe. And a koulouraki, if you have one."
They're out of cookies, but Leo finds some personal-sized chocolate cakes in the cupboard. He shakes the coffee, pours, drops the cake on a small plate, all the time wondering what the older woman wants with him.
It doesn't take long for her to get to the point.
"I hear you fixed a donkey."
"True story," he tells her.
"Good." She beams at him. "I have a problem. An animal problem. And they say you are a veterinarian."
"Also true. What kind of animal are we talking about?"
"I do not know, but it is an animal. Every night it comes and bellows outside my window. Sometimes it is on the roof, making that terrible noise. And always, it smells like pee when it leaves."
Leo thinks about Greece and its wildlife. His memory is sketchy. He can't remember what's native, what's not.
"You've never seen it?"
"Never! It is very clever and hides in the dark."
"How long has this been going on?"
"A week. Maybe two."
"And you want me to do what?"
"Catch it and take it away—what else?"
"Have you thought about an exterminator?"
"An exterminator is for ants. This is not an ant, unless it is a very big ant."
"They catch animals, too."
She sighs like it's killing her. "Maybe they were lying about the donkey you fixed, eh? If you cannot help me, you cannot help me." The older woman staggers to her feet. She pockets the tiny cake. "Say hello to your grandfather for me, eh?"
This is what she wants: the chase. She wants him to volunteer and she wants him to do it for nothing. Which is fine, he was going to do it for nothing anyway. He's not here to make a buck—he just wants to get home.
"Wait. I can at least take a look."
"Good!" All smiles. "Come tonight, after dark."
* * *
Socrates has grand plans—plans that involve Leo. He can tell by the twinkle in the old man's eye. What's he up to?
"Come," Socrates says. "We are having chicken for dinner. Can you cook?"
Wary: "Yeah, I can cook."
"Good, then you can make chicken."
Leo knows what's in the fridge and freezer, which means he knows there's no chicken. "Want me to run to the store?"
"For what? Everything you need is here."
"Chicken?"
Papou's eyebrows make a hasty retreat north. "What do you think that is outside, eh? Pick one and kill it."
Leo goes outside.
Walks back inside.
"Axe?"
"Are you a man or are you a girl? Use your hands. Like this." He mimes a snapping neck before following Leo back out.
Leo's euthanized his share of animals before, but only as a last resort. He's not big on killing for fun or food. Doesn't sit right with him when guys hide in the bushes so they can say they bagged Bambi. But he can kill one chicken for dinner—right?
Chickens are silly creatures, but they're okay. And his grandfather's chickens seem to like him. How the hell is he supposed to pick one? They're milling around his feet, looking for food, no idea that one of them is about to be lunch.
Socrates cackles from his chair on the patio.
"Not a word," Leo says.
"What? I do not say anything."
"Don't think so loud, then." He watches them peck. Can't pick one when they're all healthy and happy. "How do you choose?"
"I ask them questions, and whichever chicken gives the wrong answer, that is the chicken." Great joke. Huge. Funny man, that Papou. He's slapping his own leg, cackling. "I grab the closest chicken, Leonidas. Whichever one cannot run as fast as the others."
Leo glances from chicken to chicken. He can't do it.
It's the karma thing. Take a life and the universe might take one right back.
What if it's his mother?
He stomps into the house, snatches up the moped's keys. "You want chicken, I'll get chicken."
39
Kiki
July doesn't see full dark until 10 pm, but night is making early threats in preparation. Outside, the cicadas are whining about their itchy skins. Soon they'll shed them, then they'll whine about how the new skins feel too tight. Very Greek, cicadas.
Soula is not on her knees, but she's begging Kiki to come to the promenade. It's been more than forty days, so Kiki's off the mourning hook, socially.
Kiki doesn't want to go. She enjoys socializing, having a good time, but if she goes to the waterfront, everyone will stop and look. Then they'll move on, but their whispers will be deafening.
That's the best case scenario.
There she goes, they'll say. Walking around as if she never killed a man.
Then they'll wonder who's next. Maybe it will be them.
Please. As if they're worth killing. The remedy for malicious gossip isn't murder, it's self-inflicted exile.
"Who cares what they say?" Soula cries. "They are nobody. Since when do you care what nobody thinks? The only way to win is to walk down there with your head high. Be polite. Kill them with kindness. Then when this is over and the police have Stavros's murderer, they will be ashamed."
"They won't apologize."
"No, but they will move on to someone else. That is as close as they get to sorry."
"Who do you think killed him?"
Soula shrugs. "Who knows? I heard stories. But they are the same stories you heard."
"I can't go," Kiki says. "I just want to hide until this is over."
"Only a guilty woman hides, sister. An honest woman? She enjoys life, because her heart is light."
"Then why does mine feel like a rock?"
"Because you are a good person. A much better person than me. And a piece of you cared about Stavros, even if you did not love him. Me? You know I think he was a piece of shit."
* * *
Kiki thinks her sister is full of great ideas.
Wonderful ideas.
Best ideas ever.
Like going to the promenade. What could possibly go wrong?
So many tourists, you'll blend right in, Soula told her.
Ignore the people staring, Soula told her.
Stay, Soula told her. Don't let them chase you away. Ignore that old woman spitting in your direction. Maybe she just has rabies. Whatever you do, do not let her bite you, because look at those teeth. Has she never heard of a dentist?
Kiki bolted, shot straight up the main street leading away from the promenade. Soula followed, her mouth full of curses. Not for Kiki, but for those people.
They used to be Kiki's people, but now they won't have her.
Their loss, Soula told her. But Kiki couldn't help feeling she lost something, too.
Now they're standing by the water fountain on Drakia Road, watching Romani bleed out of the dark. There's a woman filling her huge water bottles from the fountain's faucet, but she's faking night-blindness.
(Ask her later and she'll have a good story to tell. But it will be Kiki who's the menace, not the oncoming Romani.)
Soula grabs her arm, tugs her toward home. "We should go."
"Go where?"
They're in an 80s movie, a foreign one that's been dubbed, where the mouths don't match the words. And the good guys are standing back to back, watching the bad guys close in on them.
Kiki doesn't know kung-fu, and she's pretty sure Soula doesn't know kung-fu, either.
"We need a diversion," Soula says over her shoulder.
"Any ideas?"
Soula says, "Only bad ones."
"Like?"
"Offering to sell them a house with a reduced commission."
Jesus Christ
The ring is shrinking by the second. Should she scream? That one woman is scurrying up the street with her bottles. There's an apartment building a few feet away, but if anyone hears her, they'll probably assume she's discussing politics. A political discussion in Greece means yelling. The loudest person—not the most correct—wins.
"Can I help you?" she says.
"Why are you talking to them?" Soula cries out.
"Because they're people who obviously want something?"
"We don't have any money," Soula tells them.
* * *
Tsiganes. Yiftes. Gypsies.
Greece has a Romani problem. The government wants to pour oil and water into a jar and shake them until they're a frappe. But the Romani aren't big joiners. They prefer to pitch their tents where they please, and move on when the authorities squint in their direction. When they build, it's settlements, not neighborhoods, although minds are slowly changing. But for now, most of them still choose to live on city fringes.
They marry off their children young, rarely send them to school, which sounds like—
Well, Greece. Or rather, Greece as it used to be.
It's not the first time Greece has been a hypocrite. They even invented the word.
Anyway, Greece's Romani are tightly wedged between the proverbial rock and hard place.
The rock? The old Romani traditions fighting for their lives.
Greece, of course, is the hard place.
* * *
"Greeks. They always think we want their money," one of the Romani says. He's either colorblind or a fashion risk-taker. Who else would pair a red NIKE shirt with those green pants?
"That's because you usually want our money." Soula sounds brave. Which is good, because Kiki doesn't feel brave.
The man shrugs. "Okay, so we want your money, but not tonight. Although I would not say no to your money, if you want to give it to me." He looks at them expectantly.
Kiki looks at her sister. "I don't want to give him my money. You?"
"No," Soula says. "What do you want?"
Somebody behind them spits. Second time tonight.
* * *
Greeks spit a lot. Some of the time it's for your own good.
It's the Swiss Army Knife of gestures.
Spitting wards away the evil eye by canceling out a compliment. You're so beautiful, so smart, and you have so many shoes! Spit-spit! Nothing in Greece is more spat-upon than a baby. It's one of a non-Greek's minor parenting nightmares.
They spit to get the gunk out. It's nothing to see a Greek man shooting snot out of his mouth or nose, onto the ground. Sun-warmed gum is a lesser problem. That thing on the ground that glistens like an oyster?
Not an oyster.
And they spit to show contempt. It's an insult for the lowest of the low.
* * *
Yeah, Kiki's sure they're not spitting because they like her black dress. She's not keen on the dress either. Or the black. She likes colors.
Soula pivots on the heel of her wedge sandal, points one-fingered. "You did not just spit on me."
"Not on you," the woman says. "Her. You were just in the way."
The spitter is a young woman, destined to look forty before she's thirty. Roma life is tough on its people. She's chicken-shaped: thick around the middle with skinny brown legs.
Before Kiki can say anything, the woman spits again. The wet flecks nail the exposed V of her chest.
Kiki is a good woman from a good family, but there is a limit to her goodness. All this spitting makes her want to reach out and slap someone. "What's your problem?"
The woman moves closer. "You Greeks think you are so superior to us. You would beat us out of the country if you could." She spits again, this time it lands on Kiki's cheek.
One foot at a time, Kiki slides out of her sandals. Her reputation is dirt anyway, so who cares if people see her without shoes and think she's poor? She's past caring. All she wants right now is to throw herself onto her bed and let sleep swallow her for a few hours. Then maybe she'll wake up on a new day, in a new life.
But no. She's stuck here, now, wiping spit off her face.
She picks up the right sandal. It's pretty, strappy, completely unsuitable for walking any great distance. But it's aerodynamic and knows how to find a target.
Bam. Right in the Romani woman's forehead.
Every breath catches. Then the woman hisses, "Skeela!"
(It's not the first time one of the Andreou women has been called a bitch, but usually it's Soula. More commonly, they've called her tsoula Soula. Tsoula being a charming word that describes a woman who bestows her affections upon many men, far and wide and free.)
Kiki starts to laugh, because isn't this just great? She was supposed to be married to Stavros, honeymooning in Paris, contemplating starting a family, but instead she's here, hurling shoes in a Romani woman's face.
It's laugh or cry.
Kiki doesn't choose laughter—it chooses her. Then—tag—Soula's laughing, too. Both Andreou women doubled over, laughing, even though chances are good they're about to get their asses kicked.
The Romani woman doesn't disappoint. She lunges, knees Kiki in the face.
"Drina, no!"
Kiki lifts her head. Her toes are red with blood, hot. "Drina? Is that your name?"
"Yes. And it is a better name than yours."
Kiki rushes her, slams her to the ground. The woman's not so tough now with all the wind knocked out of her.
Kiki is a teacher, which means she's watched kids fights. A lot of kids, over the years—boys and girls. Her database has been carefully stashing away tips and tricks, not for a rainy day, but—apparently—a warm summer night. She doesn't swing again, doesn't make a chair out of the girl's chest, doesn't pull, bite, slap.
But she does grab the girl's middle finger. And that she bends until Drina screeches, "Putana!"
"That's not the magic word." She looks up at the ring of Romani surrounding the three of them. "I know the magic word, and I'm sure that's not it. Anyone want to help her out?"
"That's my sister," Soula declares proudly. But the Romani aren't impressed. They're not intervening, either. They're waiting and watching to see what happens next.
That's strange, isn't it? Kiki figured they'd be tearing the two of them apart. That's how it goes in the school yard.
What happens next is that Kiki tugs on that bent finger.
"I will never say it," the Romani woman bellows. "I would rather die!"
That hits Kiki's off switch. Anyone who'd choose death over an apology has bigger problems than she does.
She grabs the woman's arm, pulls her to her feet. "Whatever your problem with me is," she says, "it's not worth your life. Just go home. That's where I'm going."
The girl stands there, swaying in the non-existent breeze. "I would not buy watermelon for a while if I were you."
Kiki scoops up her sandals, dangles the straps over one finger. "Soula," she says, "tonight I feel like going barefoot.
* * *
Not her best idea ever.
