In the Shade of the Monkey Puzzle Tree (8 page)

‘
Oh,’ she says. Theo looks twice—there is a possibility that he just heard disappointment in her voice, but he cannot be sure.

‘
I just wanted to know …’ Theo hesitates and she smiles to encourage him. ‘If I can call on you when I am more set up?’ He smiles in return. That wasn’t so hard. He wonders why he waited until now to ask.

‘
Oh,’ she repeats, but not disappointed. There can be no mistaking the colour in her cheeks. ‘The
kafeneio
’s always open.’

Theo wonders if she
is misunderstanding on purpose. He feels a heat rising in his own cheeks. She looks down at her book. Theo reads the title upside-down—Pruning Olives to Increase the Yield.

‘
No, I mean ...’ Theo stammers.

‘
Oh, yes. I see. Alright.’

Theo looks in her face. She blushes again and laughs her beautiful laugh, looking back at the book
’s cover, unable to meet his eye.

‘
Wish me luck, then.’ Theo braces himself to leave, his insides quivering with excitement and joy. He will return and court her, officially. Even as he pictures the years passing, her hair growing white and her skin wrinkling she remains beautiful.

‘
Well, good luck, Theo.’ She stretches out his name, as if she is savouring the two syllables, or is it his imagination? ‘Come back soon and tell me how you are doing.’ This is added on more quietly.

‘
Thank you. I will,’ he has no doubts at all that he will return for her. ‘Yes, thank you,’ he says again more briskly and is about to turn when she holds out her hand to shake. Theo does not hesitate. Her skin is even softer than the memory of Iro’s that time in church. He does not want to let go.

‘
Tasia, have you no work to do?’ Her baba comes in through the front door, frowning at Theo, who lets go, slowly. He smiles at the old man and leaves the shop, his mass of hair bouncing with each step, a big grin across his face.

He heads in the direction he chose earlier, looking back once or twice. The
kafeneio
seemed like home away from home, and he was just getting to know Andreas in the kiosk. There is something unsettling about touching peoples’ lives with the uncertainty of whether he will even see them tomorrow, but Tasia will not be one of the people who passes in and out of his life, he makes himself a promise. Walking at a good pace, but not fast enough to make him sweat in the sun’s growing heat, he heads forward with purpose. Only stopping to ask people he passes where there are bars. There are bars everywhere, they tell him, each person full of their own energy, the sun cheering them all. The summer buzz has truly started.

But as he passes these small bars, none of them have help wanted signs in the window. He is told there is a whole line of new bars down by the sea. Workers are wanted there, he is assured, by an old lady who insists she needs no help with her shopping bags.

He walks for a while before he even smells the salt air. Then he sees a poster pinned to a telegraph pole. A new bar about to open, an artist’s impression of how it will look when it is finished. It looks like a park near the beach, the sea in the distance. Little bridges to cross from one bar area to another, each an island of decking above the sandy scrubland which sprouts long, green grass as tall as a bar stool in between. The whole enclosed by a high wooden fence down to the sea, palm trees, adding more lush green, soaring above. Bar staff wanted, it says.

Theo looks about for trees that high to pinpoint the bar. There are none. He walks towards the sea and finds the high wooden wall of the poster. Unlatching the gate, he lets himself in, ready for the magical world to hit him.

The scrubland is completely untamed, the decking islands only just keeping themselves from being lost in the sand. The bars, as yet, have no palm-leaf thatching, the skeletal structures sticking like bones from the desolate area. There are two men sawing wood, and not a single palm tree. Another man sits in one of the unfinished bars reading a newspaper held between both hands.

‘
Hello. I have come about the bar job.’

‘
Jobs,’ the man corrects without looking up. His shirt is white, his hair
neat. He looks wealthy.
Theo wipes his hand against his leg and holds it out to shake. The man flicks the corner of the newspaper straight with a jerk of both hands, ignoring Theo’s proffered greeting. ‘How old are you?’ he asks, not looking up from his reading.

Theo is surprised at the question and momentarily wonders if he should be older or younger. Is he looking for reliability or energy?

‘Forty,’ he replies honestly.

The man puts his paper down to scrutinise him.
‘Hm, you look younger,’ he says, but it is not clear if this is a good thing.

Theo decides to play it both ways.

‘I have the qualities of both—the energy of the young and the responsibility of the mature.’ He smiles, his hair ruffling in the sea breeze. He puts a hand up to shield his eyes. The sun is in his face and he cannot see the man’s features where he sits in the shade. Sand hisses across the decking in swirls, creating new patterns.

‘
I think you are too old. The young people do not want to be served by their babas, and it is the young who spend money. Sorry.’ His raises his newspaper, implying the conversation is over.

Theo thinks for a second. It would be easy to imagine the wind blowing the sand into a big dune that would cover him and his newspaper, but that will not get him the job.

‘You contradict yourself. You just said I look younger. I could have lied and told you I was thirty; you would have believed me. People think that is my age anyway. But I didn’t. I was honest. I imagine you will want honest bar staff?’

The man lowers his newspaper and looks at Theo. Closing the tabloid, he folds it and throws it onto the unfinished bar counter.

‘Take a seat.’ He turns to the empty bar stool next to him. Theo trots to the island, shakes the sand off his shoes, and wriggles onto the bar stool.

40 years, 5 months, 15 days.

‘Tell me your experience?’

‘
I have run a
kafeneio
since I left school.’ Theo sits tall. A smile comes with the familiarity of the mental images, the smoke-filled ceiling, the tables out on the square, the usual banter between the usual farmers. Inside, his chest suddenly feels rather hollow. He yearns to smell the coffee when he first opens a tin, along with the sulphur of the match to ignite the stove. He bites his lower lip and banishes the images.

‘
With your baba, I imagine?’

‘
Yes.’ Theo composes himself. ‘But it was only serving his generation, no one new came in till I changed things around a bit.’ He rubs his hand across the back of his neck, his fingers catching in his hair, separating it out. The sea sparkles under the blue sky.

‘
Like what?’ the man asks, pulling his cuffs out from under his jacket. Gold cufflinks.

‘
I started making coffee that you could drink, for a start. I also introduced proper meze with the beer, bought new
tavli
sets, introduced shot glasses and whiskey chasers and took the tables and chairs across into the square in the summer.’

‘
And, no doubt, people more your age started coming into your
kafeneio
?’

‘
Yes, exactly.’ Theo’s chest fills out. One day, he will have gold cuff links, and Tasia to put them in for him every morning.

‘
Which is what I am saying. People want to be served by people their own age.’ The man looks towards his newspaper.

‘
And younger people came,’ Theo quickly adds before reflecting, ‘but how young are the people who go to
kafeneio
s? It was not my age that stopped the young coming in, it was the building, our tradition, what people believe
kafeneio
s are.’

‘
True, to a degree, but you could have made it a bar. Then the old men stay from habit and the young men come from curiosity, and they would stay, as there is so little to do in these provincial villages.’ Does the man sneer these last two words?

Theo bristles. The people of his village work all hours; there is too much to do. Well, okay, Damianos found growing oranges boring, but he did not tend the earth under them so his yield was not as good as it could have been. But, for himself, the hours were full, any time off, he spent tidying up the storeroom above the cafe, watching the world go by through those lofty windows, unseen by those in the square and beyond. But time off was a luxury. Running the
kafeneio
whilst allowing his baba to believe that he was still be in charge was all time-consuming. This man clearly does not understand the difficulties Theo has overcome.

‘
But I ran it with my baba, which required diplomacy.’ Theo is impressed by his choice of words. He settles back into his chair and says no more.

‘
Hm. Yes, I understand what you are saying.’ The man fiddles with his cufflinks and looks at him through narrow eyes.

‘
I did the accounting, kept track of the stock, ordered more stuff when we needed it.’ Theo cringes at his choice of words and thinks hard. ‘I managed it.’ There, that’s better.

‘
Have you served in a bar?’

‘
No.’ Theo answers.

‘
Do you have flair?’

Theo looks down at his trouser bottoms, but he is not sure that is what the man is talking about.

‘Can you spin a bottle?’ The man rephrases.

‘
What?’ Theo feels lost.

‘
Okay, here’s what to do. Go get a job serving in any old bar, learn a little flair, learn to spin a bottle, and come back. I like your honesty and I think the chicks are going to dig your hair.’ The man picks up his newspaper.

‘
If I get a job somewhere else, why would I come back?’ Theo can feel his
briki
of rage go on simmer at the man’s dismissal of himself and his village.

‘
Because I will pay you double what you will be paid anywhere else.’ The man does not lower his newspaper. ‘Try the Diamond Rock Cafe over the main road, up the side street there. They go through bartenders as quickly as glasses; they always want workers.’ He turns back to his newspaper, shakes it flat and becomes engrossed without another word.

Theo
’s first school teacher, glasses on nose, hair in a tight, greying bun, marches up to the man, snatches the paper from his hands and takes a firm grip on his ear. ‘Manners cost nothing. Now be polite,’ she says firmly.

‘
Thanks,’ Theo mutters, more to the apparition than to the man. The gas under his
briki
turns down and he wades through sand to the gate, where he takes off his shoes and pours out the contents before continuing across the main road. He never even found out the man’s name. Back in the village, whose name does he not know? He knows every man woman and child, and their relation to each other. Okay, he does call Cosmo’s baba, well, ‘Cosmo’s Baba,’ but he knows his name, which he uses when he talks to him directly, but other than him? And here he is, in Athens a whole week, and he has met so many people and found out so few names. The passing and crossing of lives seems impersonal, with people coming and going as fast as the cars. Nothing seems to have any permanence. It feels unkind and inhuman, as if no one matters to anyone. Theo wraps his arms across his chest and runs them up to his shoulders and briefly pushes his cheek to the back of his hand.

The Diamond Rock Cafe, even in the bright sunshine, looks dead. The windows have crude wooden shutters lowered over them, hinged at the top. Wooden cable drums lined on the pavement pose as tables. There are no chairs. On either side are other bars which don
’t look any more inviting.

A man walks past.

‘Don’t open till the night-time,’ he says without breaking his stride.

‘
Thank you.’ Theo’s arms drop as he watches him go. The man leaves behind the smells of fresh bread and cooked tomatoes. It evokes memories of the kitchen, his mama chopping vegetables. Theo, too small to see what she is doing, tipping a chair and dragging it across the flags, the legs bumping over the uneven stones, the vinyl floor not laid for another twenty years. How tall the chair seemed then as he climbed to stand on the seat, and how big he felt standing there, the same height as his mama. She would smile and incline her head until their hair touched before she resumed her work. The smells of herbs and onions that she stuffed into the tomatoes with rice ready for the oven would permeate the house.

The aroma the passer-by left behind begins to dissipate. Theo walks in the direction the man was going until he catches the smell again and follows it until he is outside a bakery. His stomach grumbles. He can live without coffee, but he must eat.

The bell above the door tinkles as he enters.

‘
Hello. Decided not to wait for it to open?’ the man who Theo just passed in the street asks from behind the counter, rolling up his sleeves.

Theo chuckles.
‘It would be a bit of a wait.’

‘
Just buy a mini bottle of
ouzo
. Cheaper as well,’ the man replies.

‘
No, I am hoping to get a job there.’ Theo smiles. The man does not have an Athenian accent. He is from the country, but Theo cannot tell where. One of the islands, maybe.

‘
Oh, a man like you?’ He looks Theo up and down. ‘You will get a job there in a heartbeat. Count on it.’

‘
Really?’ Theo fidgets with enthusiasm.

A woman with her hair in a net comes through from the back.

‘Eleni, don’t you think this young man will get a job at the Diamonds in a heartbeat? It could do with a better type of person in there.’

‘
Oh, for sure.’ She smiles. She, too, is not from Athens. ‘What can we get you?’ She looks down at her counter of wares.

‘
Somewhere to live if the job is assured,’ Theo jokes and begins to look at the shelves of breads and pastries.

‘
Didn’t think you were from here with that accent. Where are you from?’ the man asks.

‘
A little village near Saros.’ Theo’s mouth waters at the sight of the
tiropitas
—cheese pies—he fancies some cheese, although the
spanokopitas
look good, too, and the spinach will do him good.

‘
Really? Well, well, do you know Margarita?’ the lady asks.

‘
Er, I know a Margarita, but there must be many.’ Theo smiles his answer. Talking to them is almost like being back in the village.

‘
True, true, but she is from over that way. But more to the point, she has a flat she is letting just round the corner.’ The woman unloads bread from a large flat baking tray, the loaves steaming as she puts them on the latted wooden shelves behind the counter.

Theo looks up from the food although his stomach grumbles loudly.
‘I would really have to know if I have got the job first. I don’t have a deposit.’ He is about to launch into the tale of the wicked old lady and her flat scam but decides that would put him in the role of the victim. It will not start well on that footing, so he keeps his mouth closed.

The old man goes into the back. The woman looks after him before returning her attention to Theo. She has a housecoat on with big yellow flowers merging into big pink flowers, the same pink as her hair net.

There is a trader who comes to the village with his horse and cart who sells such clothes. Presumably, horse-and-cart men all over Greece sell them, but the simple recollection makes him yearn for the village square, Vasso calling hello, Marina’s little girl asking to feel his hair for the hundredth time.

‘
Can I have a
tiropita
, please.’ It comes out almost like a sigh.

Before the woman can respond, her husband returns from the back.
‘I just called Margarita. She says the flat is still available,’ he reports.

‘
But I have no deposit,’ Theo says.

‘
She’ll either trust you or she won’t. Isn’t that right, Eleni?’

‘
Yes indeed.’ There is a pinging noise from the back room. ‘Oh it’s done. I use the bread oven to cook on weekdays,’ she explains to Theo. ‘So many people come with a roast for oven space at the weekend. Shall we eat? Come on, young man, nice to have a bit of company. What’s your name?’

They sit back with full stomachs. Timotheos, Eleni’s husband, has just been recounting his days back at his village, the thrill of hunting rabbits before dawn, the rabbit stew at night. The leg of lamb they have just eaten is surely the best Theo has ever had. What wonders Eleni could create with a rabbit! The three of them lean back in their chairs around the table with their hands over their bulging stomachs.

Theo smells her cheap perfume before he sees her.

‘Look at you lot, like pregnant goats.’ A shrill voice comes from the back door behind Theo. He turns. A big woman blocks the light and he can make out nothing beyond her lumpy outline.

‘
Ah, Margarita. This is Theo.’ Eleni introduces them.

It turns out that Margarita’s village is nowhere near Saros, but she doesn’t care. She declares that she likes Theo and pats his hand. Hers is sweaty. She explains that her mother lives on the bottom floor of the building at the front and his will be the flat above. She gives kisses and hugs to Eleni and Timotheos and takes Theo to see the apartment.

The sun
’s brightness is a shock after the room behind the bakery but, almost unbelievably, the temperature is cooler. Two ovens were on the go while they were eating, making the place stifling. For a second, Theo tips his head back to let the sun wash his face and holds his arms from his body to allow the relative cool full access before they set off.

As they walk, he tries to explain he has no deposit, but the woman will not stop talking. Apparently, someone picked up her handbag this morning by accident in a shop and made no apology. Also, they are thinking of building a new road down by the marina which will just ruin the neighbourhood. There has been a new mayor elected and he really doesn
’t know his … She uses some expression that Theo doesn’t understand fully, but by the time he has worked out the gist, she is talking about a trip she is planning to America and how happy she will be to know there is a nice young man like him above her mother. Theo is amused that everybody keeps calling him a young man. This woman, for example, cannot be more than ten years older than him.

‘
Are you listening?’ she asks.

Theo tries to recall the last thing he heard.
‘Sorry. I missed that?’

‘
I said there is just the one rule—no subletting.’