In the Shade of the Monkey Puzzle Tree (4 page)

The door opens a crack and a smell of fried food seeps into the hall. A bulbous nose protrudes.

‘Hello, I’m here about the job?’ Theo states, hoping no one has got here before him. Perhaps since he made the call, someone else has come. It might have been a mistake to waste time climbing up to the Acropolis. The door is opened wider by a man in a thigh-length, dirty white dressing gown which is loosely tied with a sash around his ample waist. There is no sign of any pyjamas underneath.

‘
Oh, I am sorry. Do I have the right door?’ Theo looks for the nameplate, but the corridor light has clicked off and the dull glow from inside the apartment does not help much in the hall.

‘
Yes.’ The man holds the door open wider.

‘
Did you not expect me? Should I come back later?’ Theo rocks from his front leg to his back leg, not sure whether to come or go, his hair bouncing to the movement.

‘
Come in.’ The hand not holding the door open slides up the man’s body and through the V of his dressing gown, fondling the hairs on his chest. Theo estimates the man must have a good ten years on him and will be fifty, maybe older. His lank hair is unwashed and combed straight back to gather in greasy curls around the back of his neck. He is short, his calves are thick, and his feet are bare.

Stepping past the man, Theo is immediately in the living area; there is no hall. The curtains are drawn. A black and white television is on in the corner with the sound turned down. It is not tuned in properly and the picture flickers, sending eerie light back into the room. The sofa is a mess of newspapers and dirty plates. Somewhat masked by the aroma of fried food, there is a smell of unwashed clothes.

‘So …’ Theo stands tall. ‘The job?’ he asks directly.

‘
Ah yes, the job,’ the man says as if he has forgotten. ‘I need a cleaner.’

Theo looks around him. Maybe a good half day of hard scrubbing would get the place clean. A miserable, dark, dirty, smelly day
’s work at most, but after that, it would need no more than an hour or two a week, which will not be enough to keep him. Besides, he is not sure he could take orders from someone with such little personal pride. He looks back at the man and tries to keep his revulsion from showing.

‘
Let me show you around. This is the living room.’ The man waves his hand, indicating his squalid living area. ‘And here--’ He steps across the room, kicking a yoghurt pot out of the way, and holds another door open. With hope, Theo steps past him, the man leaving little room for him to pass. ‘Is the kitchen.’ Theo is distinctly uncomfortable being crammed into this tiny space with this man who smells like he needs a good wash. The sink is piled with washing up. Theo wonders if he must revise his notion of what constitutes work. Washing a few pots is not really work, just part of life, whether at home or in the
kafeneio
. To be employed specifically to pick up after a man too lazy to do it himself, can that be called work? He feels his mouth pulling down at the corners and his lips tightening. But he needs a job and he consciously tries to erase any expression. His nostrils flare and twitch with the various smells coming, presumably, from a dustbin overflowing in the corner.

‘
I see.’ Theo retraces his steps, glad to be in the sitting room again. The man’s sash has come undone and his robe begins to open. Theo averts his gaze, but the man takes his time in covering himself up. ‘So is this a one-day job, or a daily job, how do you see it?’ But all Theo can think of is the sunshine that is struggling through the gaps at the tops of the curtains. His desire to be outside is becoming overwhelming.

‘
I thought perhaps you could come every day, for a couple of hours, tidy up, make a little to eat, make some conversation.’ He has slithered across the room. ‘And this …’ He opens another door. Theo is tentative; the man has left no room to pass him unless they are to touch. ‘Is the bedroom.’ He wets his lower lip with his tongue. Theo does not even look in the room.

‘
Ah right, no. Sorry. The hours would not suit.’ Theo steps towards the front door.

‘
I am sure we can come to some arrangement that you would like.’ The man smooths his hair back. Theo is out in the hall and heading for the unlit stairwell.

‘
No thank you.’ Theo turns to look at the man out of politeness to deliver these final words but the man, standing back-lit in his doorway, has his gown open and is already lost in his own world of pleasure.

Theo runs down the steps two at a time, sure that behind him, the man has grown dark and from under his bedroom door comes the scuttling sound of cockroaches the size of mice, their shells clicking against each other as they divide around the man’s legs and carry him towards the stairs where he becomes one with them.

Hitting the light switches as he passes, Theo
’s feet hardly touch the cracked marble steps with fear of what is behind him. The roaches flowing like a carpet, their shiny backs one sheet, just their antennae flicking to show their individuality in the dark. They fuse into a slime which bubbles like black tar covering the floor and creeping up the walls, oozing and growing, engulfing the handrail, filling the void.

Not slowing if he misses a switch, the adrenaline speeds his descent in the black until he is out into the fresh air and halfway down the street. It takes Theo five minutes for his heart to slow down and when it does, he stops at a
kafeneio
on a corner. He is more in need of the familiar environment than the caffeine. He feels unclean after the encounter and rather shocked. He has a desperate fear that in Athens, he is out of his depth.

The
kafeneio
is not quite as bare as his own back in the village. There are two pictures on the light brown walls, one of an island, one of a racing car, facing each other across the room. It is small—there are only four tables and no space outside. He orders and waits for his coffee, but when it arrives, he finds the sugar has not been allowed to dissolve enough. There is no sheen, and the coffee grounds are gritty. But he is glad of the atmosphere and within half an hour, he is mulling over the episode as his first lesson in Athenian life.

Age 40 Years, 5 Months, 7 Days

A woman serving in a
kafeneio
? Running his hand through his mop of hair and across his chin, Theo scratches at his stubble. His razor sat unused by the sink at home as he hurried to catch the bus this morning. He will not look his best. There is more grey in his stubble than on his head. It makes him look old and feel self-conscious. Making a mental note to either buy a razor or drop into a barber’s shop, he raises a finger.

She is quick to stand by his table, waiting to take his order. It
’s her job, but he feels flattered anyway. She could have loitered, taken her time, finished whatever she was doing. She’s dressed neatly, in a fitted bodice and a flowing skirt, her long brown hair is tied back in a ponytail, her eyes are wide set, and she has deep curves to her eyebrows. Her countenance has the openness that only graces youth. She is the age Theo feels himself to be but knows he no longer looks. He rubs his chin again.

She stands poised with a pad and a pencil.

‘Greek coffee, but could you let the sugar dissolve before you put the coffee in, and could you let the grounds boil slowly?’ He asks as gently as he can; he does not wish to say anything to change the expression on her face. She has a small mole on the edge of her jaw. Theo imagines she will not like it, but it adds a certain charm. There is an innocence about her. He widens the space his elbows are taking up on the table, pushes forward his chest.

Her smile remains as she replaces her pad and pencil in her apron pocket.

The table is square and wooden, with a thin metal sheet on top which has been hammered around the edges and nailed securely. Theo smooths out the paper and can feel the cold metal underneath.

He watches the girl idly, her head bent over the stove.
‘Right,’ Theo whispers and forces himself to focus. There will not be enough daylight to find a job and somewhere to live now. The man in his white dressing gown lingers like an unpleasant taste. He traces down the to let column, which is listed by areas of Athens. He notes the prices with a sharp intake of breath.

‘
You okay? Sounded like you hurt yourself?’ The young woman puts the coffee on top of his paper. It cannot be good; she has not taken long enough. Her fingers remain on the saucer as if she is reluctant to let it go.

‘
The rents! It is unbelievable. The sale prices ridiculous!’ He tries to laugh as he says the words, but the prices make it clear how soon he will need a job, even in this cheap area. His stomach clenches. Perhaps he should have taken all the money in the leather pouch, or taken some each day over time? His cheeks grow warm with the memory, the crisp sound of the notes in the night, the flash of a handful being stuffed in his pocket, the floppy feel of the half-empty pouch. He hopes his baba will just think it was a slow day, never really find out.

‘
You’re not from here, are you?’ the waitress asks. Theo’s fingers reach out for the cup and she withdraws her own, a fleeting touch.

‘
No, I am from a village near Saros,’ Theo answers and looks at her more fully. She is older than she at first appeared, late twenties, early thirties even. He wonders why she is not at home cooking and cleaning for her husband. There is no ring on her finger. As she moves, transferring her weight to her other hip, he catches an aroma of sun-dried clothes. She doesn’t look as he imagines a city girl to look.
‘Are you an Athenian?’

‘
I was born in Kefalonia, not that it was ever my home, really. I was only small.’ The muscle in her cheeks flex, as if something is bothering her.

‘
Where’s home for you then, here?’ Theo asks.

‘
Good question.’ She pauses. ‘I can see it in my head, a little stone house surrounded by olive trees, but I have never lived there.’

Theo raises his eyebrows. She could be describing any of a dozen houses back in his village.

‘Sounds familiar. You don’t have a family house back in Kefalonia?’

‘
No.’ Her lips seal. A topic not for discussion, she turns her attention back to the paper before looking out of the window and pointing.

‘
If it helps, I saw a sign in a window in a big old house down this road here.’ Her voice is like melted butter. ‘You’ll be better off finding buildings with signs on the door, they tend to be cheaper than what’s in the paper, my baba always says.’ She ends her sentence with a little sigh and looks back quickly toward the counter. ‘We’ve moved a lot.’

Over at the counter, a balding man who served Theo his first coffee is drying glasses.

‘Your baba?’ Theo asks. The girl nods and gives a half smile.

‘
I have one, too,’ Theo says, and the girl raises her eyebrows. ‘Well, of course, everyone has, but I mean, we have a
kafeneio
too, in the village. Near Saros.’

‘I’d better get back to looking busy,’ she says. ‘You want anything else?’

Theo curses his awkwardness as she goes. He would like to talk more with her, compare their situations. On the surface, there appear to be similarities, both displaced from their true homes, both know what it is like to work under their babas, both single a little late in life perhaps, certainly for her. It is odd to think of someone who is living a life parallel to his own. She must know some of his feelings, have experienced some of his conflicts with her own baba, know what it is like to swallow her feelings day after day, year after year.

The coffee is better, but she really needs a lesson. She wanders back to the counter, her hips swaying to an unheard rhythm. Theo tries not to look, forcing his attention back to the paper. The rents are far more than he can afford. He takes another sip of coffee and decides to leave the bitter, gritty mess. Chucking some coins on the table, he makes sure there is enough to include a tip. She did her job better than her baba, after all. Just before striding out the door, he takes a last glimpse at the girl, twenty-five, thirty, how do you tell? She points to remind him which road she indicated earlier. He points too and smiles, forgets their age difference, forgets his stubbly chin, and steps into the sunshine.

Why could the village not be filled with girls like her? His village. It does not seem so far away. It is only hours since he left it, yet it has taken till he is forty to come to Athens. Why? If he had come as a teenager, in his twenties, even in his thirties, it
’s possible he could have dated girls like that. Maybe even married one of them. Instead, he has looked at his baba’s grim face day in, day out. Just stupid. He will be lucky to find a woman his age who has not previously been married. If she has been married, there will be children, resentments, expectations.

He ponders this thought and his brow rises. A ready-made family could be nice. In fact, it could be perfect. He has never really taken to babies, doesn
’t understand what the fuss is about. But a child who already has a personality, that could be fun. A boy, walking him to school, carrying his books, playing football…

He is brought up short as water splashes in front of him. Looking up, he sees a lady with a bucket, looking down.

‘I didn’t hit you, did I?’ she asks, which makes Theo chuckle. Another good-looking woman. He is filling with
kefi
, happiness, jubilation, a thirst for life. He waves his reply and continues his journey in his absolute belief that he is going to succeed in his quest to make his mark and find his woman. Maybe he already has.

His exchange with the man in the dressing gown only adds to his strength. He dealt with that and survived. He is wiser, smarter for it—he can deal with anything. Someone like that could not pull the wool over his eyes again. What would draw a person to such behaviour is beyond him. Sure, there is poor old Aspasia in the village up past the
kafeneio
. But she does not know even what day it is, let alone how to judge what is appropriate behaviour. She has been like that from birth, and the villagers all know how she is and keep her safe. All Aspasia knows is when it is hot, she can disrobe and be cooler. There is no ulterior motive. The man in the apartment has no excuse.

Theo shivers in the sun.

The street he is on is lined with apartment blocks, some six storeys tall but most three or four. It is a wider road and the trees are planted at the edge of the pavement instead of in the middle, parked cars caterpillaring down each side. Theo’s stomach grumbles—it has been a long time since breakfast—but then, he rarely eats between dawn and late afternoon in the village.

He wonders if his baba is managing the
kafeneio
on his own. Did he remember to hang the scissors back on the hook so his baba could find them? He didn’t bring down more cases of beer from the storage room above; they’ll be heavy for the old man. Perhaps he should have given him some warning, asked Stathis to keep an eye on him, help out a bit, told Cosmo to offer to bring down the heavy stuff. But then he has tried and his baba was unreasonable, selfish, ignoring his son’s needs.

Forget the old man, this is his time, his chance. He rubs his hands together. They have a black sheen, the print from the newspaper.

The house at the end of the street on the corner is old and grand. If he lives here, he can see the woman in the
kafeneio
every day. Above the tall double doors, which are firmly shut, is a balcony with carved stone supports. The shutters upstairs are also closed but downstairs they are pushed back from one of the ground-floor windows, the glass a reflective black. A cat sits on the outer sill, partially obscuring a sign propped up on the inside that reads Room for rent. A short, spindly tree on the pavement rubs its leaves on the glass, scratching its presence.

Theo looks again at the grand building, which reminds him of the mayor
’s office in Saros, but with doors that are more ornate and a fine brass letter box.

There is a harsh tapping at the window. Theo jerks his head around to witness the white knuckles of a thin hand against the glass by the Room for rent sign. He wonders if the tapper has seen him and wants to attract his attention, but as the hand knocks again, the cat
’s eyes grow wide, the hand slams open-palmed against the fragile glass which rattles alarmingly, and the cat jumps to safety. The hand is gone.

Theo looks down at the gentle animal that is now rubbing around his ankles.

‘Clearly, he or she does not like cats, my friend,’ he says to the purring creature and takes a moment to ruffle its fur. It has a collar on, but it seems too tight. He squats and loosens it, rubbing the bald area underneath, sending the cat into ecstasy.

‘
Wish me luck. No, better than that: wish me a cheap rent,’ he tells the cat and climbs the three steps to knock on the grand door. After a minute or two, he knocks again and waits. And waits.

‘
Who is it?’ a voice demands without opening the door.

‘
I have come about the room,’ Theo answers.

The door opens a crack, revealing an eye and some bright red lipstick on a withered, downturned mouth. Shifting his weight from foot to foot, Theo tries not to fidget as he senses the person
’s eyes upon him. The door suddenly opens and the owner of the eye and the lipstick steps behind it, out of sight.

‘
Come in, come in,’ the woman’s voice demands. Theo hesitates, mindful of his earlier experience. ‘Oh, do come on. Do you want the room or not?’

Stepping into the dark, he can make out, as his eyes adjust, an elegant hall and the grand, graceful sweep of a staircase with metal bannisters and a shiny wooden handrail. There
’s a stillness to the air, as if visitors are infrequent and windows rarely opened.

‘
Go up.’

Theo turns to meet a thin old lady who rattles and sparkles in a beaded shift dress, the light too subdued to make out much more. He extends his hand but she ignores it and makes no introduction.

‘Go, go up.’ An angular finger waves the way.

Theo is more amused than anything by her rudeness, Athenian ways perhaps, and climbs the dimly lit stairs to the landing, off which are four tall doors, one of which is open.

‘In there,’ the old lady says, and Theo steps into a small room which is dimly illuminated by a standard lamp in the corner and furnished with a dressing table, a large bedside table, a bed, and an assortment of boxes. The shutters are tightly closed. There is a two-bar fire glowing, and all the evidence points to the lady living in this one room. Everything grand has evaporated.

Theo
’s
kefi
keeps him buoyant.

The woman sits on the bed
’s edge and indicates a small wooden chair. Theo sits accordingly, legs together, hands on his kneecaps. The lighting is enough for him to make out that the lady is old, perhaps very old, but the dress she is wearing could be from a play, or for carnival, or a past era. Complementing the tasselled, beaded dress is a black ostrich feather spiked through a loose, white bun on the back of the woman’s head. He tries to take a look around him, understand her in the context of her surroundings, but her sharp eyes are on him and he sits still.