A Song Amongst the Orange Trees (The Greek Village Collection Book 13) by Sara Alexi
Authors: Sara Alexi
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Costas’ son.' The window is closed again and, in less than a minute, the neighbour is padding across the road in lime green fluffy slippers.
He has been here less than a minute and already he is named as his baba's son.
‘Katerina!' The woman in fluffy slippers squawks as she rolls towards them. The shutters in the house next to hers open, eyes flash, a nose catches a ray of sun, and then the window bangs closed again and a thin lady in a shabby housecoat hurries with quick birdlike movements towards them.
Everyone is talking at once, all trying to hug him, shake his hand, pat his back. Their warmth takes him by surprise but then again, it doesn't. His memories of living with his yiayia when he was a boy are full of feelings of being loved, cherished, and accepted. But most importantly of all, those first few years before his baba killed the crocodile, he was his own person, little Sakis, with nothing to prove and no pressure to impress. Blissful days.
The neighbour’s wife must have gone in the house, as she comes out again with glasses of water on a tray.
'Hold this, Thanasi,' she orders the man so she can wipe over the garden table before she arranges glasses and water jug on its sun-blistered surface. She invites everyone to sit down, pushing a cat off one of the padded seats, then scuttles inside to bring more chairs.
'He used to line the tortoises up and sing to them, do you remember, sister?' Thanasis is telling the group and addresses the woman as she returns with a folding chair. In the back of his mind, Sakis makes a mental note that they are siblings, not man and wife. In his mind’s eye, he recalls the memory of the tortoises that he had all but forgotten. Now it comes back as if it was yesterday. He had his favourite faded, red shorts on, no shoes, no shirt. It was the day after his yiayia had cut his hair and he was still finding snippets and strands in his ears. Yiayia was sitting on her wooden chair, shelling peas under the wisteria that smelt so sweet and hummed with bees as he tried to teach the tortoises to sing in harmony, turn them into a choir. He sang each part to them in turn in the thin strains of his four-year-old voice and encouraged them to copy, acting as choirmaster.
'Who would have thought, the son of Costas the crocodile killer, back here,' the old woman says. What was her name? Thanasis and… Thanasis, her brother who never married, didn't he breed donkeys? Yes, that’s right, and his sister, who also never married. Dora! Yes, sweet Dora. Who, if his memory serves him correctly, made those red shorts for him on her pedal-powered sewing machine. How that treadle fascinated him as a boy.
'Ah Costas, he was some man! You dive like your baba, Sakis?' the woman with green fluffy slippers asks. He has no idea what her name is and does not remember her at all.
'No, Anna, he sings. Have you not seen him?' the bird-like lady says. Sakis smiles. The bird woman, what had the lady in fluffy slippers called her? Katerina, was it? Well whatever her name is, she recognises him and he immediately likes her. He opens his mouth to tell Katerina of his career, his unexpected win, when a deep voice speaks out.
'Sakis, you are a man now, eh! Not as tall as your baba, but all man now, eh?' The face is vaguely familiar. Thanasis takes a glass of water and pours the content into a pot brimming over with flowering geraniums. He refills it from a bottle of ouzo that has appeared from nowhere.
'It’s good to see you.' Yorgos has broken away from chatting with Jules and he places a firm grip on Sakis’ shoulder. They used to play together as children. Yorgos was Dora's nephew or godson, or something like that. Yiayia would have them sit side by side at her kitchen table, a glass of milk each, her home-baked biscuits piled on a plate in front of them as she sewed. The fire would cough smoke back into the room in the winter. In the summer, the house would smell of the incense she burnt for her dead
He has been here less than a minute and already he is named as his baba's son.
‘Katerina!' The woman in fluffy slippers squawks as she rolls towards them. The shutters in the house next to hers open, eyes flash, a nose catches a ray of sun, and then the window bangs closed again and a thin lady in a shabby housecoat hurries with quick birdlike movements towards them.
Everyone is talking at once, all trying to hug him, shake his hand, pat his back. Their warmth takes him by surprise but then again, it doesn't. His memories of living with his yiayia when he was a boy are full of feelings of being loved, cherished, and accepted. But most importantly of all, those first few years before his baba killed the crocodile, he was his own person, little Sakis, with nothing to prove and no pressure to impress. Blissful days.
The neighbour’s wife must have gone in the house, as she comes out again with glasses of water on a tray.
'Hold this, Thanasi,' she orders the man so she can wipe over the garden table before she arranges glasses and water jug on its sun-blistered surface. She invites everyone to sit down, pushing a cat off one of the padded seats, then scuttles inside to bring more chairs.
'He used to line the tortoises up and sing to them, do you remember, sister?' Thanasis is telling the group and addresses the woman as she returns with a folding chair. In the back of his mind, Sakis makes a mental note that they are siblings, not man and wife. In his mind’s eye, he recalls the memory of the tortoises that he had all but forgotten. Now it comes back as if it was yesterday. He had his favourite faded, red shorts on, no shoes, no shirt. It was the day after his yiayia had cut his hair and he was still finding snippets and strands in his ears. Yiayia was sitting on her wooden chair, shelling peas under the wisteria that smelt so sweet and hummed with bees as he tried to teach the tortoises to sing in harmony, turn them into a choir. He sang each part to them in turn in the thin strains of his four-year-old voice and encouraged them to copy, acting as choirmaster.
'Who would have thought, the son of Costas the crocodile killer, back here,' the old woman says. What was her name? Thanasis and… Thanasis, her brother who never married, didn't he breed donkeys? Yes, that’s right, and his sister, who also never married. Dora! Yes, sweet Dora. Who, if his memory serves him correctly, made those red shorts for him on her pedal-powered sewing machine. How that treadle fascinated him as a boy.
'Ah Costas, he was some man! You dive like your baba, Sakis?' the woman with green fluffy slippers asks. He has no idea what her name is and does not remember her at all.
'No, Anna, he sings. Have you not seen him?' the bird-like lady says. Sakis smiles. The bird woman, what had the lady in fluffy slippers called her? Katerina, was it? Well whatever her name is, she recognises him and he immediately likes her. He opens his mouth to tell Katerina of his career, his unexpected win, when a deep voice speaks out.
'Sakis, you are a man now, eh! Not as tall as your baba, but all man now, eh?' The face is vaguely familiar. Thanasis takes a glass of water and pours the content into a pot brimming over with flowering geraniums. He refills it from a bottle of ouzo that has appeared from nowhere.
'It’s good to see you.' Yorgos has broken away from chatting with Jules and he places a firm grip on Sakis’ shoulder. They used to play together as children. Yorgos was Dora's nephew or godson, or something like that. Yiayia would have them sit side by side at her kitchen table, a glass of milk each, her home-baked biscuits piled on a plate in front of them as she sewed. The fire would cough smoke back into the room in the winter. In the summer, the house would smell of the incense she burnt for her dead
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