In the Shade of the Monkey Puzzle Tree (16 page)

Theo is in no mood to hear his own voice. He grunts an unintelligible answer. He is glad his bad eye cannot be seen by the driver or else that would open up a whole line of questions he is not in the mood to discuss.

‘Look, there’s another poor sod stuck.’ The taxi steers around a stationary car in the middle of the road, the bonnet up, the driver with his coat over his head while staring into the workings.

The driver takes the corner into the bar
’s road gently.

‘
Here’ll do,’ Theo growls.

The street has been washed clean of serviettes, beer cans, and cigarette ends. Braving the rain in his damp shirt, he begins to open the shutters. Until now, it hasn
’t occurred to him to wonder whether anyone will venture out to the bars in this downpour, but having made the journey himself, it suddenly seems very unlikely there will be any customers. None of the staff are there, and there is no activity in any of the adjacent bars. The only sign of life is an old car driving very slowly down the street. It pulls up alongside Theo. The window rolls down and the driver calls out to him through the downpour. It’s Dimitri.

‘
Close up again. No one will come out in this.’ The car drives away, the water from the wheels creating arches of spray on either side.

Theo lets the shutter in his hand bang shut. His immediate thought is of the money he will lose if the bar doesn
’t open and he doesn’t work tonight. But as his stash of money is growing and his outgoings are modest, it will not make a difference.

A night off, he can
’t remember when he last had a night off, and suddenly the thought makes him feel tired. He is used to working long hours and days on end—the
kafeneio
opens every day, but the work here is draining in a way that serving at the
kafeneio
is not, even though the hours are no longer. It is Athens that is draining, the grime and sleaze of the bar. He fixes his mind on the money under the stairs and makes for the main road to hail a taxi home. By the time he gets to the corner, he is soaked to the skin and the taxis that pass are taken, their tail lights reflecting dully off the surface water. He is halfway home by the time one stops and lets him in. Theo is grateful that at least the weather is still reasonably warm.

As evening draws in, the air has a chill in it and Theo wishes he had wood for the fire, or a television—something to offer some comfort, companionship. The flat suddenly seems very large and empty. Closing the balcony window, he sits on the sofa, huddled up next to the empty grate with a sheet around him. His clothes drip into the bath and the rain continues to drum on the windows.

The monkey puzzle tree turns black against the yellowing sky and Theo falls asleep where he is.

When he wakes, he has a stiff neck and he stretches. The sun is lighting up the windows in the house opposite and the monkey puzzle tree is once again green, the sky blue.

His clothes are still damp, but half an hour over the railing of the metal stairs at the back, where the sun hits in the morning, will see them dry. He unlocks the back door but hesitates to open it. Margarita
’s mama is out the back, shouting.

‘
You must have left it open or he would not have gone.’

‘
Well, we didn’t,’ Aikaterina’s tone is sharp, indignant.

‘
Don’t you raise your tone to me,’ the old woman shrieks.

‘
Well, don’t accuse us. He has probably been stolen.’

‘
Stolen, are you of sound mind? Who would steal a dog?’ The woman’s tone is derisive.

‘
Who? I don’t know who, but they do. They steal them and then sell them to other people in another part of the city,’ Aikaterina shouts.

‘
Who? Who would do such a thing?’ The old woman’s voice quivers.

‘
Gypsies. Poor people. I don’t know.’

Theo picks at the flaking paint around the window in the back door. It will be sad if Bob has gone.

‘You are just saying this to upset me,’ the old woman says, but the power in her voice has diminished.

‘
That’s a nasty thing to say,’ Aikaterina rejoins.

‘
Come, come.’ Marinos’ voice joins in, a soothing balm. ‘We will look for the dog. We can do no more.’

‘
Well, you’d better.’ The old woman has fire in her words again. Her footsteps fade, a slither of thin-soled slipper.

‘
Help me bring the rugs out, Marinos. The sun can air them.’ Aikaterina’s voice is soft and low. A few seconds later, she adds, ‘I miss the dog back in the village, Marinos.’

‘
I know, my love. I miss him, too.’

Theo stops picking at the paint and throws his damp clothes over his bare shoulder. He
’ll make a coffee before he hangs them out.

The sun streams through the window and Theo opens it, enjoying the feel of it on his face. The sweltering heat of summer has passed, and the cicadas have gone wherever they go in winter. Theo wonders if they die when summer passes. Their absence leaves a silence which is broken by the intermittent calling of the cockerel and a dull rumble of distant cars.

‘You think it will rain again?’ Marinos’ voice asks below the window.

‘
For sure. Look at those clouds gathering over there. This evening for sure but maybe sooner; you remember how the clouds gather over the hill behind the church back home.’

‘
Don’t think of home, my sweet. You’ll only make yourself sad.’ Marinos’ voice is so soft, Theo can only just make out the words.

‘
I could not be any sadder,’ Aikaterina replies.

‘
Please, my love, you must think of Marko. He is getting an Athens education.’

‘
But what is that worth if he never sees his aunts and his uncles and his grandparents and his cousins and lives like a rat under a house?’ Theo hears her sniff.

‘
Come, come, Aikaterina. Don’t cry.’

‘
I cannot help it. Since I got sick, I no longer have the strength to be strong.’ And she starts to cry in earnest, but it turns into a cough from deep in her lungs.

Theo thinks of his own aunts and uncles and cousins, people he has known all his life. How different his world would be if just one of them were here with him to share his journey now.

The thought is soon replaced by an image of the money under the stairs, and he is glad that they are not here to witness that. Better to do this alone, at least until he is established. They would not understand. They are villagers, and he is more like an Athenian now.

He fills the
briki
pan with water and sets it on the stove. Taking a match, he lights the gas. Sugar, coffee, patience.

It seems to take a long time to come to the boil, and he stares, unfocussed, into the flames as he waits.

Pouring into his cup, he watches the bubbles glisten.

‘
A coin for every bubble,’ Theo whispers the old wives tale and watches the larger ones pop.

Age 41 Years, 1 Month, 21 Days

With his clothes still wet, Theo stays in all morning and then falls asleep on his bed after a drawn out mid-morning snack of bread and yoghurt on the balcony. The sky is mottled with clouds, the sun bravely battling, and he has no desire to be out anyway. A damp smell of ozone hangs in the air.

He wakes, curled up on his side, to find the rain steadily streaming down the bedroom window. The job at the Diamond Rock Cafe has never filled him with joy, and what novelty there was fades as
each night passes. But the thought of not going tonight fills him with dread, of the endless hours that will creep by, the time ticking so slowly in the isolation of his rooms, reminding him of the emptiness of his newly established existence. He wishes to speak to no one, but the thought of being alone is more than he can bear. Except maybe Tasia in the
kafeneio
, but he does not know if he can face her as he is. There is a pulse in his head, an ache in his chest. It would be a relief to think he were coming down with something, but he knows he is not.

The cupboard nearest the window in the kitchen beckons. The temptation of its promise of false solace, the amber liquid sings to him.

He twists onto his back.

There are six cracks in the white ceiling of his bedroom. Three of these radiate from the same point, and all have been painted over. Someone at some point put energy into these rooms. Lived life here, contributed.

Why has he not been back to see Eleni and Timotheos at the bakery, at least? They were easy-going people. She was glad to feed him, he was glad to reminisce. They could have been just a little company, now and again, no need to get embroiled. To visit them now would seem strange, after the weeks that have passed.

He could just say he has been busy. It
’s not a lie.

But then, in this rain, their shop will not be open. Do they even live there, behind, or above? The table they ate at was marble and is probably where they knead the dough. There were no other signs of domestic life.

He twists his head to an angle, his hair crackling with static on the nylon pillowcase. One of the cracks, from this angle, could be the outline of a woman.

He thinks of Tasia again. Her
kafeneio
will probably be open. The damp, dark trees framing the cavern of light in between the grey, wet buildings. The warmth inside steaming the windows. Her fresh face coming alive in a smile as he opens the door.

Baba never closes their
kafeneio
in the village for anything. The farmers need to know it is there, a bolt hole from family life, a male domain, a sanctuary. You cannot close a sanctuary.

She could be his sanctuary.

But if he takes a taxi in this weather, it will be hard to make it appear casual. And she might not even be there, it might only be her baba. He would have to order a cup of gritty coffee, sit trying to swallow, passing the time till he could leave so his true quest would not be obvious.

And even if she is there, could he tell her how he has been, tell her what he is doing? What could he possibly say about his black eye that would not cause alarm? If he cannot be honest with her, what is the point of going? Somehow, he has associated her more with the village than with Athens, and she now feels more like a part of his past life than of this present one.
The corners of his mouth twitch downward.

He can find no joy; the world is flat, colourless and void. His breathing is shallow, his body has no life.

Swinging his legs off the bed, he touches his eye to see if it is any less tender. It is healing but still aches.

‘
The truth is, Theo, you are alone, and the reason you are alone is …’ He struggles to give it a name.

His stomach turns as he ponders the nameless feeling. In the village, he never felt this way. Ever.

‘And along with this feeling, what have you got?’ He slops his feet to the hall. ‘You have two things. You drink like a fish and you have handfuls of cash. You don’t even have the guts to count it to see if your dream is achievable.’

He stands, looking down at the wooden steps. Fluff has collected in the corner where the marble floor meets the wood. It moves gently in an unfelt breeze. He can see no reason to make another move. He has nowhere to go, nothing to do. He may as well just stand there. His guts hang heavily inside him, his legs like weights, arms dangling lifelessly. If he moves, he is worried it will be to the kitchen, to the end cupboard. His gaze becomes a stare.

Even Tasia, stuck working with her baba, has a dream, an interest to cling to. A piece of land, her own olive groves, living in the country. He can see her there, combing down the olives onto a sheet laid on the floor, him up a ladder, reaching the top branches. The green-black fruit raining down to the earth, landing softly. Autumn’s gentle colours flattering her dress and hair. The sun just going down over the horizon, turning the colours soft. Across their land, her beautiful laugh ringing like a song.

Theo breaks his gaze. There is no pleasure in his dreams.

‘What is the point of dreams?’ he asks the empty apartment. The sound of the rain is the only answer. No dog barks, no one cries. Just the rain.

‘
Okay.’ He stands tall and shakes his mop of hair. ‘Do it!’ he commands. ‘Just do it.’ And with these words, he kicks the bottom step open and draws out all the money.

After the first few days as manager, the need to skim a third of the takings started to become a chore. Just another task to accomplish each day. But a dirty chore, one that he almost resented. One he had no pride in. What kept him going was the vague notion of running his own bar, but it is not something he really wants—rather, it is a lie to keep him going, give meaning to his days, give a sense of purpose. It will take time to save enough for his own bar. But he has no idea how long, has not made any real calculations or estimates. He doesn
’t really want to know how long it will be. How long he will be living in such a dark place. Best to just keep going, day by day with no thoughts.

In the small hours of the morning, after a long night of stale smoke, dim, grim half-light, loud, grinding aggressive music, dirty glasses and ripping off customers with fake Black Label, vodka, and Drambuie, the stash started to grow its own personality. Some days, it stared back at him, offering meaning to the endless lonely days, the promise of an end to his present life, the hope of a different future. Other days, it accused him, letting him know that no matter who he was dealing with in the bar, no matter what the level of the morals around him was, taking the money was plainly and simply stealing.

But without it, he will always be just a bar man, consigned to the company of the people the bar attracts—the confirmed old drunks, the cocky young men they once were, and the hard-faced girls with their tight skirts and slack morals. He will make no mark in life otherwise, but instead will be just another of the faceless masses in Athens, a victim of the city.

But on the worst of the bad nights, after his tumbler has been filled and drained and filled again on the low shelf behind the bar, out of sight, the cash that he stuffed into his pockets would mock him, taunting, daring him to count the years ahead of him that would be spent here, serving people he was beginning to despise, before there would be enough to fulfil his dream. This was the thought that stopped him from counting, that made not knowing better than knowing. Whether the dream really was something he desired was another thought altogether, and one that he would not contemplate, at least not yet. But, today, now, with the cut on his eye still throbbing and his loneliness eating him inside, the bottle of whiskey calling him, his torment demands action.

Shuffling the money into stacks, he sits on the bottom step to count it, building the piles up in neat round numbers, putting off knowing the total. Some of the notes have blood on them and he twice loses count, wondering if they will still be legal tender and whether he can wash them. Finally, he is surrounded by a circle of paper towers, and he sits up and points to each in turn, adding up as he goes until he has a final figure.

It is a great deal of money to have lying about the house.

But it is not even vaguely close to the amount he would need to acquire a bar of his own, based on prices he has seen in the paper.

‘
There you have it, Theo. Enough to give you trouble, maybe get your legs broken, but not enough to give you independence.’ Fear creeps upon him to mix with the disappointment and frustration. Dimitri in his long black coat, bat in hand, down a dark, wet alley. Jimmy behind him, his crutches glinting in the moonlight, laughing and patting the arm of the empty wheelchair next to him. Waiting.

Theo takes a deep breath.

He tells himself he has grown crafty and cunning, more than Jimmy ever was. There will be no wheelchair for him.

He has bought a money belt, so his pockets no longer bulge. He makes the day
’s take vary so Dimitri never knows what to expect, and he keeps the girls on longer than Jimmy did, but not long enough so that they can get wise. And he never accuses them of stealing. Instead, he lets them go when he feels they have started to get comfortable, insisting to Dimitri that a change of face will keep the customers coming. He keeps a glass by the till marked tips in case he is ever seen pocketing money.

And he never lets his guard down, never has a full conversation with any of the girls who work with him. He cannot trust himself not to let something slip if he relaxes. So he remains alone, aloof, and it adds to the isolation he feels in Athens.

Makis looks at him with narrowed eyes, slaps him on the back every now and again, or suddenly shakes him by the hand as if to acknowledge his devious ways. Nothing specific is said, but Theo wonders what he knows, what he has seen, and he hates this more than anything.

Without Makis
’ awakening, he could pretend nothing was happening. Makis’ behaviour draws his actions to his own attention. Theo tries to name the feeling, the nameless weight that permeates his limbs, that these days draws him back to the tumbler of relief. A word comes.

‘Shame.’ He finds the name and says it out loud, without energy, without emotion. His head drops to his chest. All his energy leaves him. He stares at the lifeless piles of paper, some signed in his own blood, and his mind becomes blank.

Her crying slowly seeps in past his self-mortification. At first, it is a low murmur, and soon it builds to heart-tearing sobs. Here in the hall, he is directly over their room, the murmurs almost words here, the sounds more clear. Theo stands in anger, he does not need her self-pitying on top of his own worries. He raises his foot to stamp on the floor, shut her up. But his foot remains in mid-air. Marinos’ voice, a patient balm of honey-drenched words, seeps over her tears. Marinos is a proud man. He may live under a house like a rat and wear a suit that has been given to him, but he has no reason to be ashamed. His daily mission to soothe his wife and support his son keeps his head held high.

Theo tries to remember the last time he did something kind without an ulterior motive. His foot lowers gently to the ground. Was it the tip he left Tasia? The advice he gave Mitsos about Manolis
’ fishing plans? Filling Bob’s bowl from the tap?

A wheezing sound from the back of his throat mimics laughter. If those were his last acts of kindness, no wonder he is miserable. He deserves nothing better.

Marinos’ muffled words are not doing the job today, and Aikaterina’s sobs keep coming.

Maybe he should start afresh. Skim off less and less from the Diamond Rock Cafe over the next week or so and then quit, let them find a new manager. The thought of this brings relief, and distances him from Jimmy.

And then what? The summer is ending; there will be no work on offer down at the beach bars. And besides, he would just be working for another boss, tossing bottles for another man’s pocket. Where is the future in that?

At least he should be kind. He can start being kind to the girls he works with. That will do no harm. And stop drinking. That is not helping. Then, maybe, he can look people who matter in the eye.

Aikaterina sounds uncontrollable. Marinos is talking fast and louder, but even he is crying now.

Theo looks at the money. If it is not enough to get his own bar, there is no point in having it. He could fill his rooms with things, comforts, stuff, but where is the joy in that?

He wanders back into his bedroom and opens the window to smell the rain, the leaves on the trees shiny with the wet, dipping to the rhythm of the raindrops. Aikaterina’s sodden rugs hang heavy over the fence, their colours darkened. The concrete floor in the rooms below will be cold with no carpet down. In this damp weather, it must be a miserable hole to be in.

Margarita
’s mama comes splashing round the corner with an umbrella held high, her free arm pumping, a sour expression on her face.

‘
Shut that racket up, you hear me, no one wants to hear your troubles. Shut up.’ She bangs on the door.

Theo
’s eyebrows raise, pulling on the cut over his eye, and he winces, dropping back into his room, out of sight. He tenderly touches his brow and looks at his fingers. No blood. That’s good.