The Explosive Nature of Friendship (3 page)

As time passed, more and more shouts could be heard when animals arrived and owners were not reunited. The telescope was passed faster and faster between the two boys.

Manolis developed an evil cackle when he saw the teacher, close by, arrive at a destination on his alien beast.

There began an argument, the teacher insisting on keeping the borrowed mount he was on to ride around the village in search of his own animal. The true owner would not hear of it, he needed his donkey for work. The teacher bellowed so loudly that the boys could make out some of his words from their hilltop perch. The donkey's true owner was furious, but the teacher would not dismount. The donkey's owner grabbed the teacher's legs and pulled. The teacher, riding side-saddle, leaned backwards to counteract the force.

Then, to the boys' greatest delight, the donkey's owner stopped pulling on the teacher's legs and the teacher's weight, still in counterbalance, caused him to abruptly slide backwards off the donkey, landing on his back. The yell echoed off the hillside and Manolis declared he would wet himself.

Eventually, the bell rang for school and the pair hurried down the hill, eager to see the chaos close up. The villagers with no immediate work to do were being amicable about the situation, one or two even chuckling over the prank. But the farmers who had chores to accomplish in the cool hours of dawn were furious. Those who used their mules to go to jobs in the nearby town were frantic, they would be late.

The boys did not hurry to school on the best of days, and on this day they took a longer way round, winding through the village. The donkey that had given the most trouble the night before was refusing to come out of the shed, and the surrogate owner and his wife were heaving on its bridle to no avail.

‘
Try a carrot,’ Manolis suggested with a straight face as they passed.

They were nearly at school when they passed Theo coming towards them.

‘No school. The teacher's hurt his back.’

‘
You’re kidding!’ Mitsos’ eyes widened and his mouth hung open.

‘
Nope. Fell off his donkey,’ Theo said.

Manolis started giggling, and Mitsos dug him in the ribs with his elbow.

‘Is he badly hurt?’ Mitsos asked. Theo shrugged.

The three of them walked together in silence until Theo ran off ahead of them to turn down his lane. As soon as he was gone, Manolis and Mitsos resumed their half whispers.

The boys had agreed not to divulge their involvement in the day's events to anyone.

‘
Least of all Theo – he might want to get his own back for the costume prank,’ Manolis had insisted. Mitsos suggested that maybe they could share their fun with him as a sort of apology, but Manolis was steadfast.

As they neared the square they saw the first unmanned donkey. A passer-by tapped it on the rump and it trotted the faster, presumably towards home. Then they saw another and another. Someone had evidently had the bright idea of letting all the donkeys go, the villagers working together to encourage each donkey to keep going until it found its way home.

The laughter that accompanied the reunions in some quarters was matched by complaints in others. The moaners complained of time lost, interference in their personal lives, how dare they be insulted in this way! Manolis was particularly interested in the ways different people reacted. The priest complained, and Manolis told Mitsos that this made him a hypocrite. The kind little old lady, Despina, who always offered the children sweet bread at Easter complained, and that told Manolis she was a fake. Grumpy Mr Socrates, with the mandarins by the dry river bed, laughed out loud, and they both had to reassess him, and his ear-swiping wife.

Mitsos' Baba was striding towards the kafenio for his first cup of coffee of the day. He always drank it there. He drank it there before he was married and he would drink it there now. As he reached the square, so did Manolis and Mitsos.

‘
Oi! You two,’ he shouted.

Manolis was about to run. Mitsos put a retaining hand on his arm. They walked slowly towards him.

‘I don't suppose you know anything about this?’

‘
About what, Mr Dimitri?’ Manolis put on his innocent voice and pulled up his sagging school trousers. His mother had cut them short enough for him to wear the year before, and now they no longer reached his ankles.

‘
Don't you give me “About what”, you little rascal. Mitsos, what have you to say for yourself?’

‘
Baba, I have just been to school but there is no school because the teacher has hurt his back.’

‘
I'm talking about the donkeys.’

Mitsos was not sure how to reply to this and so stayed silent. He did his best to look innocent.

‘Get home to your mother, and you, Manolis, go back to where you came from and leave my son alone.’ The big man turned to mount the few steps into the kafenio and took his usual place by the window in the front corner, his look-out post.

‘
Catch you later,’ Manolis said, with a big grin. Mitsos did not answer, but his grin was just as broad.

The baby begins to make a discontented noise.

‘
Your old Uncle Mitsos has to agree, we have been lying here far too long for comfort, but I took it by your silence that you enjoyed that piece of village history.’

Mitsos takes his time to stand. He shakes out his legs and straightens his back. The baby begins to cry, just softly.

‘Ah, you young chicken, what does that noise mean? Are you hungry?’ Mitsos looks in the bag and takes out the piece of paper and reads. He checks his watch. ‘Yup, food time.’ He slings the bag over his shoulder and picks up the baby-seat.

He doesn't realise how warm it has become outside until he is in the comparative cool of his kitchen. He places the baby-seat on the bare wooden table and turns to the camping gas burner, by the old stained marble sink, which he uses to make Greek coffee on. He sets some water to boil.

The baby's noises are becoming more insistent. The car seat looks so unfamiliar in a room that has not changed since his first memory. He was born on the day-bed in the corner, as were his brothers.

‘
Now, now, little man. Let's be having none of that. This is hard enough for your uncle without a chorus from you. It seems you stay quiet for the stories, but you are an impatient little chap when you have nothing to entertain you.’

The water is taking forever to boil, or so it seems to Mitsos, and, with twisted mouth, the baby's cries are becoming full blown, his little nose wrinkles and his innocent eyes screw up. Mitsos looks around the room, but apart from the table and chairs, day-bed, pictures of his long-gone mother and father, grandfather and grandmother, and his shepherd's crook for the goats leaning by the door, there is little in the room. Certainly nothing that would entertain a baby.

‘Ok, ok, I'll tell you another story, but you must agree to be quiet.’ He manages to unscrew the top of the bottle, clasping it between his knees. The process of filling it and testing the temperature is nowhere near as tricky as he had imagined.

However, picking the young lad up with one arm is the struggle he thought it would be, but in the end, once sitting down, Mitsos manages to get him nestled on his lap and offers the milk, which the little boy drinks greedily. They are both content for a while. The gentle sucking noises soothe them both as the baby finds a rhythm to his sucking. Lulled, Mitsos stares around the room and his gaze lands on the envelope. He wills the contents to be to his liking. The baby pulls away from the bottle to breathe before latching back on, breaking Mitsos
’ concentration.

‘
Ah, my friend, you look so content. I remember a time when I was content …’ The milk is all gone and the baby looks sleepy.

‘
Unfortunately, what starts with fun and laughter – and there was much fun and laughter at that age, I can tell you – can often lead to more serious places.’

Mitsos is aware that he is using the opportunity to voice all his worries but feels no shame. He has been silent so long, the same stories rattling round and round in his head. He needs to allow them to escape. This is the first person who has given him the time or the confidence to speak. Mitsos wonders what that says about him.

The baby yawns, giving a small noise that makes Mitsos smile before he continues his soothing talk.

‘
The donkeys were just a silly boyish prank, but what happens when you are so full of life that each step must outreach the last? That's when you need to take care. But when you are young,’ he sighs, ‘you do not see the path ahead clearly, you only see the next step.’ He manoeuvres the baby over his shoulder and pats his soft back. ‘Take Manolis’ next step,’ he whispers into the child’s ear. ‘Was it over the line? Did it foretell things to come? Would we have acted any differently if we had known where our path was leading?’

‘Here, give us a hand …’ Manolis said.

‘
What are we doing?’ Mitsos’ heartbeat had increased and there was a fine sweat on his brow. His spine felt cold. They were up to mischief again, and God was watching this time.

‘…
with this,’ Manolis said, as he ran to the centre of the nave and grasped the brass font with both hands as if to lift it. ‘Come on, I can't do this alone.’

Mitsos was horrified. He imagined bolts of lightning coming through the church roof at him, the voice of God bellowing through the high domed ceiling. His feet stayed glued to the spot where he stood and his jaw hung limply open. Manolis beckoned him over, but Mitsos hesitated as the icons glowered at him from the walls.

‘Come on!’ Manolis shouted. Mitsos was sure shouting in church was a definite sin and hurried towards him to stop him shouting out again.

‘
Shhhh.’ Mitsos hissed. But Manolis’ words were no longer a request and Mitsos found, in his fear of the shouting and of Manolis himself, that he lifted the font off its stand and the two of them, wobbling under its weight, carried it to the door. Together they tipped it up, pouring the contents over the mud and grass.

‘
That's holy water!’ Mitsos exclaimed, as it was quickly sucked away by the cracked mud.

‘
Ha! He can bless more,’ Manolis laughed. ‘Besides, he picked on the wrong boy to preach to this time!’

The young trainee Papas was far too keen, and each Sunday he would pull aside a couple of boys.

‘
You boys are nearly too old for school now. How old are you – ten, eleven?’

‘
Nine,’ Manolis answered. He pulled at his shirt collar, uncomfortable in his Sunday clothes.

‘
Look at the size of you! You should have been out working beside your Baba years ago. And you, boy …’

‘
Mitsos, sir,’ he replied, standing erect.

‘
How old are you – seven, eight?’

‘
Nine and a half!’ Mitsos was wide-eyed with indignation.

‘
Well then, you too should be out helping your Baba. "Αργία μήτηρ πάσης κακίας" – Idleness, mother of all evil. How often do you read your Bible?’

On the subject of the Bible, on how infrequently the boys read it and on how far their behaviour diverged from that expected from a good Greek Orthodox Christian, there was seemingly no end. Mitsos and Manolis jiggled from foot to foot, trying to keep their attention on the priest, but it was a losing battle. The curls of smoke from the incense burner, the old lady lighting a candle, the reflective gold leaf embellishments on the icons, anything, well actually everything, was more interesting than the sonorous voice of this young trainee Papas.

Presently a distraction was provided by way of a bee landing on the Papas’ kamelaukio. The bee began to crawl up the side of the tall black flat-topped hat that denoted his status, and the boys could not take their eyes off it. Manolis willed the bee, and indeed he actually prayed to God, for it to circumnavigate the black mountain and crawl down the Papas’ collar. Maybe then the trainee would stop droning on.

To Mitsos
’ horror, he had laughed and laughed when he bragged about his prayers after they were set free.

Finally, the trainee Papas, who was too young to have grown a proper, full, official Papas
’ beard, told them he was posted there for a month. He added that if he could help them with anything, anything at all spiritual, then they must not hesitate; it was his calling, his duty, his pleasure to be of assistance to them in their quest for Godliness.

At last, he released them with a nod towards the door.

The air outside the church that Sunday had never smelt so fresh; running into the square, their legs had never felt so alive. Manolis unbuttoned his best shirt at the neck and pulled it off over his head and knotted the sleeves round his waist. It was hot, but more than that: to the boys, divesting themselves of their shirts spelt freedom.

‘
Let's go up the hill,’ Manolis shouted, his bare feet already propelling him on his way.

Mitsos also unbuttoned his shirt at the collar, but he dared not take it off. What if his Mama or Baba saw him, or someone else who would tell them? He wore shoes, too. He only wore them on Sunday, once the winter had gone. They were too big and they flopped and slapped when he tried to run. As he passed the low stone wall to the almond orchard, he sank to the ground on the dusty track and pulled them off and dropped them down over the wall. They would be there when he returned.

Manolis was lying on his back in the shade of the pine trees, a dense clump of which provided a tuft of hair on the very top of the hill.

Mitsos followed suit and lay looking up at the branches, listening to the hissing of the breeze through the needles. Such a lovely, lonely sound. He presumed that Manolis was listening too, and they lay there silently, time of no relevance, lost in the noises of nature and the scent of wild thyme.

‘Got it!’ Manolis sat up with a start.

‘
Got what?’ Mitsos sat up too, just to copy Manolis.

‘
What we are going to do to that trainee Papas. Ha! I’ll show him what reading the Bible does.’ And with that he leapt to his feet and did a little dance on the carpet of pine needles.

‘
What are we going to do to him?’ Mitsos’ young brow frowned in alarm, an unpractised expression, his young forehead, still too soft to form creases, creating waves.

But, as usual, Manolis would not tell. He just instructed Mitsos on the preparations he must make. He felt a fortnight would be long enough for what they had to gather.

Mitsos was a bit put out that Manolis would not share the idea with him. They had been partners in the donkey prank, when he had more than proved his worth. He held no secrets from Manolis, and it only seemed fair that it should work the other way round too. The slightest splinter of resentment crept under his skin.

Two weeks later Manolis announced that they were ready. Early morning prayers had finished and the congregation were leaving the church. The incense hung heavy in the air, and the gold leaf glowed and the brass chandeliers reflected the sea of candles offered up as prayers. The brass font, and its stand, had been moved to the centre of the nave ready for a baptism later. Manolis grabbed Mitsos
’ sleeve and pulled him down to crouch behind the stall of unused candles. It smelt of beeswax and mice. Manolis was giggling, but as Mitsos still had not been told what the plan was, he just felt afraid. He was going to get into trouble again, he could see it coming; he might even be committing a sin, he didn't know. But Manolis' energy was so great, his attraction so compelling, that Mitsos felt weak beside him. He stifled the whimper in his throat and by force of will turned it into a giggle.

It took time for the church to empty completely. Then all was quiet, the only movement the curling smoke of incense. The trainee Papas had gone back to the real Papas
’ house for his lunch. No one would return until the late afternoon for the baptism.

‘
Right, come on,’ Manolis said. Mitsos started at the loudness of his voice in the silent sanctuary. But Manolis was unafraid and he strode to the side door. The key was in the lock, he turned it and, with both hands, pushed it opened to view the rough ground at the back of the church. A donkey with soft brown eyes grazing there ceased chewing the short stubble and lifted its head to contemplate the boys briefly.

It was then that they had lifted and emptied the font outside before replacing it on its stand.

Mitsos was hopeful that the job was complete, but Manolis grabbed his sleeve and pulled. They ran out of the side door to the bush at the corner where for the last two weeks they had made their storage in a hole in the ground, covered with sacks and leaves. Manolis pulled off the sacks and tossed one to Mitsos. There was a stench of vinegar and goat. The odour was offensive and Mitsos tried to think of nice smells. He wondered what his Mama had cooked for lunch. His favourite dish came to mind:
pastichio
with cheese melting on top and a side plate of fresh tomatoes with that unmistakable just-picked-from-the-garden smell. He wished he was at home filling his stomach, with nothing to interrupt his afternoon but a long sleep. Instead, he was doing what? Manolis hadn’t even shared with him what his plan was. Mitsos’ excitement that had turned to fear was now on the edge of resentment.

Manolis nudged him, and they filled the sacks and hauled them to the church, Mitsos dragging his, creating dust that tickled his throat and made him cough. Manolis laughed all the way but still would not share the joke.

Once back inside the church, Manolis half-closed the door and put down the sacks.

He took the first bottle from his sack and poured the contents into the font. Mitsos followed suit and the font began to fill.

The smell from the brew became even more pungent as it mixed with the incense. There were also many fruit flies in attendance. The liquid stored in the goat skin smelt the worst.

‘
Shall we try it?’ Manolis asked. But Mitsos pulled a face and wondered if he was going to be sick.

Most houses in the village had a cask or two of homemade wine. Manolis and Mitsos had been turning the tap and letting it flow into any containers they could find over the last fortnight. Mitsos had not contributed much as his Baba had remarked on how quickly the cask was emptying. Besides, he didn
’t like the smell. Manolis said his father hadn't noticed and he had filled bottles and jars. The old goat skin he had found in the barn, and he had filled it until it was fat with the rosy liquid. There must have been ten litres or more. It had felt terribly dangerous at the time.