The season is all but over, the sun is out and the air is cooler and clear. I take a break from the desk and saunter down to the village square for an hour’s coffee. Our hero sits at the table watching the world go by and notes what he sees:
As the ancient cobbler sips his Saturday afternoon ouzo he signals to the even more ancient Yiannis to come down the steps to his table. It takes Yiannis a good minute to hobble the ten yards, his arms stretched out for balance, his legs jerking as if not quite attached to his hips. Once at the table a short exchange takes place and his is dispatched back up the steps to the kiosk to buy cigarettes for his friend. A journey of about 20 yards and a few more steps. He performs his duty, rejoins the cobbler at the table and is rewarded with five cigarettes.
Young Paniotis bounces past, grinning as always, as if he has just done something very naughty but rewarding and has got away with it. You can tell that he is a local lad, he skips down the steps without looking at his feet, and never trips.
Traditional music plays from the radio inside Lefteris’ kafenion and competes with Giorgio’s late lunch cabaret; accordion and tenor, uncertain melody, certain voice. Strangely it is in the same key as Lefteris’ radio.
Paniotis ambles back up, blowing bubblegum, moving more slowly now as if his dash down was in vain, or has tired him out. Maybe it is the heat – it is October 23rd and still hot.
Lefteris, our landlord, crosses the square on his moped, toots and nods a smile. He is always on or in some vehicle or other when I see him, and when he sees me I am always in a café.
A new song on the radio, slower and plaintive. Without understanding all of the lyrics I know that the singer is suffering from some relationship problem, part of him is broken and will never be healed. I hope it is only his heart.
It must be work knocking-off time, two paint covered men on a motorbike cross the square. Another stops to buy water from the kiosk, turns his bike and heads back up the lane. The butcher finishes his drink outside the closed Rainbow bar next door, returns his glass to his own shop, closes that and heads home with a bag of something heavy and dripping. A couple of guests leave Giorgio’s and the accordion falls silent.
A lone tourist passes, slowly on the steps, fans herself and wanders on up. Tee shirt and shorts. Same as me.
The vine overhead is turning red, a few leaves fall to the ground like drips of blood as a slight breeze rustles through on its way to somewhere else. The sea to my right and far below looks grey in the shadow of the island but the sky is blue and uncluttered. The rock of Nimos basks and occasionally a few white specks drift lazily across the mirror flat water. Sailing boats.
The ex-postmaster waves a greeting on his way to his house.
A young lad on a moped pulls up at the kiosk and collects cigarettes, and his girlfriend.
Alex joins me and we discuss the end of the season. I look at my watch. An hour has passed. An hour in which nothing, and yet everything has happened. |
