The Explosive Nature of Friendship (4 page)

But pouring the liquid into the font felt worse.

Mitsos, who was sure they had now finished, started for the door. He wanted to be at home.

‘
Where you going? Now we wait.’ Manolis grabbed his arm, and pulled him to the back of the church. Mitsos sat stiff, frightened and just a bit bored. After a while, Manolis leaned back and put up his feet on the chairs, with the attitude of a man immune to the whole world. Mitsos copied, experimenting with how that felt. It gave him a curious sense of power, which he liked, and he began to relax and enjoy himself.

As time passed the feeling of power faded and was replaced again with boredom. Manolis drew a crumpled packet from his pocket and took out a cigarette, trying to act casual.

‘You can't light that in here – this is the house of God!’ Mitsos was horrified, and chastised himself for putting his feet on the chairs and letting his guard down. He sat up straight. He should have left when he said he was going to. They were piling crime upon crime, sin upon sin. God was never going to forgive them.

Manolis lit up and made a big show of drawing in a lungful of smoke.

‘Here you go.’ He offered the wet end to Mitsos.

Mitsos wriggled on his chair. If he took it he would be smoking in the church, and he felt that must be a sin even if smoking itself wasn't. His Baba smoked, everyone smoked. If he didn't take it, Manolis would laugh at him and call him a baby. He refused.

‘For God's sake, they burn enough incense in this place. What difference will a herb of a different kind make?’ He was starting to scoff, and thrust the cigarette more firmly at Mitsos. ‘Don’t be such a baby,’ Manolis said, his face contorted with derision.

Mitsos took it and hesitated again before taking a mouthful and coughing. But, as with all new things, a little practice made perfect, and a very short time later they were both puffing like old masters. They were men. They relaxed, and after a time they lay flat across the seats, end to end, their crowns touching, passing the cigarettes back and forth.

A noise disturbed them and the boys sat upright: the sound of a door opening. Time had passed so quickly. Manolis took a last puff and stuck the glowing end into one of the sand trays for the candle offerings. The two boys then scuttled back behind the candle stall, waving their hands in the air to dissipate the smell of tobacco as they went.

‘
This will be good,’ Manolis whispered, as the trainee Papas, with an armful of papers, came up the nave towards the templon, his black robes hanging from his thin frame. He had to pass the font which stood in the centre of the church.

As he passed, he briefly glanced at the font and then, with a slack jaw, stopped and looked again. Slowly and cautiously he took a step closer and with his free hand dipped a finger into the pungent liquid. He sucked the finger, and as his tastebuds confirmed his suspicions his eyes grew wide and he dropped his papers on the floor. He regained composure enough to cross himself several times and then ran to the church entrance. There he paused, looked back and then closed the doors behind him, and the boys could hear him locking them from the outside. His footsteps retreated at a run, and he called the real Papas
’ name.

Mitsos was rolling on the floor laughing but Manolis stood up and kicked him hard to get his attention.

‘Come on, we aren't finished with him yet.’ He beckoned Mitsos back to the font and assumed the lifting position again.

‘
Why?’ Mitsos asked.

‘
Don't be thick. Right now he thinks a miracle has happened.’

‘
I know, it was hysterical.’

‘
Yes, but we owe him.’ The boys lifted the font back to the side door, and as the wine seeped across the mud, turning it briefly the colour of blood, Mitsos considered what a terrible waste it was. But as soon as it was gone Manolis hurried him towards the templon with the clear intent of passing through to the sanctuary.

‘
We can't go in there, it’s Holy.’ Mitsos was beginning to think the whole episode was more than he, or his soul, could bear. Tears were threatening to fall.

‘
It's a room. Look, if that silly beardless Papas can go in there, how holy can it be? Besides, we won't touch anything. We just need some water. God would never deny us water.’ And with a pull of the brass bowl from his side they passed through the templon. Manolis filled the font from the tap. Mitsos crossed himself, had a good look around, was disappointed by the sparseness and asked for forgiveness for trespassing. When the font was full they took it back to the nave and set it on its stand.

They let themselves out of the side door and walked as casually as they could around to the main entrance. A few of the village children were playing football in the space around the front of the church. They invited the pair to join them. Manolis said he might, but later.

The boys, one by one, stopped playing as they followed Manolis’ excited, wide-eyed gaze and pointing finger down the lane to the square. Coming at a run, his black robes flying, his arms out to the side trying to retain some dignity but pumping with the effort, was the trainee priest. His face was red with excitement. Behind him, also hurrying, but in a fast-walking way, came the rotund real priest.

When the trainee was close enough, Manolis called.

‘What is it, Papas?’

The trainee answered,
‘There's been a miracle, a miracle I tell you.’

The boys abandoned football for the infinitely greater excitement of a real miracle, and ran round him, hindering his advance, allowing the real Papas time to catch up. A lady across the road witnessed the commotion and wandered over to find out what was going on. Armed with the facts, she quickly returned to inform her neighbour, who told her son, who went off on his motorbike to tell his friends, and the news quickly spread throughout the village. The devotees came running, the curious bringing up the rear with less enthusiastic fervour, but at a pace brisk enough that they would not miss out on the event
.

The boys were all shouting questions at once, and neither of the priests could make any progress. More and more people arrived, all with their own questions, and the real Papas tried to wave them back and maintain some order, but in vain.

Finally, he took control of the situation and with raised hands quietened everyone down. Once they were silent he announced that, as senior clergy, he would go in to investigate. Once he had established the authenticity they could all see this miracle. The trainee Papas strutted with his chest puffed out in pride; his hat had been knocked to a cocky angle. A sharp word from the real Papas and at least the hat was put straight.

By the time the key had been turned in the lock there was quite a crowd gathered. The real Papas opened the double doors wide and cautiously peered into the church. All was still. The papers the trainee had dropped lay scattered, white squares on the grey flag floor. But everyone
’s eyes were fixed on the font. The senior Papas walked gingerly up the aisle. The boys who had been playing football could not resist and followed step for step, on tiptoe. No one took a breath.

The rotund Papas exhaled loudly as he reached the font. The trainee hurried forward as he saw his mentor's shoulders drop.

‘But, but …’ The trainee stuck his finger in the font and then in his mouth and sucked it. ‘But …’

The crowd surged forwards and one by one the disappointment spread through them. They all had to see for themselves; no one said a word.

The crowd that left the church walked with lifeless steps, apart from the real Papas, who marched swiftly to his home and closed the door with a rather loud bang.

The trainee was still by the font. No words were forming in his mouth; they had been replaced by some unintelligible sounds.

Now Manolis, who was standing outside the church doors with all the other children, was laughing. First a giggle behind his hand, which set Mitsos going. The two of them together could not hide what was bursting inside them and they gave in to uncontrollable laughter, which was contagious, and soon all the other children from the church down to the square were laughing. The one or two remaining football players were drawn out of the church by the sound of laughter, and the trainee Papas, heavy-footed, looking stunned, came after them. The laughing boys seemed to line his path, but when he got to the senior Papas’ house the door was firmly closed and he had to knock and wait. With laughter ringing in his ears, he turned his face from the disapproving glances of the passing villagers.

He left the village very soon after that.

Some said he left the church.

The baby burps remarkably loudly.
Mitsos manages to lift his nephew back into his car seat. Once he is settled Mitsos washes the bottle in cold water with one hand as best he can.

‘
You see, my little nephew, how a bit of fun can become something more. Once you have stepped over the threshold of respect for authority, if you get away with it, you know no boundaries, you begin to feel and act like gods.’ Mitsos sighs deeply. ‘And we did get away with it, then and later.’ He gazes out into the almond grove. The corner of the window has a spider's web on the outside. The spider sits in the centre, waiting.

‘
I was like a moth to a flame around Manolis.’ Mitsos turns around to find his charge firmly asleep.

Mitsos’ home is a little lonely after his nephew returns to his parents. Under the almond blossom, which provides shade from the hot sun, he can see one or two cats lying in the grass. He reaches into his front trouser pocket and finds his cigarettes. So that's where they were … He buys the soft packets. The cellophane squeaks as he fumbles to extract one. The packet is empty.

He puts on his black flat cap and grasps his shepherd's crook, and takes one slow footstep after the other along the track and then down to the kiosk to buy a new pack. It is too warm to hurry. The crickets are singing by the gate. There is a hum of insects around the purple and pink flowers shaded in long grass. Mitsos stops to watch a moth drink nectar, its wings a blur, its proboscis extended, reaching into the centre of the petals. It darts away. He has been left with a hollow feeling after talking to his little friend. His world seems barren.

‘A wasted life,’ he tells the sky, and rubs his face. He hasn't shaved again, and the stubble is itching.

He stops at the edge of the village square. She is there, standing across from him. She is arguing with her daughter, who is standing at the bus stop with a large bag. The palm tree in the centre of the square speckles them in shade, hiding some of their expressions. This daughter looks like Marina; it is the younger one who also looks a little like Manolis. He remembers her when she was so tiny, opening the door to let him in, that last time he was invited to dinner. The day he made the final wrong decision.

Her voice is like Marina’s.

‘
I am going to the island, I don’t need to stay here,’ she shouts.

‘
Come back inside a minute.’ Marina’s voice is hushed but Mitsos can hear an edge of panic.

Poor Marina, she looks quite distraught. He wishes he could go over and help. It hurts that she does not even talk to him. It might have looked like he was encouraging Manolis, but he didn't really want to be involved. It was for her. For her and her daughters. Even that last wrong decision was for her.

A bus pulls into the square and Marina and Eleni disappear from view. The cloud of dust, blown up by the tyres, no sooner settles than the bus is moving again. Only Marina remains when it is gone, her face in the sun, her body dappled in shade. It is hard to tell from this distance, but he thinks she is crying. He wants to hug her, to tell her he will make it better.

She could have been his reason to concentrate on his farm, to plant more orange trees, work the land more efficiently, shave in the mornings. He would have worked, dawn till dusk, just for the joy of making her life easy, for the thrill of returning home to her at the end of the day. He would have gladly earned all the money she needed to dress as finely as she could have liked, taken her to tavernas in town. Maybe they would even have gone to Athens, if she had wanted.

He hasn't seen her for some time. She doesn't look quite so beautiful any more. She seems uncared for, and stouter than he remembers. He recognises her widow's weeds from the first days after Manolis died. They have greyed with washing. This is not really surprising as it was – how many? – twenty-two years ago? How can she be wearing the same clothes? Is she that poor? She looks tired. His heart reaches out to her.

Watching her walk back into her whitewashed home, with the peeling blue shutters, behind her shop on the corner, he realises that it would take a miracle for them to be friends now. His one wish, his one dream, is to show Marina, in some way, how much she is loved by him, how worthy of love. Even if there is no return for him.

She is gone. He continues his slow tread, using his crook for balance. His steps take him to the glass-fronted kafenio which is full of farmers getting out from under their wives’ feet, enjoying the chance of a nip of ouzo with their coffee without being nagged. Two or three of the farmers who are not engaged in playing backgammon or animated in lively discussion, arms flying to emphasise a point, swing their
komboloi
, worry beads, slowly between their fingers and acknowledge Mitsos with a nod as he climbs the steps. The air is hazy with cigarette smoke and the rich aroma of coffee.

His father had sat in the front corner. The floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides gave him the best vantage point. That corner is just a road's-width away from Marina's shop. Mitsos never sits there. He sits diagonally opposite, away from the window, near the counter. At the back. On his own.

He knows every man in here. They went to school together and have grown up together. But after the accident that cost him his arm he doesn't feel as social. In the back corner, by the counter, he can talk to the kafenio owner, Theo, of the pirate suit fame, as he makes coffees. Half a sentence between serving the drinks, a broken, undemanding conversation.

Mitsos makes his way to this seat now. Theo comes over, his huge mop of floppy, frizzy, unruly hair bobs as he walks, greying now but still as thick as when he was a boy. Although he was in the same class as Mitsos at school he now looks a few years younger. But then all he has ever done is to run the cafe, with no great stresses. No lost limbs, broken heart or guilty conscience.

He still walks like a boy, too, a spring in his step. His grey hair is the only real giveaway. He nods to Mitsos and goes behind the counter. He lights his single-burner camping gas stove and drops the match onto a small hill of matches that have been lit and extinguished for the same purpose. Coffee, water, patience. Theo does not rush, and always boils the coffee slowly to get the most flavour, the grounds becoming well saturated, not left as hard gritty bits that float on the surface. Nor does he burn the grounds. The froth begins to rise, and just as it is about to spill over Theo lifts the briki pan from the stove, lets the lava subside and pours the coffee into a small cup. He balances the cup on a saucer and hands it over the counter to Mitsos rather than walking all the way around and serving him as he does the other men.

Mitsos knows it is petty, but this always makes him feel a bit special. The square and the corner shop are the hub of the village for the children and half the women, and the church the hub for the other half. The kafenio is the hub of the village for the men, a sanctuary. Being treated as someone who can be handed a coffee over the counter, with no ceremony, makes Mitsos feel he does still belong even if he no longer joins in. It is a familiarity that keeps him grounded. He nods his thanks and stands the coffee on the table to settle. He always lets the grounds settle.

He reaches for a cigarette and then recalls that he has forgotten to stop at the kiosk. He turns to Theo and mimes smoking. Theo pulls his pack from his top pocket and shakes one out.

Sipping his coffee, Mitsos looks out at the world. Past the heads of his peers he can see the square. On the seat around the central palm tree sit some illegal immigrants. They look Indian. But who can tell? They could be Pakistani, Iranian, Afghan. All he sees is cheap labour. Twenty or thirty euros per day, per man, to pick the oranges. Cheaper if you hire them as a team.

Mitsos recalls an immigrant last year who had taken to wearing his socks on his hands in the winter. His shoes had been sole-less. One day Mitsos had been in the kafenio and he saw the English woman, the one who had bought the old farmhouse, take a sandwich to him. Initially he was shocked; it hadn’t occurred to him that they were as human as he. He put a pair of gloves in his pocket the next day in case he saw the man again. But he never did.

Today is hot, and the illegals sit in their long-sleeved shirts, seemingly immune to the heat. One picks up a pebble and throws it at a passing dog that skitters sideways to avoid the missile. A woman crosses the square to the corner shop, a basket on her arm.

The shop used to be Manolis’ store room. They had done some talking in there, smoking and drinking, going through things Manolis had accumulated.

Mitsos remembers sitting in the store room with Manolis in the first few days after he and Marina were married. Manolis had acquired some crates of whisky. Marina tapped on the door and shyly came in with a tray of coffee and some homemade biscuits. When she smiled, Mitsos felt his heart lift in his chest. But Manolis shouted at her to get out, and she withdrew in a panic. He even put his foot against the door, before she was fully out, to shut it the faster. Mitsos heard the breaking of the china cups and a sob. It was at about that time that he began to realise he quite disliked Manolis.

Mitsos sits in the kafenio for a long time nursing his one coffee. He considers an ouzo chaser but decides he is hungry instead. He leaves his money on the table and nods to the other patrons on the way out. A noisy game of backgammon is taking place in the corner by the window and most of the men have crowded round. Mitsos takes a step at a time down from the kafenio door and, not looking for traffic, crosses the road and heads to the
souvlaki
shop on the other side of the square. This fast-food outlet provides quick meals for hungry farmers and farmers’ sons alike. Meat shaved off a spit with chips and tomatoes and
tzatziki
wrapped in a flat patty of grilled bread or, if you are really hungry, roast chicken and chips.

Stella greets him warmly as he walks through the shop past the take-away counter and into the
‘restaurant’ part. As he passes, her husband is only just visible behind the grill, where the sink and the wine barrels are. The walls in this area are lined with mirrors now misty and greasy with smeared fat.

The dining room walls are painted a pale gloss green. Two pictures, an attempt at decoration, only serve to further emphasise the starkness. One is of a ship under full sail, one of a donkey with a straw hat. The glass fronts to these are also greasy and streaked. Mitsos
’ usual table, at the back, is free.

The crude wooden tables have plastic cloths, hastily wiped clean with a wet rag, which are cracking with age and wear. The cloth at Mitsos
’ table depicts English huntsmen in red jackets on horseback following a pack of dogs with upright tails. The table next to this is patterned with intertwining brown flowers and brown leaves around the circumference. The room is not big, with only five small square tables.

Using hardboard sheets, and a wooden framework that can be seen on the inside, one corner of the room has been divided off around a toilet. You do not need to sit and eat for long before becoming aware of the lack of sound-proofing this provides. Except when it is in use, the door is always open.

Some younger farmers, only about forty years old, sit at the table by the window. The room has its own door to the street but it is not used, sealed shut with layers of paint. The patrons, instead, call a greeting as they shuffle past the counter, through the take-away. Both the window and the small square glass in the door let in blocks of sun.

Mitsos swaps his chair for one that does not wobble. He tries three before he finds a stable one. The rushes of the seat are coming loose and fluff up around the edges.

He settles onto this seat and then realises he has forgotten to go to the kiosk again. He thinks about getting up and going back, but he is here now. Later will do. He hangs his crook on the back of another chair.

Stella
’s husband, Stavros, can be heard grumbling in the kitchen next door. He is not from the village, he is from a town across the plain. Stella is a local, just over fifteen years younger than Mitsos.

Stavros is speaking to her in a derogatory way. It
’s nothing obvious, just a tone, the way he constructs his sentences and where he puts the emphasis.

Stella comes through to take Mitsos
’ order. She looks tired, but she puts on a smile and adds a bounce to her step. Too skinny, Mitsos thinks, she should eat more. She sits and puts her notebook on the table, pencil paused, the sun pouring light into her dark hair.

‘
What can I get you, Mitso? The usual, or something different today?’ Despite her obvious fatigue, her eyes shine with life. She is wasted on her husband.

‘
Hello, Stella. How are you today?’

‘
Etsi ketsi, so so, as they say. We have one chicken ready, but the sausages need another five minutes.’

‘
I'll have lobster and champagne.’ Mitsos grins. He has been coming in here since Stella and Stavros opened the shop, seven, eight years ago, and the food is always the same, simple but tasty.

‘
Yeah, right, lobster and champagne. I'll just sit my husband in a boat to go get the lobsters. I'll fly to France for the champagne. With a little luck he will drown and I won’t come back.’

Mitsos
’ levity drops. ‘Is it worse than normal?’

Her voice falls to a whisper and she glances in the direction of the kitchen before replying.
‘I don't suppose so, but some days are harder than others. Oh!’ She suddenly smiles as she remembers. ‘How did your baby-sitting go with your nephew?’

Mitos laughs at the recent memory.
‘It was not as bad as I thought it would be. I managed, shall we say.’

‘
Any difficulties?’ She nods at the flat shirt sleeve tucked into the waist of his trousers.

‘
Well, I sat him on my knee.’ Mitsos lowers his tone; he is not one to speak about his disability but Stella has always been understanding. ‘It was difficult, but I did not make him cry,’ says Mitsos, and recalls how he’d leaned right in to the boy, and scooped him up close against his chest and then sat down, left ankle on right thigh, and let him sort of slither down into the crook of his knee to feed him. Mitsos sits tall, proud of his achievement.