The Unquiet Mind (The Greek Village Collection Book 8) (2 page)

The old woman’s face brightens. ‘Take him, Baba, take him to the mainland, show him a little of the world, let him see the beautiful women on the mainland and show him how to buy a donkey.’

His hand drops from her face into his lap. He looks back at the broken pot awaiting his attention. ‘Ach, I am too old for that and I have been up here for too long to go amongst men.’ He cannot look at her as he speaks. ‘He is a man now. He does not need his baba to hold his hand.’

Yanni’s mama stands, the shirt in a ball in her hands, the needle lost amongst the folds. She throws it with force on the table; it lands softly. She stomps inside.

Chapter 2

Yanni kicks the stone that secures the gate in the fence around the windmill, unaware that his baba’s eyes are on him. One of the kids bleats at him, its front hooves rasping on the chicken-wire fence as it tries to climb out, its back legs trying to follow. The whole fence threatens to collapse, oscillating on the stakes that, over time, have rattled loose in the ground. ‘Take it easy. Slow yourselves down. Nothing is going to happen fast in this heat.’ Yanni rubs its stubby horns, the animal’s neck arching to reach his hand. This heatwave so early will make the animals more thirsty. They will put an even greater strain on the well this year.

Before the gate swings free of the stone, he ruffles his own sandy hair smooth. From this vantage point, the house looks cosy on the small flat plain. Beyond and down the hillside, the sea stretches undisturbed to the horizon. The sunshine that glints on the waves is almost too bright. He looks away and rubs his eyes, his dreams still lingering. He had that dream again, dreamt of her, not as she was then, but as she would be now, a grown woman, with chestnut hair shining in the sun, a smile that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Sophia. The muscles around his eyes wish to return to sleep. He wipes his whole face on his shirt in the crook of his elbow and then twists the ends of his moustache between finger and thumb. The action gives a sense of control.

With his back to the goats, he turns to his left, facing downhill. The town and the port itself are hidden from view by the pine trees below him but the water tanker is visible on its way into the port. Soon it will dock with much shouting and line throwing. Spanners wielded, pipes attached, stopcocks turned, and the daily water supply will be pumped up the hillside to a reservoir from where it can be delivered to the houses in town. The two thousand or so inhabitants, and the same number of tourists—do they know how much they depend on that water tanker coming every day to the island? It is low in the water as it arrives, weighed down by its dense cargo, and bobs lightly on the surface as it leaves. The water is brackish and not fit to drink but is used for bathing and watering gardens. Many houses have cisterns under the ground to store the rainwater that runs from their roofs in the winter, but there is rarely enough to last all summer. For drinking, there is only bottled water, litres and litres of it, carted to every house. Too heavy to be taken by hand, and so every person on the island depends on the donkey men.

The tanker disappears behind the pine tree tops into the harbour, entering the bustle of a different world. Yanni exhales, grateful not to be a part of it, glad of his solitude, his hilltop situation allowing him to stay on the outside looking in. Here there are no social expectations on him, no rules to govern him. His shyness around people can remain hidden. The goats settle around the gate, awaiting their imminent release. His feeling of gratitude for his solitude is cut short. He may yet have to be part of that world even if only briefly, face a trip off the island, go to the mainland. He shudders at the thought.

Tucking his denim shirt into his jeans, he tightens his belt and turns his attention back to the goats. Another kick moves the stone securing the gate to one side and the herd pours out as one mass. Feeling eyes upon him, he looks down to the house. His baba is standing there staring back, perhaps wishing he was taking the goats out himself. One or two remain within the walls of the windmill and in a stride, Yanni chases them out to follow the others. Originally, the mill was roughly plastered and at one time painted. Here and there, patches of plaster cling to the stones, but mostly, it has flaked off over the years. The floor is earth and goat droppings. The smell is faintly acrid.

‘Come on, come on then,’ he calls and then whistles through his teeth. The goats bleat, run, bounce, and frisk about, spreading out, the brown and black and white wiry coats melting into the hillside. Their dull bells clonk and clank, indicating their whereabouts, arpeggios with no resonance, an orchestra of one-note soloists, the sound enchanting, filling the hill, a gently dramatic moment. Yanni’s heart expands.

‘Why do people rush?’ he asks the air as he stands watching the bobbing white tails fan out.

As he walks, he overtakes the animals that follow in a loose pack along the track up through the top cluster of pine trees, over the bald crown of the island, and down onto the steep still back side of the island. Here the cicadas are deafening, their rasping love call sung loudly and desperately, their brief lives above ground lived to the full; a few days to find a mate before their energy is gone and they fall to the ground. Both goats and shepherd leave the trees and noise behind them and take a path that heads down the hill to the water’s edge. The bugs’ cacophony mellows, then fades and becomes intermittent. Not far down the path is a smooth rock in the shade of a lone almond tree where Yanni sits, the tree’s trunk black against the blue sky, the branches dark, twisted and knotted in shocking contrast to the soft white blossom.

The animals spread out, settle, and begin to eat, each bite bringing them closer to Yanni, slowly gathering around him until he picks up a small pebble and throws it at the billy goat with the large curling horns. The animal sidesteps away with a clang of his bell, and the other goats follow him, resuming their feast some distance away.

‘What to do?’ he asks the silence. Dolly’s soft muzzle invades his thoughts, a wisp of an image amongst many. She may have been a tool for work but she was a wise and gentle beast, a good companion. He will probably never find another donkey like her for intelligence and willingness to work. And what will happen when the summer delivery work is over and the island grows quiet? Will he be able to keep his promise to the foreigner?

The American said he wanted to start building his house in September. The ruin he has bought is high up in the town, not as far as the pine trees, but nevertheless many steps from the port. Some stone remains from the building that once stood there, but more will be needed, brought by donkey from somewhere else on the island. Also every timber, every tile, every bag of sand and cement, every pipe, every light switch, every chair, every plate, knife, and fork will be brought in on the rusting old cargo boat. It has been agreed, he has shaken on it. He and his donkeys will do the job, haul everything up to the ‘plot with a view’, as the American referred to it. Even before the building work commences, there will be the rubble to clear from the site. Bags and bags of it. The charge is by the bag, two bags to a mule.

This work would see him and his parents through to the spring with ease. But with only one donkey, the American might not tolerate the time it will take. Will the builders wait? It is more likely that the American will just hire someone else as well. No one has fewer than two animals. With three donkeys working side by side, his work will be less, his pay will be less.

‘I have no choice,’ Yanni tells himself. The nearest goat looks up from its grazing, mouth chewing, dull yellow eyes staring blankly. ‘I must go to the mainland.’ The goat wiggles its tail and bends its head again. The idea does not sit easily; he never imagined he would ever leave his island, not for any reason. He has never really managed with people. It seems to him that everyone agrees to an unspoken big pretence of ‘civilisation’, but the truth is people are no different from his herd of goats. They all want the best branches for grazing, the deepest shade to stand in, and really there is no thought for the other goats beside them, just an unspoken pecking order. But he does not see life like that. He knows the herd will fare better if they work as a whole. His mama is always saying that his way of thinking ends up with him being taken advantage of, but is any other way better? Only last week, he advised a German couple to use the taxi boats once a week to take their bottled water along the coast to their newly bought summer house. If he had not done so, he would have delivered water to them every day for weeks until they wised up. His suggestion saved them a lot of money. It left him with less work. His mama was cross.

‘What business is it of yours to advise this man, Yanni?’ she scolded after he relayed the day’s events to his baba.

‘But how could I look this man in the eye after taking his money day after day, knowing I was taking such advantage?’

‘Any other donkey man would have,’ his mama sulked.

It is a lot easier if he just keeps himself to himself.

His hand fumbles as he takes the book from behind his tobacco pouch in his pocket. The book Sophia gave him all those years ago.

It falls open at a familiar page. When she gave it to him, the words seemed like nothing but squiggles. Now he can read, now he knows it off by heart. Under his moustache, his lips tighten. He briefly snorts, his head nodding. The irony is not lost on him. It was her brightness that lit his soul and his ignorance that lost him his chance. With diligence and help, he put his ignorance behind him. But it was in losing his ignorance that he came to know that she could have once been his.

If he had stayed ignorant, maybe the pain would be less now.

He strokes the page and reads the verse, in English, that she ringed with her own pencil all those years ago. Who says adolescent love is not as deep and real as any other?

Thus much and more; and yet thou lov’st me not,

   And never wilt! Love dwells not in our will.

Nor can I blame thee, though it be my lot

   To strongly, wrongly, vainly love thee still.

Looking out to sea, Yanni scans the horizon. He focuses there, his vision holding nothing but sea and sky. He stares hard, willing his mind to settle on nothing until his thoughts pass like dreams, forming of their own accord, all relating to the island, his island, where he was born and his family have lived for centuries. If he can have his wish, he will die here having never seen another land, living nowhere but in the stone hut. He has no wish to see more or do more. He is almost content. Sophia has faded as the years have passed, she will fade more still until one day, he will have perfect peace. He rolls up his sleeves. The sun has found its strength, the promise of the usual scorching summer.

His mama has no idea what she is saying when she suggests he get a wife. It would be like tearing out his heart and throwing it under stampeding hooves, a demand to dismiss his loyalty to Sophia. For what—an easier life? The very harshness of his life keeps the memory of her alive, the stark contrast highlighting her tenderness. Sometimes his mama does not know him at all. But then, Mama never did know about Sophia.

So long ago, he needs to learn to let her go. She was no more than a girl then, and he was just a boy. He can picture himself back then in colourless, shapeless shorts, his skin as brown as chestnuts, his hair always growing too fast for his mama’s scissors to keep up with. Sophia wore dresses that had no wrinkles, her hair always neatly combed, but she was always quick to take off her shoes once they were away from school. She climbed the scrubland above the town like a goat. He would run, fall, run again, lose her, find her, call for her. She would call back; he seemed always to be trying to keep up. Away from school, they played as if they only had one mind. He lost all sense of self and felt a contentment he has never known since. But at school, his awkwardness would return, the giggles would begin behind his back, and he and Sophia would become two people again. He her silent follower, she his defender.

‘You laugh and pick fun, but you are children who play with toys and sleep on your mothers’ laps when Yanni is out doing a man’s job, herding goats and milking sheep.’ She would stand, in the playground, with her hands on her hips, her back straight.

‘We can smell the work he does all too well.’ Hectoras would usually be the one to reply, trying to gain Sophia’s attention for himself.

‘And without it, you would have no milk to suckle on. Until you have a job of your own, I would not be too quick to judge others.’ She was outspoken, brave, afraid of no one.

How much of a different person will she be now? Across the water, all grown up. Off the island, in a land of sophistication, complex rules, and modern ways.

With each green bite, the herd moves nearer to him, now almost on top of him as he lies back in the sunshine, looking up at the cloudless blue sky. A hoof clips his foot as the animal’s blind march for food moves it forward. Yanni throws another stone; the goats scatter away, startled. He will wait for them to eat their way towards him again, one more stone’s throw, and he will take them back.

The time comes too soon. He pockets the book which has been lying on his chest. He uncurls slowly and calls his animals with a whistle. The goats eat on but as he walks, they munch towards him until they finally lift their heads and follow him, now hurrying, now taking a bite, back to the windmill’s corral. He listens for any distant bells that may have wandered, but the hillside is silent. He looks over the scrubland. Here and there are houses which are now nothing but ruins, piles of stones. Where walls remain standing, gaping holes are left where the roofs once were, and blind eyes show lifeless interiors. It won’t be many years before Mama and Baba follow Dolly, and then what? Will he remain alone up here with all these ghosts or will his life change so much that only the cottage will remain and that too will lose its roof and eventually the walls begin to crumble?