Intimate Distance by Katerina Cosgrove Page A

growing cold on plates. Forced smiles, appraisal. Not much time before bed, these old people are used to waking early. It’s still light outside, yet for them it’s already too late. Hurried greetings. I can’t remember all the names or attach them to faces.
    The only one I’m not introduced to is a woman, at first glance much younger than the others, who sits on a chair by the door, her face obscured by her kerchief. After everyone is served Pandelina hands her a plate that she balances on her lap as she eats, ruminating as she chews. She looks out at the view and sighs now and then, voluptuously, as if alone.
    â€˜Who’s she?’ I whisper in Zoi’s ear.
    â€˜That’s Alcmene.’ He’s interrupted and looks away. Pandelina heaps another three slices of pie on his plate.
    â€˜How is your mother? Well, Zoi? How is she, tell me?’ All those tiny women look up into his face, exclaiming: ‘You’re the spitting image of your mother, Zoi.’
    He grimaces and they laugh.
    â€˜And how is your brother? Still breaking all the girls’ hearts?’
    Zoi looks across at me before answering. He takes a long slow bite of his pie. I flush, pick up my glass and use its smooth side to cool my cheeks.
    â€˜Still working as a barman,’ Zoi replies between mouthfuls. ‘Bit of a shame he’s so lazy. Has it too good at home.’
    We gulp down cold food, hastily made – marrow pie with goat’s cheese, pastry hand rolled by Pandelina, hunched on all fours by the fire. She laid out a piece of matting on the floor that very afternoon, as she did every week. It’s the only part of the floor kept away from the hens, sacred to the making of filo.
    â€˜The pastry is fresh,’ she assures me. ‘It’s the best you’ll ever taste.’
    There’s icy spring water in dirty glasses. Pandelina can’t see very well and her crockery suffers for it. Pandeli drinks whisky behind his hand and only eats the soft part of the bread, afraid for his broken teeth.
    â€˜We’ll be feasting on marrow for years,’ he says, looking up from his food. He grins at me, pointing at my plate still heaped with pie. His wife tells him to be quiet. She apologises for the poorness of the food but in a way that suggests offended pride, challenging, dare you look down at our victuals? I can’t finish my portion and she clucks and fusses.
    I touch Zoi’s arm.
    â€˜That woman you called Alcmene. Why do they serve her last of all?’
    Zoi covers his mouth with his hand.
    â€˜She’s a bit of an outcast. I’ll tell you later.’
    I watch Alcmene narrowly. She eats with her fingers, scooping up the pie and opening her mouth only a little, just enough to cram the food in, no more. The other women yawn pointedly, not bothering to cover their mouths.
    â€˜We didn’t have time to clean your grandfather’s house properly Zoi, although we aired it for three days.’
    Pandelina turns to me; I swallow a mouthful with difficulty and attempt a smile.
    â€˜Surely Mara will make it comfortable very soon. Won’t she, eh?’
    They all smile back, looking askance at my belly. Instinctively I cover it with both hands. Pandelina sees the gesture and leans toward Zoi, her breath coming into his face.
    â€˜When’s the wedding to be? What are you waiting for, eh? Twins?’
    Pandeli appreciatively pats my hand as it rests on my belly. He has thick smoke-blackened fingers.
    â€˜Don’t you worry about my crone of a wife. There’s plenty of time for weddings yet.’
    He nods sagely at nothing in particular and kisses me on the forehead as he shuffles off to bed. Pandelina rises from her chair, signalling the end of the gathering. Zoi catches my eye.
    â€˜May we – Aunty – Mara is, ah, accustomed to having a wash at the end of the day. Is there any hot water?’
    Pandelina laughs as though to rid herself of a