The Gypsy's Dream (2 page)

She takes the battery out and shakes it and puts it in again, but there is
no life in it.

A vein in her temple begins to throb. She sucks in her lips, chewing a little on the bottom one. Sweat runs down her back. She looks around the square, her eyes darting, unseeing. Her breath quickens. She takes out her purse and counts the
change. The tears in her eyes begin to fall, their silence broken by her sucking of air. The sun’s warmth, now full on her, is no longer a tender kiss. It is just heat that makes her sweat. The light is a nuisance in her eyes. The charm of the village turns to desolation. The excitement turns to fear. She can feel herself spiralling into despair and struggles to pull herself out.

Logic. She must use logic. The bar must be here. Abby throws her phone in her bag. Her shoulders are feeling hot, she should put
some sunscreen on. But not now.

The woman in the kiosk is counting change.

‘Excuse me, do you speak English?’

‘
English. Hello.’ She pauses and then recites ‘El’beeback’ and laughs.

‘
Sorry?’

‘
El’beeback. Ter-min-a-tor. English. Welcome, welcome!’ The woman laughs and offers a single wrapped chewing gum from her counter.

‘
Do you speak English?’ Abby asks again, taking the gift without thought, hope binding her manners.

‘
Yes English.’ The woman has a nice smile and, to a degree, it reassures Abby. Her perfect hair transports Abby into civilised salons. Everything will be fine, she breathes again.

‘
I have come for a job, at a bar. The Malibu?’ Abby realises the woman’s next words could quell all her panic, wipe out all her thoughts of her own stupidity, or not. She stares. Part of her wonders how much lacquer the woman must spray on to hold her halo so still.

Finally,
‘Job’, the woman says. She is still grinning as she leans out of her little window and points down the road to where the taxi had dropped Abby first thing.

Abby breathes again, exhales deeply, releases the tension from her chest and automatically says
‘Thank you’ in English and walks in the direction indicated, hoping, wishing. The shop the woman pointed to has opened its doors. It is not clear what it is from a distance. But there are no neon lights, no chairs and tables on the street. It is not the bar on the website. But maybe the owner speaks English and knows of The Malibu.

A donkey brays to remind Abby how far in the country she is. Maybe it
’s the wrong village. Maybe the right village is just a walk away.

A petite woman sits outside the shop, slid down in a plastic chair like a child, sucking her drink through a straw. She shields her eyes from the sun as Abby approaches.

‘English?’ Abby asks.

‘
No, I’m Greek.’ The woman smiles.

‘
Ah, you speak English. I am here for a job. The Malibu.’

The woman stands, spilling her drink down the front of her short dress in the process.

‘What is this “The Malibu”?’ Her accent is strong, she speaks slowly, wiping her dress with her hand.

Abby
’s hope dissolves. ‘A bar.’ Surely she must know it.

‘
Where this bar?’

‘
Here, Saros.’

‘
Here is no Saros.’

Abby can feel her shoulders droop. Her bag slips off and onto the pavement.

‘Are we near Saros?’ She feels she knows the answer before she hears it.

‘
The Saros an island.’ The woman waves her arm, suggesting impossible distances.

‘
But the boat said Saros.’ Abby blinks the tears away. She cannot stop her lip quivering.

The woman says kindly,
‘I am thinking it say Soros.’

‘
But the taxi driver! He must have known this was not Saros.’

‘
Did you ask him? What you say to him?’

‘
The Malibu bar. I was told the bar was in a neighbouring village to the port, and everyone knew it.’

‘
What else you have said to him?’

‘
Well, he looked like he didn’t understand so I said Yiannis’ bar.’

‘
Ahhh!’ The woman laughs and Abby feels herself relax a little, she seems to know of it. ‘There is the Yiannis bar.’ She points to the drab-looking kafenio on the square, where the metal-framed glass doors are now wide open and two old men, one with an impressive moustache, are playing an animated game of backgammon, slamming the pieces down, the noise echoing around the village. Abby puts her hand over her mouth and squeezes her nose in the crook of her thumb to stop herself crying. The woman continues, ‘But Yiannis dead. Son Theo now has bar. But not Malibu, never Malibu. This not Saros.’

Abby sinks where she stands, next to her bag, and sits on the kerbside.

Her shoulders are burning.

Dad was right, she ha
s overreacted. She wishes she was at home making his coffee, Rockie there to cuddle, for comfort and to be easily made happy with his marrowbone treats.

Lighter fuel sprays cross the charcoals. A single match roars the grill into life. It will b
e hot in twenty minutes or so. The chickens are split and waiting, and a stack of thick sausages ready. By lunch-time the
ouzeri
will be full of farmers, stuffing down the food dripping in her lemon sauce, swilling it down with large measures of ouzo in glasses clinking with ice. Satisfied that another day has begun Stella mixes herself an iced coffee and strolls outside to watch the world go by. She’ll peel the potatoes later.

It
’s early, but warm already.

She settles into the plastic chair and sucks her f
rappé through a straw. There aren’t many people about. A girl stands in the shade leaning on the telegraph pole, a tourist. You don’t see many of those here in the village. Shorts, sandals, strappy T-shirt, bag. Everything looks creased. Maybe English. Too blonde for English?

Distant sounds of morning echo around the village. Closer, from just across the square comes the grating sound of plastic against concrete as Vasso struggles with a stack of beer crates. It must be hard for her all day in the kiosk wit
h no one to swap shifts with now. Not that Vasso will complain that she is alone. Her son’s job in Athens is such a point of pride.

Stella stretches out her legs even further, luxuriating in the sun
’s touch relaxing her muscles. Child’s legs, all skin and bone and no muscle. Stavros won’t be here for hours. She didn’t hear him come in last night but this morning the sickly sweet odour of sweated alcohol betrayed last night’s excesses. She sighs and closes her eyes, the sun turning the insides of her eyelids pink.

When they first met he was an Adonis, with his charm, his flat stomach, his laugh. But mostly she likes to remember when he was still happy. When they were happy.

A sound of farmers laughing drifts across the square. The kafenio is starting to fill up. This is a good sign for Stella. All day she will be slicing meat turned on the upright spit, stuffing it into the folds of grilled pita bread with tomatoes, chips and garlic-yoghurt dip, wrapping it in greaseproof paper, handing these
giro
to hungry farmers, lazy wives and starving school children. Eaten in the hand as they walk home, juice dripping down their chins.

This is the sixth, no seventh, year she has been running her restaurant. Well, not exactly a restaurant. The four coarse wooden tables
with equally rough chairs do not make a restaurant. An
ouzeri
, perhaps. She certainly sells enough ouzo, along with the charcoal-grilled sausages and chickens, to farmers who sit for half an hour and want more than the hand-held
giro
or souvlaki.

Stella s
miles. Seven years. She loves it. She loves being at the hub of the community. She loves the laughs and the banter. She loves serving food to the single men who all look a little crumpled and need some care. She loves putting extra sauce on for the children and extra chips when they buy a parcel of chicken to take home for their mothers. She loves Friday and Saturday night when she puts on the radio and the customers stay longer, drink more, enjoy themselves, the cool of the evening air adding energy to her limbs, and a bounce in her step as she serves and dances between tables.

The farmers who come are a rough but jovial bunch.

‘Hey, Stella,’ they call. ‘Your potatoes are the finest in Greece,’ and the place dissolves into uproar, no harm intended. They fling compliments at her, these, who once threw stones. She gives as good as she gets, not offended by their rough ways and serves free shots of ouzo to the authors of the funniest comments, revelling in their flattery. Once Stavros had joined in. Lately he is more likely to clatter the spatula against grill, demanding her help.

‘Hey, Stella, don’t put any more fuel on that fire!’ the farmers hiss in a stage whisper, or ‘don’t blow on those coals, they will burst into flame,’ they warn as she scuttles to see what he wants, casting them a silencing look as she goes, giggles and whispers following her through to the grill room.

Stavros
’ piercing blue eyes rarely turn to her as she enters these days. He will just throw the spatula onto the counter and go to sit outside. One time recently he had just spat the words, ‘The sausages need turning,’ and had taken the bucket out to get more charcoal.

It isn
’t that what he says is cruel or unkind or untrue. The words themselves are harmless. It is the way he says them, his tone a window into his mind. What does he think of her if he feels free to speak to her that way? If she were the butcher the tone would be different; if she were one of the farmers even, then he would not be so dismissive. But the edge in his voice shows the absence of respect. It leaves her on the brink of tears. At these times a quiet desperation lodges in her, creating an urgency, compelling her to do something, anything to make the situation different, the feeling go away, to make things better.

Sh
e sighs and scuffs circles in the dust on the tarmac with the toe of her shoe. He was the life of the place once. More farmers’ wives had come then. He charmed them and made them feel special. He used to make Stella feel special once.

Stella stops grindin
g the dirt and looks over to the new sandwich shop across the road, just opened, and doing rather well it seems.

These days, when Stavros offers more than a grunt all he has to say is that they need more business, tourists. He has even talked about employi
ng a foreigner to help bring in these tourists, as if this foreigner will have an unlimited line of hungry friends trailing behind them. Why would the tourist come here, to this village, the same as thousands of others scattered across the backwaters of rural Greece? A moth flies to the light. But these thoughts remain unsaid; these days it’s better that way.

Stella peers across at the tourist. White shorts is still standing by the telegraph pole, rummaging in her bag. It is big for a handbag but not a ruck
sack. She takes out a phone.

Stella wants a mobile phone. She is not sure who she would call on it, but it would be fun. There would be no point in calling Vasso, she is right there in the kiosk during the day and next door when they go home. The butcher,
next door? But the order is the same every week. The bakery is just across the road. There would be no point in calling Juliet, the lesson with her is at the same time every week.

The lessons are a silver lining to the cloud of Stavros
’ growing obsession with the need for tourist trade. It didn’t take much to persuade him that learning English would be a good idea. She arranged a direct swap, a chicken dinner for an hour of Juliet’s time. The lessons are going well and Stella studies when she can and becomes excited towards the day of her lesson. Last week they practised shopping conversations. Recalling the lesson, she forms her lips.

‘
I would like a dozen teacakes and a jar of marmalade.’ Stella says out loud. She isn’t entirely sure what a teacake is but she loves Juliet’s marmalade.

The thought focuses her senses. A batch of bread must have just come out of the bakery oven, the warm mouth-watering smell thickening the air. They will come across with her daily order soon. Stella will pick out the end of a
warm loaf for her breakfast.

She sucks on her straw considering how, overall, despite Stavros, she loves so much of her life. Hopefully Stavros will pull out of this mood and they will plod on until they are old and grey, serving hungry kids, adding extra
sauce and dancing with the farmers.

The girl at the telegraph pole puts her phone away and takes out a purse. She doesn
’t look very happy.

Stella wonders if she should put extra sausages on, the kafenio is very full. They will sit there all morning and w
ander across when they get peckish for a
giro
or sausage and chips. She might even put a chicken on early. Someone may want to eat their main meal before mid-afternoon.

The girl in the shorts walks across to Vasso
’s kiosk and flicks through a little book before looking into the window. Stella is side-on to the open window of the kiosk and she cannot see or hear Vasso until she laughs. Stella knows this laugh. She uses it when she has made a joke; it is slightly withheld as if she is embarrassed. Vasso’s head appears, pushed through the kiosk window, followed by an arm. She points in Stella’s direction.

Perhaps
the girl is hungry. Stella gets up to check the grill. It is almost hot enough but even the sausages will be fifteen minutes and the potatoes aren’t peeled yet. The girl will either have to wait or go across to the sandwich shop. She can imagine Stavros’ face if he found out …

She looks over to the new shop, and the Romanian girl who opens up and serves there waves at her. She seems alright but Stella
has not really got to know her yet: she is new to the village. Stella nods in return and looks back to the square to find the tourist nearly upon her.

‘
English?’ the girl asks. Stella wonders why she would think she is English. She has dark skin and dark, shoulder length hair, frizzy from the heat of daily cooking, and even darker eyes. But she seizes the chance to bring her English lessons alive. This is what all the work has been for.

‘
No, I’m Greek.’ Stella smiles, feeling very pleased with herself.

The
girl talks too fast and Stella struggles to keep up. The story begins to unfold. It seems there is some sort of a mix-up. The poor girl has got on the wrong boat and is miles away from where she was heading. Stella feels for her, she is only young. She goes into the shop and pulls out a second chair. But the girl is all but curled up on the kerb, her knees to her chest.

‘
No problem.’ Stella tries to sound cheerful. ‘I will drive you back to port and you can go to the Saros.’

The girl does not move.

‘No problem, I will drive you.’ Stella finishes her coffee with a lot of dry sucks, getting the last of the froth. But still the girl does not move. Stella takes a step towards her, hesitates, and then takes one back before committing herself and crouching down beside her.

‘
What is the problem?’ Stella asks. She peers under the girl’s hair which hangs lankly over her face.

The girl sniffs. Stella jumps up and skips into the shop, grabs a handful of paper napkins and hands them to the tourist as she crouches beside
her again. The girl looks up from her knees, her eyes wide and wet with tears. She looks so young. Stella can feel her heart reaching out to her. She puts her arm around the girl’s shoulders.

‘
Tell me.’

‘
I’ve been stupid,’ the girl says. ‘I only had enough money to get to the job on Saros.’

Stella sucks in her breath. This is tough. Stella has no money in the till. Again. She is not sure when Stavros empties it but it is becoming a more and more regular event. How does he expect the place to keep running i
f there is no money to even pay the butcher? He keeps saying they need to earn more, but for what?

A crowd of thoughts presses to the forefront of Stella
’s mind. Her eyes widen, her pulse begins to race. Stavros’ obsession with tourists; he will want to take this girl in as a worker. He will think she is the answer to all his business dreams. This is not good. Things are unsteady enough between them and this would be a terrible burden to place on the girl, who is so young. Besides, he would also take advantage of her position and pay her next to nothing.

Under these thoughts is an angular, acid emotion. She recognises it, she cannot fool herself. It would only be a matter of time before he would want to prove his manhood in one way or another with this poor
unsuspecting girl if she were to work for them.

‘
How old are you?’ Stella asks as gently as she can.

‘
Sixteen.’ The girl still sniffs and studies her sandals, wiping the dust from them around her toes. Her nails are bright pink.

The girl is just a teenag
er. When Stella was first married there were rumours. Rumours about Stavros, about him before they were a couple. Rumours that he had been pushing his affections onto some girl who was too young. It wasn’t the old, old days when people were married as young teenagers: these were the days of George Michael and Michael Jackson. She can remember the posters on her wall. It had come as a shock to Stella, the dirty looks he received when they moved to his village after they were married. The gossip behind his back, the sudden silences when she walked into the village shop. The sympathetic looks she received, with her being so small and childlike herself. None of it matched the image she had of her hero. He had made her laugh and changed the subject when she asked him to reassure her. The gossip subsided when she was introduced as his wife in church that first Sunday. After that he had been so attentive in public no one could doubt his love for her. It silenced them all. She had touched on the subject a few years later, but he was not so jovial then and it was clear the matter was closed.

No, he must not meet this girl even if these rumours were never true. There is enough tension between them without adding a new dimension.