A Song Amongst the Orange Trees (The Greek Village Collection Book 13) (8 page)

'How kind of you,' Sakis says in English. He does not want to exclude this Abby person from their conversation.

'It is new. It was in the hotel when I bought it but it is not the right style. Oh my, it is hard to believe that this place has not been lived in for fifteen years,' Stella says as Sakis takes the back end of the rolled rug from Abby. Jules grabs the front end.

'Dora has kept it well over the years,' Sakis says and, looking at Abby, he adds, 'People are very nice around here.'

'You will be at the
panigyri
tomorrow night?' Stella asks, but it sounds more like a statement than a question.

'You are going?' Sakis asks Abby.

'I came over especially, that and a little business with Stella.' Abby's voice is so English, it makes his stomach tremor.

'Right. Plenty to do.' Stella looks distracted for a moment, as if consulting an internal list of things to be accomplished. 'Let me know if I can be of help?' before leading the way back out into the sunshine.

'See you at the
panigyri
,' Sakis calls after Abby, who turns and smiles at the garden gate.

'Ha! You have just been struck by lightning, my friend.' Jules laughs when the two women are out of earshot.

'I have not.' Sakis watches the figures as they recede into the square and are lost in the beehive of activity.

Jules laughs again. 'Sure,' he agrees as he gathers things together to make breakfast.

Jules pushes his plate away and sips his second coffee. They have taken a table round to the front of the house so they can watch as stalls are erected and people hurry about. The sound of laughter seems to be contagious across the whole village. There is a little shouting here and there, as if the excitement has turned to tension and has bubbled over. A massive stack of amplifiers is unloaded from a truck, and they stand marooned in the middle of the road.

More neighbours are out whitewashing. The walls that were painted earlier have dried from a dull grey to a startling white.

The woman from the kiosk is striding down the road at a brisk pace. It seems odd to see her with legs; normally, all that can be seen of her is her head and shoulders. She is carrying a heavy-looking paper bag with handles. Much to Sakis’ surprise, she stops before reaching his gate and beckons him.

'
Ella edo
.' She demands him to
come here
. Sakis naturally looks about to see if it is really him she is talking to. '
Ella
Sakis,' she says again, out of breath with the speed of her walk and the weight of the bag. Sakis stands and realises he ate too much breakfast, but then, Jules is such a good cook. This morning, he rubbed garlic and tomatoes on the toast before piling the slices with scrambled egg.

'Can I help you, er …' Did he ever know her name, this woman who saved him from the sheep all those years ago?

'Vasso,' she says. 'I heard you were moving in. They may be no good, but I was having a clear out, always do for the
panigyri
, clear out and whitewash.' She laughs as if this is funny. 'Found these curtains. If they are no good, give them to the gypsies. Oh, and Marina who runs the corner shop says she has some household things that you might find useful. Just pass by. See you tomorrow night if not before.' She doesn’t wait for a reply but pats him on the shoulder and rushes back the way she came.

Sakis experiences a wave of guilt. Everyone’s kindness is so touching. They must think he is staying permanently.

The bag is heavy. Once back by Jules, he sits and pulls out a corner of the material. They are fully lined blackout curtains in blue velvet. One edge is faded by the sun.

'Cool,' Jules says. 'You know, they call this shabby-chic. I like it.'

'Bedroom or main room, then? Or yet-to-be-built bedroom?' He loves the way Jules is so positive about everything, even a pair of old curtains.

There is a ringing from inside. Sakis almost knocks the table over as he jumps up to get it. It will be Andreas. His future is about to begin.

It isn't Andreas. It is a wrong number. But now that he is up, he might as well call Andreas. Otherwise he will just be waiting. He goes out the back door, down to the walnut tree, and leans against its trunk to dial.

'Hi, Andreas?'

'Who is this?'

'Sakis!'

'Ah Sakis, I did not recognise your number. Of course, you have a new phone.'

Sakis is about to remind Andreas that he texted his new number but he wants to get to the point.

'Have you got them?'

'Got what?'

'Andreas, are you teasing me? Don't, please. I have been sitting here waiting. When do we go to America? When shall I come up to Athens?'

'Ahhh, yes, okay. Well, there has been just the tiniest hitch…'

Sakis’ head jerks back. He stares into the middle distance but sees nothing. The sun loses some of its warmth and his legs feel weak.

'What? Come on! You said that you were trying to get them to pay. If they won't, they won't, so you get the tickets yes? You have set things up the other end, right? So we must go.'

'Sakis, life is not as easy as that. There are complications. There is this model, Naomi. She is big, huge! She is coming to Greece just for a couple of days and she needs a local man, like me, to pave the way, show her which doors to go through, and open a few doors, too.'

'Andreas, you are meant to be my manager!' He slithers down the tree to crouch on the ground.

'I am, I am. This gig with this Naomi, it will pay for the tickets to America. You'll see; it will all come together.'

'And the interviews you had lined up for me in Athens?'

'Well, I have been a bit busy organising this visit of Naomi's. The television want to interview her; the press want to talk to her.'

Suddenly it is clear that it has gone! His moment that he should have grabbed has passed him by! He is yesterday’s news. Un-romantically, a bout of laryngitis has stolen his chance. He should never have trusted Andreas.

'Sakis? You still there?'

'Yes.' His tone is flat. He has no energy even to argue; what would be the point?

'Two days. Then she'll be gone and I can buy the tickets. Trust me, Sakis. Just two days?'

He does not even bother to reply. He ends the call, uses the tree to help him stand and, stiff legged, rejoins Jules.

'Was it him?' he asks. Sakis cannot reply. 'Hey, you okay? You look pale. What's happened?'

'It's gone. My chance has gone. That bloody Andreas. No tickets, no America. Gone.' His head hangs so low, the back of his neck hurts, but he does not care.

'No, man! You still won.'

'There are no tickets, no money, and nothing lined up.'

'But you still won. People will still want to interview you. Buy your own ticket. Sort it out yourself.'

Sakis shakes his head.

'Why do you shake your head? If you want it, do it. It is like everything in life. If you want something, the only person who is going to make it happen is you. If you wait for someone else to give it to you, you will wait forever.'

'I don't have his contacts, his experience.'

'Yet,' Jules says.

'What?'

'You don't have his contacts and his experience yet. But if you want it, you can get it.'

Sakis watches an ant carrying a crumb of scrambled egg twice its size.

'I hear you,' he says but he does not feel any lighter.

'Maybe you need to know what you want,' Jules suggests.

Sakis goes inside and takes his bouzouki to his room. He has not sung since the laryngitis but now he needs to sing, quietly, to himself. He plays his new song, but still the words do not come. It is the most beautiful, passionate tune he has ever written. But the words do not come. He resorts to singing some old tunes. He is almost tempted to sing and play 'Opa' but he knows now, he knows now so strongly, it was a sell-out. A cheap ditty to get him in the competition. Maybe he does not want to go down the road that winning with such a song set before him. Maybe it will lead to more sell-outs, more cheap tricks, more soulless singsongs.

The day moves by him with no effort on his behalf. The village is transformed, with the road cordoned off to traffic as more and more market stalls are erected and flags are strung wherever there is a place to string them. He spends most of the day in the bedroom, which is naturally cool as the walls are stone and over half a meter thick.

Jules leaves him alone, tapping on the door to bring him a sandwich at lunchtime and again in the evening to invite him for food.

'Figured out what you want?' Jules asks as he serves up a mixed salad. He has also made a dish of
tzatziki
and
dolmades
using cabbage leaves.

Sakis doesn't answer. They eat in silence. They drink ouzo in silence. Finally, Jules yawns noisily and says, 'I heard three new tunes today. That's a productive day.'

'The words won't come,’ Sakis replies.

'Maybe the words that you think should come are not the right ones. Maybe you are waiting for the wrong inspiration.'

'I sing of passion, I sing of the old ways, I sing of how proud Greece should be. I sing the songs of the
manga
of Pireaus.'

'Yes, you did,' Jules says and Sakis downs the rest of his ouzo as he hears the past tense, and goes to bed.

The
Panigyri

Sakis wakes with such joy the next day. There is no accounting for it, no reason. He is just happy. As for New York or Andreas, he has no appetite for thinking about such things. Maybe he will ponder over it all, but right now, the whole things feels too negative. Energy for no purpose.

The sun creeps through the shutters and a chorus of birds are singing. He stretches and creaks back a wooden shutter, a blade of light cutting through the sitting room’s still air to slice across Jules’ ruffled empty bed.

Sakis finds him sitting outside at the back, looking across the overgrown garden. The skin on his forehead is creased and his mouth is tightened in a thin line.

'Your mattress too hard?' Sakis asks as he pours himself a coffee and then leaves it on the table as he picks up his bouzouki to strum a chord or two. He breaks into one of the new melodies from yesterday, which morphs into the haunting tune that he is most happy with. But still, the words for this tune will not come.

Jules has not spoken yet.

A rustling in the dried weeds promises the arrival of a cat, probably the one that seems to adore Jules. But no cat comes and the rustle continues until a tortoise appears.

'Can you see him?' Sakis asks Jules.

Jules still does not speak.

'Come on, Jules. So you miss this chance of being taken to New York and I am no longer the man who could open doors for you over there. But being here is not that bad. You said yourself we could be happy here. I will get work at some bouzouki bar. I will take on lessons for children. It may not be the big time, but I think we might find we fit in well here.' The words come of their own accord, taking Sakis by surprise, bringing a smile to his lips that expands to crease the corners of his eyes. His stomach flips in a leap of delight at his prospects.

But Jules’ lips still remain a tight line.

They eat breakfast in silence, but even that does not shake Sakis' high spirits. After breakfast, he picks up his instrument again and continues to strum. New melodies leak into old, tiny riffs take on bigger forms. He watches his hands almost as if they are not part of him as inspiration after inspiration manifests. He feels caught on a wave of creativity, as melody after melody crescendos and falls away. It feels like there is no end to them, as if these notes have been waiting all this time just for him to come to this garden and find them so both the notes and Sakis can rise above the orange trees and fly on their wings.

Jules stands up so suddenly, his chair rocks. Without a word or a look, he goes inside and comes out again with his small rucksack. It is bulging.

'Ahh, yes, we need to get a washing machine,' Sakis says as he looks at the bag and continues to strum. Words are floating in his head. This tune is a sad ballad about people who remember once living in the city, where they behaved like the chickens, pecking and strutting but finding no corn. He keeps hold of the words in his mind as he speaks, 'We should have got one the other day. I don't suppose there will be a laundrette in the village. Are you going into Saros?'

'No. Athens.'

Sakis stops strumming.

'I have a plane to catch,' Jules adds.

Sakis puts down his instrument, worried he might drop it.

'A plane?' He hears the sound of his own voice. His throat tightens to laugh, but he is not sure if it is a joke.

'I have always had my ticket, Sakis.' The words are spoken softly, as an apology.

'To where?' Sakis breathes the words rather than speaking them.

'Come on man, you know. I want to work for
Underground Unchained
. Nothing has changed for me.'

'But …' Sakis looks around to the house, the area of ground that they marked out with sticks and stones where the extension will be.

'But what?' Jules’ voice is gentle, his French accent strong. 'You knew from when we first met this was my dream, that I was going for it.'

'But the house. What was all this designing and planning with the house?' Although he is sitting down, he feels as if he is falling and a little bit dizzy, as if he has drunk too much coffee. His breakfast turns in his stomach, an empty gnawing sensation that leaves him feeling slightly sick.

Jules puts down his bag and pulls his chair up close to Sakis before he too sits down. With a hand on Sakis' shoulder, he looks him in the eyes.

'Sakis, my friend, my dear friend, the house, the kitchen, the extension, it was never for me. It was always for you.'

Sakis can feel his lower lip tremble.

'But you said it was, you used a French word,
nécessaire
.'

'This house, this village, it is very
nécessaire
. For you. This is what you need.' His voice softens even more. 'Not me.'

The world becomes blurred behind suspended tears. Jules drops his hand to his lap.

'Do not be sad, my friend. I think you are going to be happy here. As for me, I have to conquer my own mountain, win my own world competition. I still have things to prove. Maybe when I have worked for the magazine for a while, maybe I will come back here. You can never tell the future.'

But Sakis knows he will not come back.

Jules picks up his bag.

Sakis points to the house. The words Jules has spoken still have not landed, have yet to make their impact. He needs to hear them again. 'You did all this …'

'For you.' His hand is back on his shoulder. 'For you, my friend. You would never have been brave enough to even consider living in the village on your own. But now, you have a picture in your head of how the house will be, a picture of how life will be. Can you imagine living anywhere else now?'

'Thank you.' Sakis cannot trust himself to say any more. If he says anything else, he will lose control. His bottom lip is still trembling. He has never known such thoughtfulness, such selfless kindness. Jules pulls Sakis’ head into the curve of his neck and rests his own forehead on Sakis’ shoulder for a moment. Jules smells of soap and coffee and musty t-shirt. The house is going to be so empty without him.

Releasing his grip slightly, Jules lifts his head first and they face each other. Jules kisses him first on one cheek and then on his other, prolonging the release. There is real love in his kisses.

'
A bientôt, mon ami.'
Jules looks him in the eye and then abruptly stands, throws his bag over one shoulder, and he is gone, striding down the road toward the village square.

Sakis sits without moving, stunned, only breaking from his stare when the tortoise noisily chomps on a lettuce leaf that Jules must have put down for it. He falls into a stare, watching the tortoise take deliberate bites at the lettuce, until it is all gone and the animal moves off, slowly, slowly. The sounds from the village square leak into his ears only half heard.

'Ena, duo, ena, do, ena ena, ena.'
The sound check repeats over and over, reminding the village that the festivities are tonight. The hum of generators as they are started to check that they will provide enough light for the stalls when it grows dark mingles with the sounds of tractors as, for the rest of the village, daily normal work continues.

'Ena, duo, ena.'

There is the smell of baking effusing from next door. Dora is making her prize-winning
spanakopita
. A donkey sucks in noisy air up on the hillside before bellowing it out again with all the sad loneliness that Sakis feels and thinks is going to break his aching heart. Jules has gone.

‘Ah, there you are.' It is bird-like Katerina from the house opposite. 'I brought you some jam that I made last autumn, some pickles from the winter, a bottle of my homemade wine, and a bottle of oil from my olive grove to officially welcome you to the village.' She blushes. Sakis is roused and feels forced to respond.

'Oh, thank you. That is very kind. You really needn't have.' The words come parrot-fashion.

'Sakis.' She sits on Jules's chair. 'I, or rather we, the village, need a favour.'

This makes him blink.

'The
panigyri
was going to be so great this year. You know we had
Grigoris Taxydaktylos from Thessaloniki booked. You know, Taxydaktylos, the singer and clarinettist? Grigoris?' Sakis looks blank but she continues anyway. 'Well, he just called. His car is broken down. Up near Larisa. He is not going to make it.' She waits for him to say something but when he doesn't, she continues. 'I know who you are. I know you are no longer Sakis the son of Costas. You are Sakis the winner of the song contest.'

Her words shock him and he realises he had forgotten. Extraordinary as that seems, he had really forgotten. In his sorrow of first losing the New York deal and then losing Jules, he has forgotten the feeling of his win. He has also forgotten being known as the son of Costas. The two emotions return and tussle, swamping his grief at finding himself alone.

Katerina has one hand shielding the sun from her eyes as she looks at him. The tortoise’s nails tick tick across the flags as it makes its way into the undergrowth.

Sakis still says nothing.

'They don't know, the villagers. They don't know who you are.
Olympiakos
were playing against Spain the night you won … The whole village sat in the square watching the football.'

'So?' Sakis begins to see which way this is going. He is not sure he likes the direction, so he waits for her to spell it out as he tries to focus in on his own responses, trying to examine and name his emotions.

'So, you could be a surprise like the
panigyri
has never known. You, Sakis, could make this the best
panigyri
the village has ever known. You could make this so good that Saros town will never be able to better tonight. The competition between the town and the village will be over and the village will have won forever. They will never be able to better this because you are a local boy, not someone bought and shipped in. You are one of us! Can you imagine?' The pride shines in her eyes.

The confusion in his head is now fighting with a tremor in his chest.

'Please say you will do it. We won't tell anyone. I am the musical coordinator, so I will just say the problem is solved and then, pow! We will hit them between the eyes.' She makes a tiny movement with her fist that is meant to be a punch in the air.

The tremor in his chest is the one he always gets with the excitement of a live performance. The confusion in his head is trying to separate and name all the feelings that are racing through his heart, his veins, his mind.

'I, I, I …' If he is to perform, he will need to practice. 'There are not enough hours.'

'For what? Just sing. I have seen you. Become lost in your world and you will take all those watching with you.'

'But …' What would he sing? Not 'Opa.' He is never going to sing that crass little jingle again. He could sing some of his older songs, the ones about life in Pireaus but somehow, they no longer seem to fit who he is. They are too heavy for life here. He has nothing to sing!

'Please, Sakis.' She is so earnest in her entreaties, her eyes now screwed up against the sun because she has lowered her arm to hold his hand, her wrinkled digits on his smooth, tanned musical fingers.

Someone says 'yes' and she smiles. Sakis realises it is him. Again, he has agreed to something to please someone else. Does he really want to perform? The excitement he feels says 'yes' and Katerina releases her grip. The delight on her face mingles with the excitement now bubbling inside him and he is soaring. The optimism he felt from before Jules’ departure returns with gusto.

'Yes, I would love to,' he repeats, and her smile becomes even wider.

'Not a word to anyone.' She is up on her feet, little bird-like steps as she hops towards her home.

Sakis spurts a half laugh out through his nose, his own smile turning into laughter. He chuckles to himself. Tonight, he will perform and take the world with him once again. But right now, he needs to practice. He must get some words together for his new tunes and hopefully words for that haunting tune. Surely they must come. Now is the time to let this most beautiful of melodies loose for other people to enjoy.

Light on his feet, he takes his bouzouki into his bedroom and the hours fly by as the words to his newest tunes come, lyrics follow more lyrics, but still after many hours, there are no words to the one haunting melody. It does not even have a title. He is slightly disappointed not to have that one tune to offer, but his others are good. Really good. In fact, he confides to himself, they are better than anything he has written for some time.