The Mani
| The Scottish Arts Council is proud to present this short story by Meaghan Delahunt - read more about her and the inspiration behind this story. |
Everywhere, the stones. Great white boulders, whole fields of them, and the stones split open and red inside. There’d been fighting here - only a hundred years back - blood feuds - family against family, brother against brother. And as he looked out over the ravaged fields of the Mani, he wondered if somehow, at their red core, the stones held a memory of all that.
It got him thinking again about his own family, about blood ties, about what it all meant. He got to wondering again about his mother; about her life.
Mebbe he could’ve helped her more. Early on, they’d tried, he and Anna, offered to help, but his father refused to allow anyone else. And they’d all gone along with the silent tyranny from the wheelchair, for his old man could no longer speak after the stroke, except to swear in frustration, to say fuck or shit, which would’ve been funny, if things were different. Even yes and no were all twisted about. For all those years, he could only move his right hand, to signal for the bottle, and in the end, it was the bottle that killed him.
There was the sense of relief when that happened. Matt remembered it clearly.
But when he thought about his mother, it was very different. When he conjured her up - alive – in the weeks before Christmas, that was the last time - with her turquoise blouse and her glass of wine, with her paintbrushes in jars and her laugh filling the room - it was almost too much, to think of her gone. And when he looked down again at the stones it seemed as if, truly, they were bleeding.
They were in Greece now. One thought led to another as they made their way down a small path, following the ancient kalderimi until it gave out and the silence was all around and the winter sun warm at his back. Greece was always the first place they thought of, he and Anna, whenever they thought of escape. And it’d been only a matter of weeks, just one month since, but Anna was pale and tired; she’d been close to his mother. And what with her own mother gone and her father long buried, she felt everything pressing down, she said. Pressing on the ache before, and the ache before that. Then there was his job. Everyone lately had a story of loss: a child stillborn; a brother killed in an accident; a father to cancer. Were more of these stories coming his way, or was it his own feelings, mirrored, in the people coming to see him? He couldnae work it out. But in the weeks since his mother died, and with the shock starting to wear off, they were left with a great gaping hole, nothing at their backs, just themselves. Anna felt as if she were falling, she said.
He had no words to describe how he felt.
Anna was Greek, born in London. She was a language teacher. They’d met in Athens fifteen years before when he’d been travelling round and showed up at a school in Kato Patissia. By then she’d been in Athens for five years, she even had a Greek boyfriend away on military service. She’d forgotten how much the English drank, she said, the first time they met. He told her he was Scottish, but it made no difference. She’d frowned, looking at the carnage of bottles and bodies in his apartment. Would a Greek drink like this?
She’d always challenged him and made him laugh. She was still vibrant and beautiful; she hadn’t changed. With every passing year that first time in Greece took on lustre, the entire daily grind rubbed clean from memory, and only the partying and the islands and the friendships remained. And they were still together, happy, after fifteen years - they often marvelled at how the time had passed, all the things they’d been through, the places they’d lived. They still laughed about his first months in Athens when he used to order everything in multiples of five – at the market, at the bakers, at the supermarket, even buying stamps at the Periptero in multiples of five - because pende was the only Greek number he could ever remember.
Anyway. He stopped to help Anna over a wall and as she extended her left hand he saw the ring on her finger. The gold band belonged to his mother, they now had one each, and they’d gone to the police station to collect them. His mother had the rings on when the neighbours found her. The young policeman saying, She looked peaceful, aye. She was at rest. Ye could see that. And handing the rings back, handing over the sealed plastic bag, he said, I’m sorry.
And then it seemed more urgent just to get away.
Anna’s family came from the Pelepponese, from Kalamata. Her father was a communist and after the Civil War he’d been forced to move to Athens and later to London. Anna was the youngest of five. This time, they decided to head for the Mani, right down to the southern-most point on the Peninsula. They wanted to travel by bus or hitch and walk, right down to Cape Tenaro, that was the plan, because they’d never been that far south before. It was one of the mythological gates to the Underworld, and they both loved the sound of it, the drama of it. They would go there for his mother. It was early January and the Pelepponese was always warm at that time, and they could leave the long Scottish winter, and everything, behind.
They caught a bus, from Athens to Gythio and from there to Yerolimena. They were the only tourists and they stayed in a converted tower house. They loved the town, with it's small, curved main street, it's three tavernas and two hotels, it's white rocky bay. On St Basil’s day they sat out along the waterfront eating grilled octopus and drinking retsina. A waiter took a photo to commemorate this moment, sitting out in Greece, in the January sun. They had fifteen years worth of such moments. One day we should put them in an album, Anna said, and he always agreed, but they were both too lazy, really, to do anything about it. Not organised enough. His mother had never been to Greece, but she’d always loved seeing their photos. They inspired her, she said. In particular she loved painting doorways and stairwells. She loved painting empty streets and huge skies in inks and colour washes. And in recent years, since his father’s death, she spoke often about that time in the future when she’d be able to travel with them to Greece. She’d take her painting with her, she said, now that she was free.
On their first day in Yerolimena, as they walked the stone fields they saw an old woman striding down the hill. She had a stick in one hand and a cloth bag on her back full of horta leaves, spilling over her shoulders. When she smiled, her face wrinkled beautifully and she had no teeth. She nodded to them, Kalemera, she said and then walked on. Kalemera, they repeated. And Anna pointed after her, All the old women - out working, she mused. All the old men in the taverna - or dead. These elderly widows in black - digging their gardens or walking the mountains or dragging lengths of irrigation pipe across stony fields - they seemed full of purpose and vigour. They reminded him of his own mother. While the older men seemed prematurely aged and sedentary and fat, smoking and clicking their komboli, arguing to the grave.
And it got him thinking about his own village. In Scotland, even the seagulls died of heart disease. His father lived to sixty and his mother to sixty-four. For better, for worse, Father Sean said after the funeral. Your mother lived her vows. And after his father’s death, his mother bought a microwave and got her hair cut. She went to art classes in the town. She travelled to France and Portugal, to Italy and Canada. She went at life, full-tilt. She was like a dying plant, nurtured back and determined to thrive, to reach for the sun, to enjoy.
Only five years she had, said Anna, turning around to face him as if reading his mind. Too short.
Too bloody short.
Anna looked at him closely. He could see her wondering if it was going to happen again and he wanted to reach out and reassure her, hold her close, to tell her that it wasnae going to happen again, because he was different, they were older, and their life together was all he ever wanted, even back then it’d been all he ever wanted.
And so it hung between them, the question of whether it would happen again: whether he’d go off the rails or get drunk or mebbe sleep with a stranger.
Then Anna walked on and said: Just don’t run like last time.
And so he stopped and called her over to look at an early wildflower, a purple iris, blazing from behind a white rock, and then hugged her to him.
It’s not like last time. It’s all different.
I know, she said. Really, It’s OK. She pressed into him. I know it is.
After his father’s death he couldnae cope with all the emotions - the guilt and the relief and the burden of being a Prodigal. It’d been too much and he’d had a fling with a woman he met at a conference – nothing important – he’d been like a drowning man and he’d been drinking heavy, for months it seemed, and that was that. He’d told Anna, which mebbe was a mistake, but it was all in the past now and they’d both come through it. They loved each other, they wanted to be together, which was more than most people, they both agreed, more than most people, so many years down the track. He felt as if they’d come through a great test and survived. More than survived.
*
When they decided to hitch a lift to Cape Tenaro, it was a Sunday. The first car they saw belonged to the local Orthodox priest. They hesitated. They’d seen him during the week, drinking at a table outside the main taverna. Each time they saw him, he was sitting in the same spot or swaying in the doorway, or limping up towards his battered red car.
So they hesitated when he stopped, wound down the car window and threw out the stub of his cigarette. He smiled at them, revealing blackened teeth with many gaps. He could drive them all the way to Cape Tenaro, he said. It was no problem. Matt got in the front seat and Anna got in the back. Anna spoke English to the priest. Matt was speaking Greek, but he felt rusty, felt awkward, was waiting for her to rescue him. He could see he was going to have to wait a while longer. She could be stubborn like that.
Milene Nicolai, the priest shook hands with them both. He seemed sober enough. Pos sas lene?
Matt.
He looked in the rear vision mirror, raised his eyebrows.
Anna.
He repeated the names. His voice was thick and low. His eyes were red. He took a bag of tobacco from his cassock and quickly rolled himself another cigarette then drove slowly and carefully around the winding roads, past the small horseshoe bay of Porto Kayio and up towards the restored towers of Vathia cresting the hill.
In the back seat Anna noticed a child’s patent leather shoe, a striped scarf, and a woman’s denim jacket. There was a tattered copy of the Bible on the floor. She noticed a tube of pink lipgloss on the dashboard.
The priest threw Anna a question over his shoulder: Ellinika?
Nai, yes, said Anna. Greek family. Born in London.
Kala, said the priest. And to Matt, he said, Apo pou isse?
Scotia, said Matt. Scottish.
Poli kala, said the priest. And then, in English: Childrens?
Oxi, said Anna. She shook her head and smiled. She was accustomed to the routine Greek question, the first question most people asked. We don’t have children. She hoped the priest wouldn’t ask if they were married.
Yiati? The priest was intrigued.
Well, she smiled again and shrugged. Not everyone wants to have children, Pappas. She said this in English. We’re happy as we are, she reassured him, then spoke rapidly in Greek, Fifteen years together…
Poli Kala, said the priest again. And in English he said, Very good. Bravo!
And do you have children?
At this, the priest’s long, sad, Byzantine face turned even sadder and longer and he lifted up his heavy eyes. Oxi, he said. My Ginneka mou, here he pointed to his ring finger, the space there. My Ginneka mou, she’s leaving four years now. No childrens.
I’m sorry, said Anna.
I’m sorry, said Matt
He drove on to Cape Tenaro, pointing out places of interest: the old monastery on the hill, the ruined church. He insisted they stop and look over the bay at Marmari. Old seismos, he said. The edge of the land looked bitten and raw.
Earthquakes?
Nai, he nodded, repeating the word. Earthquakes. Seismos. He coughed and re-lit his cigarette.
They took photographs of themselves against the sea and stones, against the earthquake-hewn bay. The priest gripped Anna too tightly around the waist and tucked his bad leg behind him. Through the lens Matt noticed how tiny and frail the priest looked, although he wasn’t old.
They drove on to Cape Tenaro and it was windswept and sun-dried and desolate. A lone donkey stood near the cliff-edge, braying into the quiet. The priest parked in the gravel lot under the sole taverna.
They started to walk the path around the Cape, to walk right around to the lighthouse but the priest called them back. One hour for walking, maybe more, he said, tapping the ground with his good foot. He seemed anxious. He pointed up to the taverna without saying anything.
The taverna, yes of course, Anna said. But first - she gestured around the bay - it’s so beautiful here. They started walking towards a tiny chapel built on the site of an ancient temple to Poseidon. They could see the priest wasn’t happy but he followed them through the stone archway. Inside the chapel, a devotional candle flamed brightly in front of an icon of the Panagyia, Mary. There was a tray for coins. Anna crossed herself and placed a coin down. Matt also placed a coin, made the sign of the cross. For my mother, Matt explained to the priest who paused for a moment, crossed himself, and then said: Kala. Now we go. He led the way out, as quickly as his lame leg would allow.
Anna and Matt looked at each other and, without saying anything, reluctantly followed the priest. As they emerged into the sunshine they stopped to look out across the Bay of Asomati. They could see a small cave by the pebbled shore – one of the entrances to Hades. They wanted to walk over but the priest grew more impatient. Taverna? He repeated, pointing up. Now we go?
As soon as they walked into the taverna there was an atmosphere, they both felt it. Two older women, obviously sisters, very handsome with brown faces and green eyes stood up from a table when they entered. They hesitated and then greeted the priest. They smiled at Matt and Anna, and then returned to their work – sorting the mound of horta leaves on the table. Two men were sitting near the fire. They completely ignored the priest. The door opened and an old man with a hunting cap, a huge belly and bowlegs came in. ‘Patron! ’said the priest, and limped over to him. The owner shook hands but made no eye contact. Kalemera, he said coolly, and motioned them to a table. A definite atmosphere, Anna said to Matt later, like a cold front waiting to descend.
The priest chose a table near the window in the sun and leant back, exhaling another cigarette. Now, he said, as if the real business of the day could begin. They noticed his good leg jumping under the table. Now, he inhaled again and leant back in his chair. Krassi?
It was just after midday. Anna hesitated but Matt said OK and the priest ordered a litre of wine and two beers. Then he ordered a platter of mezedes, several platters of meat and two salads. He also insisted they try his favourite dish – an elaborate omelette of salted pork.
A meat fest, Anna whispered to Matt.
Shite, he said under his breath as the food started arriving, great piles of it. It was obvious the priest wasn’t interested in the food. But as soon as he poured himself a glass of wine, and one for Anna. As soon as he saw that Matt had a beer, he relaxed. His eyes shone. Four glasses in, when Matt got up to find the bathroom, the priest stroked Anna’s arm. Is good? He checked with her – indicating the food and wine on the table. Is good? She noticed his leg jumping again and tried to reassure him, gently moving his arm away. It’s good, she lied, feeling uncomfortable. It’s all very good.
The priest took a small mouthful of the pork omelette, another swallow of his wine and rolled another cigarette. Kala, he said.
The priest tried to make conversation. One of the men, with a huge moustache, deliberately turned his back on the priest and pretended to study the collection of guns and family portraits over the fireplace. The other man answered in monosyllables. The priest started perspiring at the temples. He tried again.
The patron suddenly called over in Greek, frustration in his voice: Who are these people? He glanced directly at Matt and Anna. They could be anyone, he continued, addressing the priest. Why always with foreigners? Why always drinking and eating with them?
The priest put down his fork and his drink. Picked up his cigarette and said, She’s London Greek. He’s from Scotia.
The patron stared at Anna, wondering if she could understand him. Then he turned away and walked back into the kitchen and came out with another carafe of wine. As he put the wine and another bottle of beer on the table he said to the priest, You drink too much. You talk too much. Is not good…the woman… the child…all is not good…
The priest hung his head for a moment.
Then the man from the fire, the man with the moustache who hadn’t yet said anything, stood up and pointed a finger at the priest. For a man of God, you bring nothing but shame. He sat down again, and clicked his tongue.
The room fell silent until one of the handsome women got up to turn on the stereo. The rembetika flooded the room. Matt and Anna kept forking bits of meat they didn’t want into their mouths. The priest sighed. The women carried the buckets of horta, cleaned and sorted now, into the kitchen. The priest sighed again and reaching over with his right hand picked up a tomato and an olive. His nails were filthy, Anna noticed. He swallowed, poured himself more wine, laughed a little too loudly and raised his eyes to the ceiling.
Is it a crime? he said, sadly, loudly. Then, like a magician reaching into a hat, he reached into his cassock and brought out a gold fob watch and put it on the table. Look, he said to Anna and Matt. Embarrassed for the priest, they admired the watch which was chipped and gold plated, the Fleur de Lys pattern peeling off. The priest pushed the watch toward Matt with one hand and put the other hand to his heart.
For you, my friend, a present.
The man with the moustache snorted.
No, no, Anna and Matt said simultaneously.
It’s your watch, Matt said. I couldnae, really.
I need nothing, the priest said loudly in Greek, addressing the room. I am nothing. He pointed to the carafe of wine, and shook his head. But my friend has lost his mother!
Matt pushed the watch back across the table. He felt the eyes of the taverna hot upon him.
The patron gaped, His mother?
Nai, said the priest, raising the glass in his hand, Ask him.
Is true? Asked the patron.
It’s true, said Matt, looking down at his plate.
The priest looked around the room as if vindicated and then picked up the watch and gave it to Matt, pressed it into his palm in full view. Take it my friend. Again he put one hand on his heart. His eyes were wet. This present from your friend, Nicolai.
Thank you. Matt felt helpless accepting the watch. Something about the priest’s drinking, his maudlin behaviour. Matt felt as if he were back in childhood, sitting with his father, trapped at the kitchen table. Then the priest got up and limped across to the bathroom.
You’ve got to give it back, whispered Anna. Jesus.
How can I?
Anna looked quicky round the room and used her knife to push the watch beneath a plate. There, she said.
We cannae do that, Matt said.
We have to, said Anna. He’s a poor priest. It’s his watch.
In any case, we have to pay for all this, said Matt, before he comes back. He gestured over to the patron. We cannae let him pay.
Or not pay. Anna rolled her eyes. She looked around the room, and spoke out of the corner of her mouth: Maybe he comes here all the time, with strangers, and never pays?
Mebbe. Matt grinned at her.
The patron came over, offered him more wine, a solemn expression on his face. He put a hand on Matt’s shoulder and raised a toast: To your mother! he said, and deliberately poured a little wine on the floor.
To her memory! The men by the fire and the women at the table raised their glasses and also spilt wine on the floor. Everyone had tears in their eyes.
Matt then paid the bill and saw that the tension in the room had gone, as if a collective breath had been exhaled.
The priest came back and said: Now, we go?
Yes, they both said at once. They’d been in the taverna for hours. It was dark now and they said their goodbyes and shook hands with everyone. The priest made a motion for the bill, but the patron said sternly, Is done, Pappas. Kalespera.
They all said Kalespera. And the priest turned to them overcome and said, Paidi mou. My friends. His eyes were full. Then he shepherded them out of the taverna, his hand pressed too hard in the small of Anna’s back.
Matt and Anna walked ahead to the car but the priest paused with his arms outstretched, as if he were about to fall over, looking up at the sky.
Matt looked back. He’s pished. Mebbe you should drive.
How can I drive? said Anna. You drive.
You know I cannae drive.
Just then, the door of the taverna opened and the patron called out: Pappas – your watch! and came heavily down the stairs. The priest, by now with his head in a row of jasmine and roses, called out in a blurred voice: Give it to him!
The patron laughed and gave the watch to Matt, Kalespera, he said again, his tone sad and ironic, and walked back into the taverna shaking his head.
Matt felt defeated as he accepted the watch, Efxharisto. Thank you.
The priest gave a ragged bunch of flowers to Anna, and then they got into the car. He drove slowly back to Yerolimena along the darkened roads and no one said anything. The priest drove as if he were steering a small boat through thick waves. In the backseat, Anna wondered about the lipgloss and the denim jacket and the child’s shoe. The Bible slid across the floor as they rounded each corner. In the fields, the boulders gleamed in the headlights and who knew what memories they held.
In the frontseat, Matt held onto the watch; it felt light and cool in his palm. Then he remembered the watch on his mother’s bedside table by her reading glasses. He’d kept checking this watch, looking at it, each time they went back to the house. He knew that as soon as they returned, they’d have to start clearing everything properly, start sorting through. And then the priest tuned the car radio to a local station; each song full of sadness and remorse, and began to quietly weep and hum along to the bouzouki, singing of his Ginneka mou, long gone, tapping the steering wheel with his nicotined fingers. And then Matt was off into some future, he couldnae help himself; a future in which he was surrounded by boxes in his mother’s house, packing up her life, talking into the silence, wanting to show her the photos of the Mani: the blood-stones, the tower houses, the jagged peninsula.
Mebbe now was the time to sort through all those photographs, he thought, to get things in order, make some pattern out of all the years and the places they’d been. Because he had no words to describe how he felt. He knew only that his mother was gone now, and as he listened to the priest’s song, it was the one thing he knew for certain. It was the one thing he couldnae run from. She was gone. She was never coming back.
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Meaghan Delahunt was born in Melbourne, Australia and now lives in Edinburgh. In 1997 she won the Flamingo/HQ national short story prize in Australia. Her first novel, In the Blue House (Bloomsbury) won a regional Commonwealth Prize for Best First Book in 2002, the Saltire Award for First Novel and a Scottish Arts Council Book of the Year Award. |
It was also longlisted for the Orange Prize and shortlisted for the Christina Stead Prize for fiction. Meaghan is finishing her new novel, The Prayer Wheel and is also at work on a collection of short stories. She teaches Creative Writing at the University of St Andrews. |