The Unquiet Mind (The Greek Village Collection Book 8) (4 page)

Chapter 5

Sitting opposite him now, upright, poised, she picks up the pen. She continues to smile as she puts pen to paper. ‘Do you want a coffee?’

Yanni shakes his head. Once in a while he drinks coffee, but generally he doesn’t. It makes him dizzy. And he hardly ever drinks anything stronger. Ouzo goes straight to his limbs, making him so relaxed, he almost falls over himself—or at least fall asleep.

‘Water? I will get you water.’ She stands and walks gracefully across the room in her long black habit, her black headdress wrapped around her face, cupping her chin so only her features show, her back a little bent. She disappears through an arch and returns with a metal jug and two matching beakers. Putting them on the table, she leaves Yanni to pour and takes up her pen again. He drinks and watches her as she concentrates on her writing. ‘Sister, have you ever been off the island?’ Yanni opens the conversation. Sister Katerina pauses before gently exhaling.

‘Well, I was born in Athens, so the short answer is yes. But I have been here since I was about thirteen so not really, not as an adult, and certainly not since I was ordained.’

Yanni looks past her at a small icon hung on the wall at the end of the room. His eyes flick at his own internal snapshots of Sister Katerina in her habit hovering over imaginary city pavements. It is impossible to imagine.

‘People talk about the mainland as if the people there are so slick, they would have the shirt off your back and you would thank them for it before you have even said hello.’ It is a long sentence for him and he takes a moment before asking, ‘Do you think there is any truth in that—really?’ His features are unmoving. There is a slight tremor in his voice but he wonders if it is more something he can feel than something that can be heard.

Sister Katerina’s calm is in her eyes, in the way she sits, the way she talks. ‘I think people are people the world over. They will treat you as you allow them to treat you.’ She takes a sip of water. A brightly coloured butterfly settles on the windowsill. ‘Most people describe their own lives in the way they treat others. Those who feel the world is harming them harm others in word or deed, and those who feel the world is a gift, who are grateful, treat others as if they are part of the gift.’ The words are soft as silk, spun from a compassionate heart.

‘Don’t those two sentences contradict each other?’ Yanni follows her gaze to the butterfly. ‘Either they treat you as you allow them to treat you or they treat you as a reflection of their own world. Can it be both?’

The butterfly dances in through the open window, circumnavigates their heads, and flies out again. They follow its swooping progress into the garden. It lands on a rose and stays there for a full minute before flying to the next flower, where it spreads its wings in the sun. ‘Maybe they can,’ the sister ponders. ‘The way people begin to treat you reflects them but when you respond, with kindness and love or otherwise, you draw your boundaries. People rarely want to hurt kindness or love, no matter how scared of it they are.’ She closes her mouth. Yanni looks over to her. Her eyes are flitting back and forth but she does not see the outside world, she is sieving through her thoughts. ‘Unless we are talking about people who are extreme, who block out everything. People who hurt so much and are so scared they presume there is no love in the world and attack as a form of defence.’ She pours more water.

The butterfly closes its wings.

‘That is what I am asking—is that true of the people on the mainland?’ Yanni says.

Sister Katerina waits before she answers.

‘No more so than anywhere else. But, you know, maybe their expectation of how their lives should be is different. There is a limitation to our comfort here on the island. Even for the rich, if their air conditioning breaks down, they know they must wait for the repair man to come from the next island. They know they will be uncomfortable for a day or two. It is a part of life; we accept it here on the island. But on the mainland with all the modern conveniences and the abundance of material wealth everywhere, maybe they expect that in their lives, there should no discomfort. Which appears to make any hardship worse, perhaps? But I am just guessing. Maybe we should study some psychology?’ The sister, not expecting an answer, nods over her reflections as they continue their observance of the flowers. A lizard scuttles into the open and remains motionless on the warm flags in the scorching sun.

‘I was not even two when I fed my first lamb,’ Yanni remarks.

The lizard jerks its head to look at them.

‘It was so soft and gentle, I named it
Moro Mou
, My Baby.’ He chuckles. He can feel his cheeks warm so he repeats the phrase in English to take the focus off him.

Sister Katerina smiles.

‘She died the week I named her.’ Yanni twists his moustache and the lizard darts away. ‘The first of many. I learnt not to love them so much and I never named another.’

‘I remember you doing the same with school,’ Sister Katerina says quietly. Yanni frowns slightly, struggling to make the connection. ‘You couldn’t wait to get home to your mama to tell her all about your first day, do you remember? You didn’t have the patience to get all the way up the hill, so you came running in here to tell me all about it, that day and every day for the first two weeks. You loved it so much.’ Her smile fades. ‘But then lambing took precedence and as your time was needed up on the ridge, you dismissed school. You told me, maybe you have forgotten this, that it was an “inconvenience that got in the way of real life”.’ She smiles, but it does not reach her eyes. ‘Pushing it away because you loved it so much, perhaps.’ They lapse into silence. The lizard reappears. Another butterfly, or perhaps the same one, comes and sits on the windowsill. Yanni wonders at how much life there is if you sit still long enough to see it. He finally shifts in his seat, breaking the meditation and Sister Katerina speaks. ‘I wonder if we protect ourselves from our fears by choosing to love people we cannot get near so they cannot hurt us.’ She turns to look at him.

Yanni meets her gaze.

‘Like choosing to love God?’ Yanni asks. His moustache twitches at the corners of his mouth as he struggles not to grin. Sister Katerina gives him a mock stern look and then glances at an icon to let him know that her God is watching them, hearing every word.

‘Or in loving Sophia,’ Sister Katerina challenges.

The butterfly leaves the sill and flies up and over the wall and is gone. Yanni is not in the mood to discuss his love for Sophia. He gazes out over the convent wall, up to the hill tops, a nice safe distance.

‘Right.’ Sister Katerina breaks the stalemate and picks up the piece of paper before her. ‘The list is not long. The vegetable garden has come into its own this week.’ She checks what she has written and replaces it on the table to add an extra item at the bottom, folds it, puts it in an envelope, and seals it before handing it to Yanni.

The sunlight is blinding as they leave the cooler interior. Sister Katerina walks with him through the garden, ‘
Sto kalo
,’ she calls and then she leans on the heavy door to shut it after him. Just before it fully closes, she stops.

‘Yanni, where is Dolly?’ she asks, holding the door open a crack.

Yanni’s shoulders sink and his brow knots. His hand comes up to smooth his hair from front to back. The sister opens the door wider.

‘She is dead,’ he says, blinking.

‘Oh Yanni, I am so sorry. What happened?’ Sister Katerina comes out of the gates and goes to rub Suzi’s nose.

‘On the way towards the boatyard. The path has narrowed.’ He looks at the floor and twists one toe in the dust. ‘She was carrying a foreign woman.’

‘Oh my goodness, the woman as well?’

‘No. She is fine, and she has given me money to buy another donkey.’ His tone is flat.

‘Really?’

‘From the mainland.’

‘Ah … I see,’ she says. The ‘ah’ is elongated, expressing her new understanding of the topic of conversation they pursued earlier.

Yanni waits, hoping she will say something helpful. She is looking into Suzi’s eyes and her hands explore the softness of her muzzle.

‘You and Suzi will be sad for a while. She was a good donkey.’ Sister Katerina pats Suzi’s neck and now looks Yanni in the eye. ‘Do you have time to come back in and talk a while longer?’ Her invitation is tender, but Yanni cannot hold her gaze. Dolly feels too far away right now and the mainland too close. He shakes his head. He takes up Suzi’s rein and nods a farewell.

He walks a few steps, Sister Katerina returns inside her fort, the door thudding closed behind her.

Yanni stops, rolls a cigarette, and flicks open his lighter. He pulls on Suzi’s reins and they begin to walk away.

The edge of town, at the top of the amphitheatre of houses, is quiet but as they descend, the noise begins; doors open and close, windows are shut, people call to one another.

A group of women pass, chattering, their black-encased shoulders drooping with the weight of their shopping bags. Children run, chasing one another, careful to avoid Suzi’s rear end. Stories of children being kicked to death have been drilled into them since birth. Shops appear among the houses and their open doors offer cool interiors. A wide array of their goods trickle onto the pathways. Taverna tables and chairs line the way here and there as they get nearer to the port.

The lace makers have draped their wares over shop doors, on chairs and tables which all but fill the pathway onto the harbour front itself. Little old ladies in black sitting outside their tiny emporiums twist their fingers and crochet tools to weave items for which neither Yanni, or his mama, could ever find a use.

They look up from their work to smile at him because he is a familiar sight, but none of them know him well, although they all know him by name, know his nature—and leave him to his solitude.

Around the port’s three sides, the shops are open and each has claimed as much of the walkway space in front of them as they think they can get away with to display their wares without passers-by being forced into the water. Jewellers compete with designer clothes shops next to art galleries, reflecting the wealth of the visitors who, on holidays and at weekends, descend on this island.

The cafés are full, extra chairs have been put out, not even a space left to walk between one café to get to another, the chairs and tables trickling all the way to the water’s edge and here, hopeful cats sit and watch and wait for the fishermen who will come home at some point.

A cruise ship has just come in and deposited its catch of tourists. By this, Yanni judges that he is late, might have missed his chance for easy money. The stragglers are still disembarking, the eager ones already engaged in haggling with the lace makers and drawn into jewellery shops.

All the donkey men are there. Mimis is helping an Asian girl onto his lead mule while her friend stands giggling, waiting to be lifted onto the rear animal. Both girls wear long-sleeved shirts, white gloves, sunglasses, and very broad-brimmed hats.

‘Hey Yanni,’ Hectoras’ gruff voice calls. Yanni pulls Suzi toward him. Hectoras turns to a passing woman. ‘Lady—donkey. Take bags to hotel?’ He uses his limited English to tout for business. The woman ignores him.

‘Hey Yanni,’ he repeats. ‘When are you going across to get a new donkey?’ Next to the mass which is Hectoras, almost hidden by his bulk, stands Tollis, pulling his jeans up on his slim hips, his animals not needing to be held. Tollis’ method of approaching the tourists is to make eye contact and then vigorously point at his animals—a little brown donkey and a fine ass with a glossy black coat. His English is for money only; he can count, and this is enough. It is a bit of a mystery, once Tollis has got a foreign client, how he communicates to agree where he will take them, but he seems to manage. He points again and the woman shakes her head.

‘It is good that she is paying.’ Hectoras refers to the tourist lady who was on Dolly when she slipped over the cliff. Nothing remains private for long on the island.

‘Sure, why not, she is a foreigner, she will have plenty of money,’ Tollis agrees whilst raising and lowering his eyebrows at a passing Japanese girl and pointing at his ass.

Yanni says nothing.

‘So when do you go?’ Hectoras asks.

‘Not sure if …’ Yanni begins his sentence but lets it peter out unsaid.

‘Big cut in your salary if you don’t,’ Hectoras encourages.

‘It’s not like there are any for sale on the island,’ Tollis offers.

‘Oh no, you don’t want to get one from here, they are all too interbred. Go across to the mainland.’ Hectoras and Tollis turn to look beyond the port across the water to the blue hills in the distance, under the clear deep blue sky.

‘Over there.’ Tollis points. ‘Behind that hill above a small village near Saros, over the other side of the peninsula. You know Saros, right?’

Yanni does not answer. Although he has no desire to leave his island, he feels there is some shame in admitting that he never has.

‘Yes, yes, jump on one of the water taxis to get across, then just take the bus up to Saros. You’ll get a lift from someone if you start walking to the village and then it is just a stretch of the legs to the breeder. It’s a good stretch, mind, but do-able if it is not too hot,’ Hectoras confirms. ‘Got Bibby from there.’ He pats his lead mule’s neck.