The Explosive Nature of Friendship (20 page)

‘
Oh no, there’s no need,’ Mitsos says.

‘
Mitsos, you barely look after yourself when you are well, let people take care of you a little for a change.’ Marina says. Mitsos’ eyebrows rise with the implication that Marina has noticed something about the way he lives his life. He can feel the colour in his cheeks and picks at some fluff on the sleeve of his dressing gown, shifting his weight again to ease the pressure on his ribs. No position is comfortable

‘
And I’ll pop over and bring coffee,’ Theo offers.

They hear him leaving, trotting down the stairs along the hall, and a slam as the door is closed behind him, a patter of leather on tarmac as he disappears across the square.

The hours turn into days and Mitsos can feel his ribs healing, but slowly. Marina's daughters have visited and he has finally been introduced. His conversations with Marina become easier and easier, and they talk for hours, sometimes discussing their mutual history, or current affairs, sometimes observations about nature. They find they have a lot in common. Mitsos cannot believe that life has finally thrown him together with Marina. He is experiencing being happy, they get on so well. But something is missing.

‘
So what exactly do you do all day if you have arranged for your goats to be taken care of? Your oranges only need a little work until harvest and that’s down to the orange pickers, same with your olives. Your days must be pretty empty?’

‘
They don't feel it. I go up and see the chickens and then …’ Mitsos thinks for a moment and wonders what he does do all day. ‘I go to the kafenio for coffee and then on to Stella's for lunch.’

‘
She got a rum husband. I feel for her.’

‘
Nice lady, though. I often sit and talk to her.’

‘
I’ve never really spoken to Stella. What does she like to talk about?’

‘
Oh, everything and anything. She is very understanding, cuts up my food for me.’ His voice tapers to a whisper. He wonders what Stella is doing now and how she is coping with her husband and the foreign girl. It is hard to remember how attractive Stavros was before he got such a huge round stomach. The bigger it got, the more pushy and unpleasant his flirting seemed, his blue eyes bloodshot and bulging from his ruddy complexion. Funny that, when he was slim and good looking he didn't seem so lecherous, or maybe that was just Mitsos’ perspective.

‘
What are you thinking about?’

But Mitsos does not hear. His mind is on Stella and her position. Poor Stella, he wonders what he can do to help. Surely he must be able to do something. Does Stavros give her enough house-keeping money? At least they do not have children that she has to provide for like Marina did. Mitsos reels at the comparison and then pushes it aside.

No, he will find a way to make Stella’s life more pleasant. He will find the times when Stavros goes to town and spend more time with her, talk to her, show that someone cares. Maybe he can find a way to take her to a taverna in town without upsetting Stavros, or having to take him too. If she is still having lessons with that English lady, Juliet, he could take them both out together, a thank-you to Juliet for her translation and a chance to spoil Stella.

‘
Hey, what are you thinking?’ Marina breaks into his daydream.

‘
Oh, I was just thinking about Stella.’ Mitsos looks at his fingernails, not sure if he wants to talk about what he was thinking. ‘It seems she needs a friend,’ he says vaguely. ‘I don’t think Stavros appreciates her as much as she deserves.’ He can feel his heartbeat. He is talking to Marina, whom he has loved from a distance for over thirty years, about a woman with whom he spends most of his time with when he is not alone. He cannot deny he misses Stella.

‘
Well, you are good at being a good friend.’ Mitsos hears this but he can feel some anger stirring inside him. He has tried to be a good friend to Marina and it has brought him nothing but pain. He is sick of being a good friend. Damn it, he wants someone to be a good friend back, someone who will listen to him, share his woes, help him with his life. Like Stella does. He looks up and out of the window. He has a swelling feeling in his chest and a need to see her. He feels as if he is suddenly going a little bit mad, his thoughts becoming irrational. He can just see the edge of her shop through Marina's window. His heart is now loud enough to hear inside his ears. His mouth has gone dry so he looks down at his coffee, which will be difficult to drink as he is holding the saucer. It hurts to lift his arm but he does so in stages and sips the coffee off the top with the little cup still sitting on its plate. Once the coffee level drops he can probably balance it on his knee and lift the cup off. That is one thing Stella would immediately think of, to help him with that, but Marina is oblivious.

He looks at Marina, who is staring at the bedspread as she drinks her coffee. His pledge comes to mind; he is haunted by the promise, he cannot leave it unfulfilled. If he is not true to his word then what is he? A man without integrity, a rogue, a Manolis? His foot starts jiggling. He looks up to the ceiling, he lets his head roll backward and rest against the wall with a bump. He feels unsettled, his mind is spinning and nothing is making any sense. His thoughts juggle, he can almost understand his own dilemma and at the same time almost touch the answer, but actually there is nothing but confusion going on in his mind and his heart. He bangs his head gently against the wall. On the last knock, with surprising ease, quite without effort, everything slots into place. If Manolis is gone and Marina is provided for, then he has fulfilled his pledge, but also there is a way
– and here he congratulates himself and begins to breathe easily and then even deeply, as far as his bruised ribs will allow, because he can bring her pride, allow her to walk with her head held high – he can bring Manolis back from the dead and make him provide for her himself, give her the feeling she is a wife worth providing for, that she had a husband that took care of her, a husband who assured her future.

And it won
’t be a lie, well not completely.

And once his pledge is fulfilled maybe he can be some help to Stella, poor Stella, someone needs to make a pledge to her. He thinks of all the smiles he has received from her, the care she takes when she cuts his food, the hours they have spent talking. The disinterest she has in Stavros, the hurt he has seen in her eyes when Stavros flirts in public. The joy he has seen there when he comes for his lunch. The eye contact. He is not wrong, slow maybe, but not wrong.

Mitsos smiles to himself. He suddenly feels a great deal better. He balances the saucer on his knee and lifts off the cup and sips it until it is drained. Theo does make the best coffee. He replaces the cup, takes hold of the saucer and stands, slowly.

‘
Are you going?’

‘
I was just thinking I felt quite a bit better. I thought I might try to get dressed today.’

‘
Well, you are grinning like a gypsy. Something must be feeling right.’ Marina smiles back at him. He delights in her face, so familiar and yet so unknown after all these years. She isn't the same person he remembers at all. He wonders if she changed in all the years they never spoke or if he never really did know her. But his mind is made up, and he knows what he must do to right all the wrongs in his and her world, and then he can start with a fresh sheet, like his little nephew.

It must be nearly time for his baptism by now.

‘
I am not going to stop you, but I have had broken ribs too, and the longer you rest them the quicker they heal. How’s your knee?’ Theo asks.

‘
It's sore, but I have had worse.’ Mitsos tries to hold his trousers up by trapping them between his hip and the wall so he can zip them. He has lost weight since he has been laid up and putting the baggy old things on one-handed is a struggle.

Theo steps forward to help but steps back again as he hears the zip.

‘What? You're going to do my flies up for me now?’ Mitsos laughs. His eyes glint a little.

‘
Good to see you fighting back for a change, Mitsos.’ He takes a cigarette out of his pocket and offers one.

‘
No thanks, I don't think I smoke any more. It's been so long now,’ Mitsos says as he smooths his empty sleeve flat and tucks it in his waist band.

He pops in to say farewell to Marina but this time she really is sleeping. He strokes her hair but it is with the touch of a friend, not the stroke of a lover.

The effort of going downstairs hurts his ribs and he leans on the wall and does his best to slide down, his feet catching up.

The outside air feels fresh even though the sun is shining and the heat is already building. He can hear the birds in the bushes and children laughing and the sound of kicking as they play football by the church.

Mitsos smiles and wishes he could skip or jump or just run, but his ribs won’t allow it and so he whistles instead. Turning towards the square he catches his first glimpse of the corner shop, or what little remains of it. The tree has been removed; judging by the sawdust, cut up for firewood. The roof tiles litter the area and it now looks like any one of a thousand decaying forgotten buildings in Greece. There is no sign that it was a shop; all the goods have been removed without a trace, leaving just rubble and dust and one or two broken beer bottles. But Mitsos does not feel sad; he is in a position to fulfil his pledge to improve Marina's life. He crosses the square.

Cosmo, who has been feeding the chickens whilst he recovered, has left the gate to the track open and a rather forlorn dog runs out to bark at him.

‘Sorry, dog, but this is my patch. Shoo!’ He waves his arm at the dog, which runs away up towards the pine trees on top of the hill.

The roof of the house does not look too bad from this side but he knows the front will have taken the force of the storm. He begins to pick his way up the front path but the roses have grown over it and the bougainvillea, sharp with thorns, is in full blossom. He will have it cleared. The view of the village from there is just lovely, laid out like a map, the world at his feet. The bench by the front door, covered in bindweed, is still there offering a place to sit and ponder. He returns to the back yard and pushes the door to the house open. The pans and bowls are where he left them, looking strangely out of context; the water gone, evaporated by the heat. He goes through to the front room and is greeted by, but not surprised at, the mess. Several tiles have blown off and some of the supporting laths split; there is a small hole in the roof and his furniture has water stains and jagged tide marks where the rain found a path.

He raises his eyebrows and decides he will just throw it all out; it was ugly and old-fashioned anyway, and it reminds him of his mother’s hopes for visitors competing with his Baba’s temper, which assured that there would be none, at least none that would warrant opening up the ‘best’ room. Neighbours who dropped in for a chat and a coffee when his father was out in the fields did not fit into this category.

He opens the drawer with all the bits and pieces where he had found the newspaper clippings. His bank book is still there; he had thought that was where he had seen it, and is happy that his memory had not been deceiving him. He had opened a bank account when he was in his twenties but had found little use for it. Everyday transactions were conducted using cash. Cheques were used by businesses, post-dated and passed from one to another, like promissory notes. A useless system that impeded everyone
’s cash-flow. He has not used the account since the first month or two after he opened it. He rubs the cover against his shirt and looks at it. He opens the stiff-backed book with a little difficulty to find he has five hundred drachmas still in the account, worth about a euro now. It amuses him that it hasn't been used since the drachma. He pockets the book and takes some money from the sugar jar on his way out. He would like to go up and see the chickens but he is excited about his newly formulated plan; the birds can wait. He sets off at as brisk a pace as he can manage to the bus stop in the village.

‘
Another five minutes,’ Vasso calls from the kiosk.

Mitsos looks up and down the street to be sure; there is no sign of any bus.
‘Oh!’ he replies. ‘Thanks.’

The bus pulls round the corner early and one person gets off. Mitsos climbs the steps and pays the driver,

‘Hey hey, if it isn’t the hero! Glad to see you up and about,’ the bus driver greets him. Mitsos scans his face but cannot place him. He pulls at his shirt collar, nods in acknowledgement and looks for a seat. Travelling by bus gives Mitsos an elevated view. He sees Stella's shop is open but he does not see Stella. On the outskirts of the village he can see down into people’s yards, all concreted over, swept with flowers in pots. As they move into the open country between the village and the town he looks across the tops of the orange trees which line so much of the road; he feels like a god, all-seeing.

Concrete apartment blocks mark the outskirts of the small metropolis, three and sometimes four storeys high. He remembers them being built in the seventies. The balconies are covered with shrubs and flowers and trees in pots, but for all these efforts they are still ugly to Mitsos
’ eyes and he looks down into his lap until they pass into the older part of town where tiled roofs top grand stone buildings.

The bus stops and Mitsos gets out last so he can take his time and avoid any jarring.

The bank is close to the bus stop. It has had an electric door put in since his last visit. He tries to push the door open but it is locked. He steps back and sees a green button; he pushes this and can hear the door click open. There is a second inner door and negotiating the two proves to be a matter of waiting and pushing another button at the right moment. A line of people queuing to be served watch him. Emotionless faces, bored and expressionless. They look away as he finally gains entrance. Mitsos can feel his cheeks glowing, embarrassed at his inability to negotiate the door. Mitsos wonders how Adonis can live in the cold environment of town, where people don't know each other, where faces are blank.

‘
Mr Mitsos, how nice to see you.’ A man in a suit shuffling papers behind a desk stands up and comes round, his hand stretched in front of him ready to shake a warm greeting. ‘So nice of you to call in person. Would you like to see the manager?’ He ushers Mitsos to a lift recessed in the wall. The people in the queue are staring at him again, one with an open mouth, two whispering to each other as they watch his every move. The man in the suit presses the button to call the lift and opens the door for Mitsos.

The lift is slow. Mitsos has time to see himself reflected in every mirrored side of the interior, his hair shaggy round his collar, his oversized trousers done up with a leather belt that is twisted and worn with ragged edges. He looks very much the farmer. He is about to say to himself that a farmer is what he is when the lift stops.

The door opens into a light open room with a big desk at one end. Low square ceiling tiles, with the occasional one missing to house a reflective lighting unit. Bank logos framed on the walls, blue padded chairs, industrial carpet.

‘
Ah! Mr Mitsos, how nice of you to call.’ Mitsos is not used to being treated with such regard; he finds it all a little fake. He puts his hand in his pocket and remains standing when the manager sweeps his hand to offer him a seat.

‘
Coffee?’ A girl appears from nowhere and asks.

‘
No thanks.’ The girl draws out the chair for him and smiles, inviting him to sit down. Mitsos does not smile back but he sits. He feels like a rabbit edging nearer and nearer to the trap, wary and untrusting, until … snap!

Mitsos offers his bank book but it is waved away as if he is beyond all that.

‘So, your account looks healthy. The final balance has come in.’ The bank manager stares into the computer screen; his cufflinks glint as he taps his keyboard. Writing out the amount on a Post-it note, he slides the paper across the desk to Mitsos, letting go of it as it levels beside his name plate, Mr Pseftico. Mitsos absorbs the name slowly. The manager beams, one hand on the other, rubbing his own knuckles. Mitsos notices there is a line of biro on one of his shirt cuffs. He picks up the paper and reads, consciously keeping his face passive. He pushes his chair a little away from his desk and crosses his legs.

‘
Can you make me a cheque out? To Marina …’

‘
Marina?’ Mr Pseftico sounds delighted. ‘From the corner shop in the village? Marina who came from this town?’ Mitsos nods; the bank manager smiles, relaxing. ‘Her parents lived next door to us back then, did you know?’ He grins broadly, as if glad to have found some common ground.

‘
For this amount.’ Mitsos ignores Mr Psefticos’ social interaction and takes a pen from the pen holder on his desk and writes in the corner of his jotter before scribbling it out and looking around him to assure himself that he is not overlooked. The bank manager, having read the amount, looks at him in horror and then a sly grin spreads across his face and he nods in a knowing way.

‘
It is hers by right,’ Mitsos clips. He is surprised by how authoritative his voice sounds. The manager stops smiling and makes out the cheque. Mitsos examines it, folds it and puts it in his shirt pocket, noting that the stitching has come away a little down one side. He smooths it flat against his chest.

‘
Something else. Would you happen to know how much a good suit costs?’ he asks, looking Mr Pseftico up and down.

The manager
’s eyebrows rise. He seems to sum up the situation and leans back in the chair, his hands folded on his belly. ‘A really nice suit from “Panomiti” can cost anything up to six hundred euros; a pair of trousers is less, obviously. He also sells some nice shirts, they cost round about a hundred and fifty. But of course …’

Mitsos sniffs and shakes his head.
‘Can you give me a thousand in cash then?’

The manager counts out the cash and begins to tell Mitsos how delighted he is to have him as a customer and he must be sure to give his regards to Marina, who, if she doesn't have a bank account, must be sure to pop in and he will help her out, and any other friends Mitsos would like to point his way. It is so nice to have a good calibre of clientele.

Mitsos is glad of the quiet safety of the lift, but looks himself over again in the mirrored box and is a little shocked for the second time at his unruly appearance.

He steps out at the bottom and an entirely new set of blank faces waiting for the teller stare at him. He struggles with the timing of the buttons on the door going out, and releases a huge sigh as he finally escapes.

He is not at all sure if he wants to go to ‘Panomiti’ but decides the walk will be pleasant, through the narrow streets, bougainvillea dripping from stems as thick as his arm, growing up the sides of the buildings, reaching as high as second-floor balconies, some of them spanning the street, bougainvillea arches.

Through the town square lined with a dozen cafes, the tables and chairs creep toward the central point where, for now, children play ball and gypsies sell balloons to Greeks with children and hand-held battery fans to the tourists.

Out of the other end of the square, back into narrow roads, he comes to a halt. He stands outside ‘Panomiti’ looking at the shiny shoes with labels from England. The pinstriped shirts look crisp and clean, and he wonders how long they would stay that way living as he does. The trousers don't look like they would last more than a week and the shoes are completely impractical for the track to his house. There is a rather nice tweed jacket, but it will be a while before it is cool again. He walks on and goes into a shop he knows, which is used by farmers.

The stock is in wooden drawers and boxed in the back. In the front are three chairs and a table with old magazines. If you didn
’t know it you would have no idea what the shop sold.

He is greeted perfunctorily. His size is estimated and he struggles to try things on, the man offering no help. Mitsos buys a good solid pair of shoes, two pairs of decent trousers, and five shirts of the best quality they stock. Once he has tried on one of the shirts and the trousers he does not change back again. His ribs are aching and he wishes he had some painkillers with him.

In the changing cubicle there is a free-standing full-length mirror. He does not recognise himself with the new clothes on but he does notice, again, his shaggy hair, and he heads straight to the barber’s. The barber’s shop offers a continuous stream of commentary on matters as important and diverse as football, politics and local gossip for no charge, and a serviceable short back and sides for eight euros.

He feels he has done all he should for a man in his position. Suited and booted with short hair, he sets off for the bus stop. He stops as he catches someone walking beside him and is startled to find it is his own reflection in a cafe window. Again, he does not recognise himself, his baggy trousers replaced by a pair that fit, his threadbare shirt for a crisp one with sharp creases. He feels distinctly uncomfortable. Men like this are noticed, they have a voice, rights even. He suddenly feels too visible. With this thought, he watches his shoulders hunch over. An edge of defiance brings a smile: the boy he once was loves the new image. He is as much alive as the next man. He stands tall. For so long he has felt he deserved no voice, no place in the community. He smooths his hand over his hair. It was not all as it seemed; people do not condemn him. He turns from the glass and walks on, his gait a little more upright, his balance a little more sure.