The Explosive Nature of Friendship (11 page)

Another bike pulled in next door. Two girls got off.
‘ANO 150’. Mitsos frowned. He nearly spoke without thinking but then pulled himself up. How could it be? Did the guys with the Hawaiian shirts let the girls have the bike, and if so why were they back so soon?

‘
What was the registration of the bike that the guys with colourful shirts took?’ the policeman asked him.

‘
No idea, not the sort of thing I would notice.’ Mitsos looked across the road.

Mary
’s son finished his coffee and took out a pack of cigarettes, and offered one to Mitsos. Mitsos pulled out his lighter and cupped the flame as he sparked it to life. The policeman bent over the light, his cigarette glowed, he looked above Mitsos’ hand and beyond. He focused. His expression hardened. Mitsos followed his gaze, still lighting his own cigarette. A young man and his girlfriend were pulling in next door. The man had stopped the bike for his girlfriend to get off, before bumping it onto the pavement. The bike’s registration plate read ‘ANO 150’.

Manolis came out of the shop, and steered the bike up against the window and placed a plant pot in front of it. Beautiful orange-red geraniums.

The policeman drew on his cigarette. Another bike was coming along the road. This one was being pushed. Manolis waited for the bike to come to him. The bike-pusher was furious, shouting that this was the second bike he had been given that had broken down; his morning has been taken up with pushing the darn things back. The number plate was not visible as it was obscured by parked cars and the ‘Rent a Moped’ sign. The customer pushed it around to face the shop front. Now the bike rider himself was obscuring the view.

‘
One thousand drachma says that registration number is ANO 150,’ the policemen said, and slapped a note on the table. But before Mitsos could reply the tourist had moved, and they could both see that the policeman was correct. ‘Right!’ The policeman stubbed out his cigarette, gathered up his things, and turned to wave through the window to his mum. ‘Work to do,’ he announced and strapped on his helmet.

Mitsos watched, not sure if he should
– or could – do anything.

The policeman beckoned to Manolis to come out of his shop, leaving the arguing client first shocked and then smirking. With a leather-gloved hand, the policeman pointed at one of the bikes and asked to see the documents. Manolis got the papers and proudly handed them to the policeman, and pulled the plant pot away to display the number plate of the chosen moped,
‘ANO 150’.

The policemen read through the documents and nodded, everything was correct. Manolis grinned. Hi
s head was held high. The policeman folded the papers and handed them back. Mitsos did not want to know what Manolis was saying but he could hear the clichéd snippets all too clearly. ‘The good work that you do … thank goodness we have the police force …’ Mitsos cringed. The policeman waited for Manolis to stop talking and then casually walked along the row of bikes.

‘
Are your plants not too exposed here in front of your bikes?’ The policeman asked. Manolis looked at him with a frown, blinking. ‘Or maybe the exposure isn’t enough?’ Manolis opened his mouth but no words were formed in reply. ‘Perhaps if they were in the shade of the bikes …’ The policeman moved one pot to the side of a bike. Manolis sprang into action.

‘
Oh no, thank you, but no, they are really fine where they are.’ He tried to move the pot back but the policeman put an arm across Manolis’ chest to stop him.

‘
I think it will stay there.’ He stared at Manolis, unblinking, before turning his attention to the next pot. In a last-ditch attempt to divert his attention Manolis slapped the policeman on the back and suggested they go for a coffee. But the policeman was not to be deterred. He pulled each pot to one side and stepped back to admire his handiwork. He invited Manolis to join him. The policeman took out his cigarettes and offered one to Manolis, who accepted, but Mitsos could see Manolis’ hands were shaking as his head bent over his lighter.

‘
What do you think?’ the policeman asked. ‘Much better exposure now!’

Mitsos stood up and walked into the road so he could see the bikes from the same angle as Manolis and the policeman. The lined-up bikes
’ number plates read:

‘
ANO 150’, ‘ANO 150’, ‘ANO 150’ …

‘
Manolis, I am arresting you for,’ he counted the bikes in front of him, ‘six counts of avoidance of tax, renting motor vehicles without insurance …’ Another moped pulled up, and a laughing couple jumped off. ‘Make that seven. And no doubt there will be many other laws that you have broken with regard to renting them out in this condition.’

‘
Six,’ Manolis barked.

‘
Sorry?’ the policeman said.

‘
Six, that’s the legal one,’ Manolis replied, and pointed to one of the bikes.

‘
Seven, no eight,’ the policeman replied as two more bikes came round the corner.

Mitsos watched Manolis being taken away by the policeman. He wondered if he should have done something. Manolis
’ shop door hung open and the bikes were still lined up on the street. He checked that the policeman was out of sight then walked over to the shop and wheeled the bikes inside. Tools lay scattered about the interior of the shop, and there was a wooden box on a shelf. Mitsos checked the box. It was full of money. He tucked it under his arm.

The kitchen table, scrubbed smooth by dutiful wives over the years, rocking on the uneven stone-flagged floor, sat between them, the box of money open in the middle. The room was cool, the shutters closed to keep out the heat. A broken lath allowed a streak of sun in, hitting the back of a chair, a picture of Marina’s mother on the wall, freshly picked tomatoes in a bag on the floor; the same shaft of light made dust dance over the drachmas in the box on the table.

Mitsos had thought about taking what he felt he was owed. Half of the fine for the beach bar, for example, the price of a new chicken shed. But all he felt he was owed seemed trivial compared to what he felt they both owed Marina. She would have been safe from this life she was leading had he married her, if he had taken the time to meet her, even once.

‘But I cannot have it. He will ask where it has come from. He will shout. He will …’ Marina wiped away a tear that hadn’t fallen and leant back in her chair away from the table, leaving the sentence hanging.

‘
Does he …’ Mitsos could not finish his sentence either. The thought of Marina being harmed by Manolis choked him.

Marina put her hand to her mouth and turned her head away. Mitsos leaned forward over the table.

‘Look, I know there is never money in the house. Well, here is your chance to have something to draw on. His shop was left open. He will not be expecting to see this money again. He will presume gypsies have taken it.’ Marina looked up from the two black butterflies embroidered onto her handkerchief that she had been stroking. It was her nineteenth birthday. The box of money was a poor birthday gift.

‘
Take it and hide it away. Then you do not always need to be waiting for him to come home to ask him for money. You can buy food when you need it, not when he demands it. Come on, Marina, you need to look after yourself a little bit too.’

‘
Too late,’ Marina said.

Mitsos looked up from the table sharply. New tears were running down her face. She stroked the embroidered butterflies more frantically, using the hanky to dry her face in between the pacifying action.

Marina did not volunteer to explain her comment.

‘
Marina?’ Mitsos touched her hand holding the hanky. The touch was all it took. Marina’s chest swelled, her face contorted and from her throat came a wail. She wrapped her arms around her face and sank onto the table.

Mitsos was at a loss as to what he should do. He stood up, wondering if he should run to fetch her mother, but he did not want to leave Marina alone, so he sat down again. He put a hand out to stroke her hair but pulled it away before making contact; he was afraid of his own emotions that this action might unleash. He decided a hand on her back was enough. He patted her and then stroked her. The noise subsided. Part of him wished he wasn
’t there to have to deal with all this emotion, but another part relished the role.

She lifted her head. She looked hard and the tears had stopped.

And that was when it came, the unwanted confession that lingered in his head, gave him nightmares at night and made him wish, again, that Manolis was dead.

‘
The day you two went to find bikes. He came home late smelling of oil. He was full of himself. He said he was going to be rich and that I should be grateful to him. Then he took the ouzo from the cupboard and sat at this table and poured two drinks. I was standing by the door and I said I didn’t want any. He stood up quickly and in one stride he was beside me, a hand in my hair, pushing me to the table.

‘“
Drink,” he said, so I drank. He refilled the glasses and said “drink” again. Where he had pulled my hair was throbbing and I felt afraid so I drank.’

‘
I will kill him.’ Mitsos stood up. Marina tugged on his sleeve to make him sit down again; she had more to say. Mitsos tried to control himself. He did not want to hear more, but Marina’s need was greater than his own. He looked into her sad face and sat down again, the wooden chair interrupting the momentary heavy silence as it grated against the floor.

‘
A bottle of ouzo between us, and I do not drink. I couldn’t stand. He was talking and talking, about how successful he was going to be, and then he lurched towards me. I had no idea what he was doing and then I realised he was trying to kiss me.’ Her eyes flicked to the ceiling and back to her hanky, her mind looking for an escape from the memory. ‘He had not tried to make any physical contact since the baby died.’ She thought for a moment, shook her head and corrected herself. ‘Since I first knew I was pregnant. We are not familiar with each other, we have our own rooms,’ her voice trailing off.

‘
I know.’ Mitsos did not want to hear any more. He stared at a patch of flaky green paint on the wall that revealed a brown colour underneath. They sat silently for a while and he began to think he had been spared further detail.

Marina stared blankly at her hands, folded in her lap, crumpling the hanky, stroking the embroidered butterflies. When Manolis tried to kiss her she had turned her head away and that made him angry. He stood and held her head in his one hand, twisting her hair tightly against her skull, and he pulled her face to his. Marina tried to pivot away again but his grip was too tight; she felt the individual stands of hair being uprooted one by one. She was afraid. An image came to mind of the goats, wide eyed, the sickly smells of fear before they are slaughtered.

Manolis held her face still with the hand that was not holding her hair. He kissed her and then looked to see how much he had upset her.

He had let go of her face, but still keeping a grip on her hair with his other hand he reached over to the table, took and swallowed a whole glass of ouzo in one mouthful. He looked back at Marina but his focus was gone. He kissed her again and she tried to force him away but his grip on her hair tightened. He pushed her back and the chair she was sitting on went over backwards.

The knuckles of the hand that was holding the back of her head cracked hard against the floor, with her skull bouncing on top of them. He swore. She was on her back and he was all but on top of her. He kneeled up and looked at his knuckles. There was blood.

The back of his hand smacked her across the face before she saw it coming and then he started pushing up her skirts. He shouted in a deep evil-sounding voice that she was an animal and therefore he would treat her like a goat. Marina did not know him.

The room swam from the ouzo and from his fist. Her skirts lifted despite her frantic attempts to pull them down. One hand was on her throat as he rummaged with his trousers. She tied to claw his face but the elbow of the hand holding her throat came up and cracked her across the chin. He finished his fumbling with his own clothes.

With a sudden jarring she felt her back arched involuntarily; the pain was deep. Her head knocked into the door post, she put her hands up to brace against it. He grabbed her wrists, bound them together in a single grasp and twisted them behind her head, affording her skull no protection as it knocked again and again. She could feel it growing wet and sticky.

Mitsos twitched. His gaze was jolted from the paintwork as through barely opened lips Marina began to share details of what she suffered. He could hardly hear her, but despite not wanting to know found himself straining to listen.

‘I tried to leave my body, shut down my mind. The ceiling, stained brown with cigarette smoke has drip marks where condensation has pooled the colour.’ She did not look up to confirm this. ‘His breath, sweet with ouzo and sour with his mind, was in my face.’ She took some little breaths and recollected how the smell of his sweat grew until his face contorted, his hand came up from her throat over her face, his fingers feeling her face, in her mouth and she bit. She bit so hard she tasted blood almost immediately. He let out a wail, but halfway through the sound confused and his body tensed, his face muscles relaxed and she knew he had had his way.

Mitsos sat stunned. Marina was drained white and looked numb, powerless.

As if to order, the church bells began to toll. A funeral.

A dog barked, declaring its loneliness.

A child shouted, ‘Mama.’

The heat of the day settled in the room.

The house was still.

Mitsos put his hand on Marina
’s back, gently, sensitively, patting, stroking, small movements.

They sat silently for many minutes.

‘I am pregnant,’ she said. Mitsos removed his hand and looked away.

Marina
’s rage exploded.

‘
What are you thinking? That I choose this?’ Her voice was loud and harsh. ‘You think I would choose to become pregnant in this life of mine, to him?’ Marina looked him full in the face. Mitsos could not look back. She was angry, but not at him. She stood up, kicking her chair back, and with aggressive movements took two glasses from the cupboard and a bottle of water. There was no denying the heat.

Mitsos recovered himself and jumped to his feet.
‘Sit down, let me.’ He poured her a glass and she swallowed it all and he poured another.

‘
Forgive me, God, but I wish him dead.’ Marina crossed herself. Mitsos did not answer. He could feel his muscles shivering with rage. If Manolis came through the door now he would not take many breaths. That would be a better birthday present for Marina. But the thought was too bitter, and he too crossed himself and whispered a prayer asking for forgiveness, and commanded his rage to settle as he sat down again.

They sat for a long time. They heard the sound of goat bells, the animals being brought in from pasture before the afternoon
’s meal.

‘
Should I go and see what is happening to him?’

‘
Who cares?’ Marina slowly gathered up the money from the box. Mitsos wished it was more.

‘
So that you know when, or if, he is coming home.’

‘
Yes, I suppose.’ Now she had the money in her fist she looked at it as if she were not sure what to do with it.

Mitsos picked up the empty box.
‘I’ll get rid of this on the way.’ He tried to smile at Marina, but he felt he had brought all this upon her. He had no right to smile. Now he must pledge to look after her child as well.

Mitsos took his
regina
, a three-wheeled half truck, half scooter, into town, and parked in front of the police station. It was an old building, originally a housing block, now grey and crumbling with age. There was a wooden kiosk, with a window, erected outside the main doors. A policeman sat inside reading a comic.

‘
An acquaintance of mine has been arrested. Can I find out what is happening?’ Mitsos asked. The policeman put his comic aside and looked Mitsos up and down. He stood and opened the side door to his hut, and stepped out and stretched.

‘
It’s a hot one,’ he said, and taking keys attached to a long chain from his pocket he opened the door to the station. ‘Third door on your right.’ Mitsos stepped through the door and the policeman locked it after him. He wondered if all the police had keys.

Smells vied for dominance, stale cigarette smoke and burnt coffee, wet dust and sweat. A big woman, in a cross-over housecoat, broom in hand, a dirty rag wrapped around the bristles, was mopping her way down the corridor, dark wet patches under her arms, a cigarette dangling from her lips. The light reflected off the wet areas of floor; she had missed many patches. She looked up. Mitsos said hello but she did not reply, returning to her work.

The third door on the right, a greying white, was unmarked. He knocked but there was no answer. He pushed the door open and called ‘Hello’ through the crack. Again, no answer. He opened the door. Two large policemen sat at grey metal desks; both ignored him. One was eating a sandwich whilst reading through some papers.

Mitsos stood in front of his desk and the policeman, without looking up, indicated using the papers in his hand that he should approach the other policeman, the other desk. The second policeman was writing on a form. He continued to write for another line before he, also without looking up, indicated a chair against the wall. Mitsos stood by the chair; he did not want to sit. There was a fan on full blast moving the warm air but not cooling it.

Behind the policeman was a narrow sliding internal window which, presumably, gave air to the next room. It was open and Mitsos’ attention was drawn to it as he heard the murmuring of many voices. The next room was large and had a cage inside it, and there must have been some sort of skylight as the sun’s rays fell in the cage, cutting men and bars diagonally.

Mitsos wondered why there was a free-standing cage inside a room: why not just lock them in a room, then the room is the cage? It reminded him of a poster for the circus, showing a circle of bars with a captured lion roaring. But it didn't thrill him or amuse him, it saddened him; the people inside an exhibit, dehumanised.

The men who prowled in the cage had taken their shirts off. They stalked back and forth with restless energy. There was nowhere to sit; none of them was still. He recognised cultures. The Filipinos stood out with their diminutive height and straight dark hair; they seemed to outnumber everyone else. Egyptians were noticeable by their curly hair, some frizzy; they were dark with straight noses, and they also looked thin. Gypsy characters with shoulder-length hair felt the most threatening to Mitsos. In amongst them, Manolis. He too had taken his shirt off and walked back and forth. He looked angry; he looked like he did when he was plotting. Mitsos thought of Marina, and an animal power ran through him demanding violence, harm, blood.