The Gypsy's Dream (14 page)

She hits the floor again with force. With thoughts for survival paramount she tries to curl into a ball, but her limbs will not obey. In line with her face she sees the toe of his boot. She twists on the ground, her arm over her ear. The boot misses her face. The pain in her ribs refluxes her dinner and she coughs, but there is no mercy. The boot into her kidneys brings the message that she might lose her life. Does he know what he is doing? The blows land again and again, the impacts merging into one. Beyond pain, only reflex

Stella is no longer quite there. At last he falls, staggers back aga
inst the door frame in a squat and then, as if exhausted by all the effort, slides to the floor.

Stella lies still, wishes herself invisible. Between fingers she peeks at his face, his bulging blue eyes, shot red, staring at the floor. He looks spent.

Keeping noise and movement to a minimum, careful to not disturb his trance-like position, Stella uncurls. She rolls onto her knees and winces with the pain. Stavros does not move. Using a chair, she lifts herself to her knees, tries to focus. Her eyes are watering, thin strands of her hair stuck across her eyelids, over her lips. The table edge provides support as she tentatively stands. Finally on her feet she tips her chin up and looks down on Stavros, who remains motionless, panting, subdued.

With stiff limb
s Stella walks past him. The lightning cracks and lights up the street. The rain has increased and the darkness is almost complete, the sun invisible. Stella steps into the street, the rain mixing with the tears of anger and pain, loneliness and loss, humiliation and degradation. The dirty gypsy.

She wants to run. The thunder grumbles before it cracks again and with a sheet of white lights up the molten, glistening village. Her legs will not respond. She feels as if she is moving through winter honey. She l
eans her weight forward to give some momentum, one foot scraping as she moves, the ankle not doing her bidding.

It seems to take hours to just reach the top of the square. She turns up her street past the shop. She glimpses Mitsos in the corner shop talkin
g to Marina. She is glad he is not looking out, witnessing her humiliation. The lightning is on top of her and the thunder rages. Lights go out. The shop and the kafenio are in darkness.

Past the church into her lane, where Vasso
’s house is unlit, Stella pauses and draws in breath. She wants to lie down. She wants to close her eyes.

Her legs are going to collapse. There is a panic in her chest
. All she wants is to get home, to close the door and climb into bed. She urges herself on, willing her legs not to give up.

The porch steps seem insurmountable. Dropping to her hands and knees, she crawls up. The door is open, no need t
o lock anything in the village - until now.

She climbs the door frame back to standing and locks herself in, bolting both top and bott
om. With renewed energy she slowly and painfully checks all the windows, securing all she can. The final steps to the bedroom seem almost beyond her. Once inside she locks that door too and sits on the bed, pulling the covers around her, then sinks to the floor. She curls up as tight as the pain will allow. Pushing against the floor, she slides under the bed and pulls the covers she has dragged with her around her and over her head.

Dark and warm.

Stella can hear the nylon cover she had pulled under the bed creating static with her hair: tiny noises, little clicks, only just audible until the thunder crashes. The shutters are closed, and under the bed with the cover over her there is no light, the lightning belonging to another world. Thoughts stay dormant. Warmth and dark and silence prevail.

Without the light visions come, memories that endorse her situation.

Walking home that day when the children threw stones at her: only now, the stones that landed are the bruises of Stavros’ boots. The taunts in the school yard, the ring of girls and boys jeering ‘dirty gypsy’ until the teachers ushered them inside: the same words on Stavros’ lips.

Walking up the dried stream bed she had presumed was safe: it was little-used except by the farmers who used
the land along the sides or sheep and goat-herders who channelled their animals to pasture through its dusty course. The stream had not run for years and the passing of animals and men had flattened the path, the hedges on either side cut back by yellow teeth. Stella, swinging her arms as she ambled, picked spring flowers for her mother. The white flowers grew in abundance, the purple ones less common and worth searching for along the way. The bunch in her hand expressed the joy of the season.

As she round
ed a corner a familiar sheep corral came in sight, a structure of plastic grain bags, wooden pallets, discarded bed-ends, and paint-peeling doors. The scruffy white dog left to guard the goats came running at her, barking as it always did when the animals were in their pen, ankle-deep in their own faeces. The dog, she knew, was all bark and no bite, so she paid it no attention.

As she reached the enclosure
’s makeshift gate a good-looking boy from school, Demosthenes, popped his head out.

‘
Hey,’ he had chirruped. ‘We’re shearing sheep, you wanna see?’

Stella could hear other boys inside the covered enclosure.

‘Who is it?’ a voice from within demanded.

Demosthenes
’ head disappeared back inside.

‘
It’s Stella.’

‘
What are you talking to her for? We don’t want her in here.’

‘
Dirty gypsy probably thinks this pen is her home. One of these goats is probably her mother.’

Stella had begun to walk away. She heard the boys being shushed inside.

‘Hey!’ She didn’t want to turn but Demosthenes had not seemed unkind. ‘Don’t leave, they are just mucking about. Come and see us shearing.’ He lifted the metal shears, like a big pair of scissors, two long triangular blades sprung on a curve of metal. It was unusual for anyone to be friendly to her and his voice was very soft. To belong, to be one of them, to be accepted: his offer was tempting. She didn’t walk towards him, but she didn’t walk away either. ‘There are some baby goats, you should see. So cute.’

‘
Why are you being nice to me?’ she remembers asking.

‘
Why wouldn’t I be nice to you?’ He held his hand out to her to lead the way to the entrance of the pen.

Inside were three other boys, all of whom she knew from school. They were usually unkind to her. She pulled away from Demosthenes. His arm had swung around her shoulders.

‘Come see the baby goats. Nektario, show her a baby goat.’ The boy addressed looked about him until he spotted one and with a quick deft grab he had the goat’s hind leg in his hand, the kid bleating for its mother and its release. The mother goat pushed past another boy, concerned for her offspring’s safety.

Just as Stella was about to tell him he was hurting the goat he put an arm around its middle and lifted it from the floor and shuffled his way to Demosthenes. The ceiling of the pen being high enough
for goats but not for people, he walked with knees bent, his feet sliding on the slurry of goat droppings and urine. Stella stayed were it was shallow but one of the boys stood ankle-deep.

Demosthenes took the beast and held it out to Stella. Stella rememb
ers the shock she felt at Demosthenes’ gentleness, his eyes locked on her eyes. She took the goat in a dream.

The animal stayed passive for a minute or two and no one said anything, Stella looking at the goat. When she raised her eyes she found all the boy
s looking at her. The animal gave a twist and Stella’s grip could not hold him.

‘
He wants his mother,’ Demosthenes announced, although the animal seemed happy enough just not to be restrained, finding its balance on wobbly legs. ‘He wants his mother because he needs his milk.’ The boys were looking at Demosthenes. The Pied Piper was calling and they knew it.

‘
He wants his mother to suckle milk - from her breasts.’ Two of the boys sniggered, one wide-eyed at the situation. Stella remembers her uncertainty. He had been friendly until now but that sentence marked the edge of a precipice.

Demosthenes snipped his shears together.

‘He needs to drink from his mother’s’ - there was a pause - ‘breast.’ All three boys sniggered this time. ‘Or he will die.’

He snippe
d the shears again. Stella glanced to her side, gauging the distance to the entrance. She turned from him to leave the pen, wondering if she would make it worse by running. One of the boys stepped in her way; they had surrounded her.

‘
Animals die without breasts.’ The giggles held menace. Stella looked about her for the best option to get out. One of the goats nudged one of the boys from behind and he stepped forward into a pile of goat droppings mixed into a green cream with urine. It made a squelching sound and one of the others looked down and laughed. With their attention drawn elsewhere, Stella turned and lurched for the gate. Demosthenes blocked her way. She stood motionless, the ambiguity of the situation now clear. The baby goat hobbled up behind Stella and began licking her hand. She had been skinning cooked beetroot before she came out and her hands were pink and no doubt tasted divine to the small beast.

Demosthenes raised the shears. The boys stood mesmerised. Stella
’s body was filled with adrenaline, her arms shaking, her legs unsteady. He took the shears and pointed one of the ends at her, between the eyes, inches from her skin. One boy gasped. The end of the shears trailed an invisible line through the air, down to her breast and then up to her shoulder. Fear held everyone still, their feet glued in the dirt.

The point of the shears moved closer. Stella looked frantically around her, her dangling hand feeling the goat. She stroked the kid
’s wiry fur, the act designed to reassure herself resulting in a small bleat.

The tip of the coarse metal shears rested on her shoulder and very gently traced over her collar bone and into the hollow at the base of her throat. Stella looked from one boy to another, pleading with her eyes. They did not see her; the
y were mesmerised by the tip of the shears on her skin.

The shears came to rest by the strap of her t-shirt. Demosthenes teased the sharp end under the strap. The boys all held their breath. Stella
’s eyes widened.

Snip.

Stella’s hand shot up to stop her top falling. With the sudden movement, the baby goat by her side bleated in alarm.

Its mother made a dash to protect it, her belly pushing past the back of Demosthenes
’ knees. But Stella did not stop to see him overbalance. She wasn’t sure her catch had been quick enough to preserve her modesty. In the commotion of goat and teetering balance her legs seemed to respond before her thoughts and she found herself outside, arms across her chest, running, the boys’ laughter and Demosthenes’ swearing fading with each step.

She felt dirty after that. When any of the boys were within sight the humiliation returned. In class, Demosthenes looked at her in a way that made her feel unclean. For a long time she showered before and after school and before bed as well. When
her Baba asked her why, she disguised her obsession with hygiene as constipation, the toilet being in the same room as the shower.

Her
‘constipation’ had lasted for a long time.

The thunder cracks. Stella becomes aware of her situation. She peeks out from her hiding place. The room is relatively light, a layer of dust on the floor. She pulls the covers over her again. She is not ready.

The tiled floor is hard so she shifts, trying to make no sound. She wants neither sound, nor light, nor vision.

She can see no point in life.

Her existence seems to have no purpose.

Without purpose there is no point.

The dark almost engulfs her as she lies there unmoving.

But there is light, just a pinprick, coming from within.

Slowly she becomes conscious of herself.

Not the person people had told her she is. Not the dirty gypsy. Not the available slut. Not Stavros’ wife. Not tiny Stella with frizzy shoulder-length hair. Not Stella when she closes her eyes and becomes Stella behind the eyelids with a beating heart. This is Stella with billions of capillaries and conscious thought, a miracle of life.

Her breathing deepens as her thoughts transcend.

She pushes the counterpane off her head and crawls slowly out from under the bed. The pains over her body are an offence to the value of her life. She stands in stages and switches on the lights. The mirror on the wall reflects someone she does not recognise, small, vulnerable, cowering. She raises her chin and stands tall. There is a large black bruise on her arm. Using the mirror, she checks over her body; there are bruises everywhere. She can see her ribs are black from shoulder to hip on her right-hand side, and there are marks on her arms, and many on her legs. Her ankle, although it hurts, shows no sign of bruising. But it is her face that surprises her the most.

There is not one bruise, not a trace of the skirmish anywhere above the shoulders.

Stella is at first delighted, but then shocked. What if Stavros avoided her face on purpose, to hide his act. If that is the case, this was not an act of passion: this was a considered assault.

Stella, wrapped in her awareness of the miracle of existence, feels great pity for him. He too is a being struggling for life, for happiness. His way of trying to attain it has merely shown how sm
all and scared he really is. It is sad, but for him, not for her.

She opens her wardrobe and takes out her only dress with long sleeves. She will not share these events with the whole village. There are lots more sad people out there who have also displaye
d how scared and small they are – not least Demosthenes, who regularly comes into the
ouzeri
, and these days leaves embarrassingly large tips.

What has happened is private, an uncomfortable crossroads to a new path in life. Stella knows she can cower with
fear of the unknown future or rejoice with the start of something new. She has already chosen.

She must have lost more weight; the dress is baggy on her. She cannot remember if she has eaten today.

The rain is still drumming on the roof but has clearly eased. The thunder is loud; the storm is not over. The heat is still thick.

Stella unlocks the bedroom door and looks around the sitting room. Home. Just as it was when they moved in. Nothing changed. No personal touches. Not a single piece of furniture thei
rs. Nothing to fight over.

One of them needs to find somewhere else to sleep.

She doesn’t care which one of them it is.

The kitchen reverberates with a loud cracking splitting sound but there is no pyrotechnic display to accompany it. The creaking splittin
g sound grows. Stella forgets her world and focuses outside, seeking the source of the disconcerting noise. She unlocks the front door and opens it. The rain, close by, is lit into silver chains by the porch light. The creaking sound continues. It is an unnatural sound, somewhere in the direction of the village.

An alarming crash follows and a dog begins barking frantically, somewhere near the square. Then nothing.

There is a silence between rolls of thunder, in which Stella can hear voices.

She steps ou
tside and sees a figure hurrying along the bottom of her lane. Thoughts of her own life evaporate. She steps into the deluge. Her ankle hurts. Grabbing a stick as an aid, she hurries towards the square.

Abby throws her teddy key ring on the bed and runs to the front door. She grabs the umbrella on the porch table and is out into the dark. No street lights to show life, no cottages with orange eyes. All is dark. She marches towards the square: the sound came from there. In the distance she can hear voices. She breaks into a trot. She can see silhouettes of people and something large across the road, twisted, contorted, multi-limbs reaching the dark sky. She slows as she approaches the shape. She can smell the wet earth.

The tree
’s roots stretch up, unseen limbs bent, stringy toes hanging with earth. It lies immovable.

Movement draws Abby
’s attention beyond the mighty fallen tree. People are rushing, raised voices calling the alarm. She snaps out of her wonder at the hidden underside of the eucalyptus and skirts around and into the square. Still there are no lights but there is a lot of shouting. Many people stand in the rain or under umbrellas, looking into a darkened space.