Watching the Wind Blow (The Greek Village Collection Book 9) (10 page)

He had done that.

Sam’s tears are silent.

They both stay quiet.

Until there is breath enough for words.

‘I am not a good man,’ he says, but Irini has no answer for him. He is talking about a child the age of her Angelos. She can feel all he is feeling, understand every twisted emotion he has grown up with, his hatred for his father, the distorted view he was left with. Every step of the way, she was in his shoes. But a child? Angelos. She sits back.

‘I was a machine, Rini. Every step of my life, I was refining that machine - a machine that did not think but did as it was ordered, both in deed and emotion. But despite my training by my father, school, and army, my heart still raged against it.’ Rini remains unmoved. ‘I was discharged on medical grounds.’ He is chewing at the side of his thumb and looking at the floor.

Medical grounds. Is that his excuse, his redemption? How insane does a person have to be to kill a child, and is it ever enough? 

But then, how sane was she when she was homeless and how close did she come to killing people, other children? She clubbed someone on the back of the head who pushed her out of the way of some food she found. What if she had clubbed him too hard, what if he had fallen against something sharp? There were plenty of sharp things amongst the rubbish they were wading about in. And then there was the youth she stabbed. The youth who didn’t actually do anything. It is not something she wants to talk about with Sam. After his tale, it is nothing, but the images and memories come of their own accord.

The sleep she woke from was deeper than normal. The corner she found herself in was warm by night and discretely hidden behind some shops. She was drawn from the depths of this slumber to find a stranger standing over her, one leg on either side. Alert before her eyes were fully open, she squirmed backwards from under his stance and onto her feet, ready to fight or run.

That was when she saw the second youth behind the first. He was chuckling to himself in the half-light of dawn, his features in high contrast from the cigarette lighter he had cupped in his hands as he lit up.

Irini looked from one to the other. None of their movements were hurried, nor manic, so they were probably not drug addicts. Their shirts were not silk, they did not wear cheap but ornate watches, and they were not out of their teens, so perhaps they were not pimps, either.

The alley that led out from the loading area behind the shops had only one way in and out. Industrial bins lined the walls and stacks of cardboard boxes, folded flat, awaited collection. It was a quiet, reclusive place to sleep, but now she was trapped. The youth nearest her took a step towards her, grinning as if in a game. His friend behind chuckled, equally amused. Skirting around him, her back up against the shop’s back doors and walls, her feet stood on rotting vegetable leaves, packing tape, and broken glass. The skin was so thick on the soles of her feet that the glass did not penetrate except in the crease under the big toe on one foot and in the arch of the other. With her next step, glass dug in the crease under her little toes.

The pain tore through her, screaming for her to stop, pull out the slivers, take care of the wounds. But the youth was relentless, his steps steady towards her. With her back against the doors, she walked on her heels. The second man blocked her escape, a casual movement barring her exit, no intimidation attached. It was almost as if he just wanted the game to continue.

Then, with a sudden dash, she lunged past him. The first youth took a leap towards her, his friend stepped backwards, quickly, out of his way, and Irini fell into a doorway.

The first youth loomed over her, his face black against the dawn sky. A bird began to sing, and it seemed so out of place. With her hands behind her on the ground, she scuttled away from him out of the doorway, the back of her head sliding against the aluminium of an industrial bin. A cockroach crawled over her hand, broken glass dug in her palms, and then something metal, long, the right size to fit into her palm, came into her grasp. Her fingers curled around it. The youth leaned forwards over her, his thin, feathery attempt at a moustache curled over his top lip, making up in length what it lacked in density. His breath came quickly, his eyes shining. His friend stopped chuckling. This was the moment - was it a game or was it for real? His smile faded, his eyes grew dark, his decision apparent.

There was no thought involved; her legs worked without her say-so. She leaped to her feet and lunged at him, her metal weapon in her hand. She drove it forwards, into the softness of his stomach. He bent over her arm, his breath expelling. His friend dropped his cigarette, open-mouthed and stunned momentarily into rigidity until he rocked first forwards and then back, not sure whether to intervene or stay safe. Irini ran. Ran and ran. It was only when she stopped several streets away in the bushes of a small park that she looked down at her weapon, expecting to see blood, signs of the horror she had just committed.

It was a strange entanglement of relief, disbelief, and fear to see that there was no blood. She had stabbed him with a spoon, the head of which was now bent over.

Half an hour later, she saw the pair again, from a safe distance. This time, they were getting on a trolley-bus to the other side of Athens. Neither looked the worse for the encounter.

Thank goodness it had been a spoon! If it had been a knife under that bin, a knife in her hand instead, she too could have been a killer. As it was, he doubled over in pain and the result shocked her even though she did not puncture his skin. But she knows from experience that if you hit on someone’s biggest fear, and you hit it hard enough, people will do anything.

Was what she did so far away from what he had done? It would be easy to say that her actions were in the moment, defensive moves to keep herself alive. But surely entering an enemy building with his head primed to obey or die and drilled with propaganda about bomb-rigged children must have put him into a place where everything he saw was a legitimate target and the threat of death.

Did he even have a choice? Wasn’t the luxury of making decisions taken away from him the moment he was born to such a father?

She does not have that excuse. She was once loved and the children she fought with were not actually a direct risk to her life.

The clouds over the land behind him have grown and darkened in colour. A storm might take some of the heavy heat from the air but, please, not whilst they are at sea. Irini makes a little prayer to a God she long ago lost her belief in. Observing the shifts in the clouds and focusing on something other than death and blame is such a relief, she continues to stare beyond Sam’s shoulders until finally he turns to look at what she is seeing.

‘There is a storm coming,’ he states.

‘Why don’t you just go alongside and arrest him?’ Petta’s voice is not calm and he mops his brow with a handkerchief embroidered with two black butterflies.

Captain Yorgos wants to leave, but Marina keeps asking him questions. Is his boat seaworthy? How far will they have got in the time they have been gone? With each answer, he grows with importance until he is sitting upright and pulling his t-shirt to cover his stomach and picking the dirt from under his nails to make him look more respectable. Marina is fanning herself with a newspaper.

‘People in Athens have taken an interest, and the decisions are not in our hands. We have to be patient,’ Captain Demosthenes replies. He is calm, but he too is sweating in the heat. Picking up the remote, he presses the button to turn up the air conditioning but no matter how hard he presses, it is as high as it will go. He throws the remote back on his desk with disdain.

‘This is not about who makes the decisions. This is about my wife.’ Petta is a bigger man than Demosthenes. He could use his height to intimidate the port police captain, but he doesn’t. His t-shirt is slowly darkening with sweat between his pectoral muscles.

‘I understand, Petta, but we have to follow orders.’ Demosthenes’ voice sounds sincere.

‘What would you do if you were giving the orders?’ Petta ruffles the hair of his child, who clings to his leg.

‘I would probably put a vessel either side of the yacht and demand his surrender. With such a tactic, he would be unwise to refuse.’

‘And if he did?’ Petta is doing his best not to shout.

‘Well, there is the problem. If there was no one else on board, we would open fire, shoot stern to bow on the diagonal. So you see the problem.’ Demosthenes accepts an offer of coffee by a petty officer. Petta refuses.

When the coffee arrives, the port police commander takes his down the stairs and outside. Petta watches him through the window, drinking and looking out to sea and holding his elbows up so any breeze there is cools him.

‘Drink something, Petta my love. You have eaten and drunk nothing all day,’ Marina soothes, putting down the newspaper.

‘Sometimes it is best not to take anything in when we are stressed,’ Captain Yorgos offers her in an obsequious tone of voice.

Petta gives him a sideways grimace, but Marina thanks him for his kindness. Yorgos excuses himself to get the ashtray and when he comes back, he casually moves his chair a little closer to Marina.

‘Marina, maybe we should take our minds off everything that is happening. I understand you have the corner shop in the village. Do you have land as well?’ Yorgos asks.

Marina’s look is blank.

‘Petta, ask the port police what will make them take action,’ she demands.

‘Mama, I am afraid for them to take action now. They say they might have to use guns if he refuses to surrender.’ A sparrow has landed on the palm tree outside the window, on a large feathery leaf that sways slightly with the contact. The bird does not sing, but Petta wonders if he would hear it even if it did, the cicadas are so loud. On the road that follows the harbour’s edge, a moped putters by, a young man steering and a woman in black sitting sidesaddle behind him. She is wearing green slippers and her feet are crossed to hold them on as the soles flap with the speed.

‘Well, surely the first thing to do is to ask him to surrender. Why don’t they do that over the radio?’ Marina says, ignoring Yorgos, who is trying to say something to her. Petta is quick to answer her.

‘He says that he must obey orders from Athens. It is not up to him to make the orders now.’ He watches Demosthenes walking up and down outside, and then he falls into a stare.

‘Panagia mou!’
Marina exclaims and stands up, bustles out the door of the corner office and over to the radio station and snatches the microphone from the operator’s hand.

‘Irini. Irini, are you there?’

‘
Kyria
, you cannot do that.’ The radio control man puts his hand out for the microphone.

Marina turns her back on him. ‘Irini, Rini, can you hear me?’

‘
Kyria
, I must insist.’ The radio man stands and tries to take the microphone from her. Marina slaps his wrist.

‘Rini, this is Marina. If you can hear me, ask that man who is with you if he will surrender.’

‘Kyria
, I really must insist.’ The radio man takes hold of her wrist and tries to prise the microphone from her clenched hand.

‘
Mama, what are you doing?’ Petta has hurried over to see what the fuss is about.

‘I am making something happen.’ Marina slaps at the radio operator’s hands again. ‘Ouch, you are hurting me. Don’t you dare put your hands on me! Have you no respect?’ The radio operator lets go of her wrist. ‘How old are you? Seventeen, eighteen? You don’t even look like you have started shaving yet. Well, I am old enough to be your mama, young man. By God, boy, if I had a wooden spoon on me now…’ The radio man backs away, fear and disbelief all over his face, sweat running from his temples down his smooth cheeks. Perhaps he has a mother at home with a wooden spoon. Either way, it is clear she has touched a nerve.

‘If you hurt my mama
…’
Petta stands in front of her and it is the radio operator who looks relieved.

‘What on earth is going on?’ Demosthenes puffs as he enters the office.

‘Sir,’ the radio hand begins to explain. But before any one can say any more, Captain Demosthenes assesses the situation and strides to the radio and turns it off.

‘Right, explain,’ he demands and everyone talks at once, but it is Marina’s voice that comes across the clearest.

‘These boys, they have no respect,’ she barks. ‘When I was their age, I already had one son and another in the grave. You children don’t even know you are alive yet,’ she says, turning on the young port policemen who have grouped together in solidarity.

‘Please, please, this is an official office,’ Demosthenes pleads. ‘Come Marina, Petta. Let us take this outside so I can hear you without interruption.’ He ushers them to the door and looks back into the room with a scowl, jabbing his finger at the radio operator and then at the radio. The young man jumps across to his station and turns the radio back on.

Captain Yorgos looks about the room, which seems empty now with Marina gone. Maybe he should go now. Maybe he could go to one of the kiosks, ring up the insurance company, explain the situation, and get the ball rolling. He supposes he should really have let the Swiss people know that they were not sailing today, but what is the point of walking all the way down to the harbour just to let some people know that they will not be paying him anything today? So depressing. Although if he does go down to meet them, maybe he can persuade them to go sailing on another day if he gets his boat back. He lights up another cigarette.

Maybe this Marina could be a good bet. So there is a son and a daughter-in-law and even this little grandchild. He looks over to Angelos, who has slumped over Marina’s large bag, fast asleep. But even with her family, she could be a good port in which to shelter from the storm of his old age. Irini already knows her place. Petta might prove a problem, but he seems like a passive, easy-going man, and the child, like all children, can be moulded or silenced.

Yes, Marina might be a very good port. He could still do his day trips but only at weekends, and also there would be the payoff of no longer having to pay Irini to clean his boats; after all, family is family. She could hardly charge him.

He settles back into his chair, flicking his ash onto the floor. Not a bad looking woman too: solid, good hips. It has been a while since he has thought of any woman in those terms; it’s quite nice. He shifts about in his chair, but he can tell nothing has stirred. He breaks wind instead.