Intimate Distance by Katerina Cosgrove

their sleepy chatter, the drag of feet as they carry their heavy schoolbags up the steps. They’re all in summer clothes, bright colours; the girls have ribbons tying back their hair. Some of the old women stop close to me, labouring, their breath coming heavy. I see them glance at the shuttered windows of the bedroom where Zoi lies asleep. The poorer women still haul firewood up and down the mountainside exactly as their grandmothers did, to feed fireplaces and stoves and outdoor ovens shaped like hives.
    It’s summer in the village. Still, up high on this balcony, crisp winds gust in all directions, rustling the leaves, and sweet purple grapes fall to the ground. An ancient landscape spread out before me – all those adjoining terraces, the peasant’s measure of wealth; olive groves, tobacco plantations, rows of vine. How many pieces were you given when your father died? Pieces are what they call fields, vegetable patches, orchards; the meagre wealth of three olive trees that haven’t yet borne fruit. I heard these discussions over dinner last night, matter-of-fact. How many pieces does your husband have? Did the new wife bring any pieces to the marriage? They still ask these questions. These concerns haven’t ceased to be important. I sigh. There’s blue over everything in the early light. Fir, walnut, stream, rock, fern. It spreads a film over my thoughts, stilling them.
    WE ARRIVED YESTERDAY. A rainy evening with glimmers of sun, reflections on a pond. At the outskirts of the village we pass jerry-built shrines, squat white houses for icons. I look out the bus window and hear other passengers muttering to themselves, old women making the sign of the cross, pointing out the sights to each other. This is Saint Peter’s house. This is the house of Saint Irini, the wise and compassionate one. Shrines erected not to the dead as one would imagine, but in gratitude for those who escaped death on the roads. All those hairpin bends. Each shrine holds a votive candle, a dirty glass with its solitary wick floating in olive oil. The spirits of evil are kept at bay in this fashion on either side of the village, mapping out the spiritual boundaries of light and dark.
    The bus connections are delayed as usual in these parts and we stumble late into a gathering of people, assembled in the kitchen of the eldest aunt. Aunt Pandelina, called by her husband’s name since she was married. Both her former names vanished in the marriage contract, subsumed into his body. Now she is Pandelina, she who belongs to Pandeli.
    â€˜Health to you, aunt,’ I say.
    It’s a formal greeting, repeated so often it’s lost all trace of its original meaning. I kiss the little woman’s powdery skin and am held by her at arm’s length to be studied, summed up. This is an old woman whose memory of the four-hundred-year Turkish occupation is still knife sharp, painful. Pandelina’s eyes hold mine, challenging me to look down. I don’t, but struggle subtly to wriggle free of the strong grip, the clawed hands with their dirty fingernails.
    â€˜Aunt,’ I ask, regretting my question already, ‘what’s your real name? The name you were born with?’
    Pandelina doesn’t answer the question. She speaks as though reciting a lesson.
    â€˜My name is long forgotten, my girl, and well should it be so. That is the way things are.’
    She presses her breasts hard against me, holding in a final test. There’s no softness in her flesh, no give. The others in the small room, cramped, unknown faces, look on, waiting for something. Pandelina turns away as if appeased, but only for the moment. She kisses Zoi on tiptoe and squeezes his waist with a practised gesture.
    â€˜Well, Zoi, young man. How is your dear mother?’
    She doesn’t wait for his answer. The ritual has been performed.
    She turns her attention to the others at the table, standing, uneasy, waiting to eat. Food