Read Online In the Shade of the Monkey Puzzle Tree by Sara Alexi - Free Book Online
Authors: Sara Alexi
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taps the animal’s rump. It stops eating, looks up and purrs. ‘No, off.’ He lifts it to the ground.
It feels early, but early is good. He can be the first to apply for jobs. Putting his house keys around his own neck, he closes and locks the door behind him. The cat appears indignant at being shut out but as Theo locks the gate, it squeezes between the bars and runs off, up across the road and into a shop.
He returns to the kiosk where he bought the newspaper the day before. The man inside says hello and Theo is relieved to have a word or two with him about the approaching summer and the difficulty of walking on the pavements with the abundance of cars parked on all the streets and the trees planted in the middle. He is glad of the conversation. In the village, he is in one conversation or another from morning till night. The silence of his own tongue feels unnatural and he continues talking until a new customer becomes impatient to be served, twitching for a cigarette.
His stomach flutters as he approaches the kafeneio , only to have it sink. The girl is nowhere to be seen. One other table is occupied, but the men sitting there are locked in huddled conversation, shoulders hunched, inviting no interruption. He puts up with the gritty coffee made by the man who also has a mole on his jawline, but further up than the girl’s, near his ear. He serves Theo without making eye contact and rejects his opening for conversation, a clear indication he is not the owner, just a worker, with no investment in the business.
Theo opens the newspaper and runs his finger down the list of today ’s jobs and, borrowing a pen from the counter, circles those that are possibilities. He cannot quite finish the coffee, and he returns to the kiosk to make some calls.
The next two days begin to form a routine of almost continuous coffees, the ends of his fingers turning black with printer’s ink as he scans through paper after paper. To his delight, the girl is in the kafeneio quite often, and she chats to him while he looks for jobs. He raises the courage to ask her name. Ananastia, or Tasia for short. It is without doubt the nicest name in the world.
‘ There’s one, try that. It’s not far from here.’ Her delicate finger pointing to an advert he has not yet reached in his systematic approach. She sets the coffee down, her face so close as she leans over.
‘ Oh look, there’s a job for a seamstress,’ she says.
Theo looks at her quizzically.
‘No, I am not saying for you to be a seamstress, it’s just that was my mama’s work, back home, before …’ Her words trail off as she continues her scan down the list of jobs. Her hair smells fresh, sweet.
‘ There, night watchman, oh no, that’s miles from here, although the trolley goes that far.’
‘ What made your family leave Kefalonia?’ Theo lays down the paper.
She sucks in a breath and straightens again, looks at Theo as if trying to weigh his intentions, and then pulls out a chair.
‘The earthquake of ‘53. I was only little.’ She indicates how little, holding out the flat of her hand at knee height. ‘I think it is my earliest memory. Mama died. My baba got me out …’ Theo has heard all about the earthquake on her island, which reduced nearly every house to rubble and dust. He can imagine her, a small child watching pictures fall from the mantelpiece, plates and glasses smashing on the floor. Putting her hands to her ears as the neighbours scream and the earth rumbles. Her baba rushing in to rescue her, grabbing her so tightly round her waist, lifting her, running. His arm clutching too tightly for her to breathe. Her little hands pushing against his chest to try to escape, to get some air, but his grip grows tighter. And then, so suddenly, he lets go, and she is alone out on the street as he runs back inside. The glass in the windows breaking, the wooden frames groaning as they twist and snap, cracks appearing where solid walls once stood.
Maybe
It feels early, but early is good. He can be the first to apply for jobs. Putting his house keys around his own neck, he closes and locks the door behind him. The cat appears indignant at being shut out but as Theo locks the gate, it squeezes between the bars and runs off, up across the road and into a shop.
He returns to the kiosk where he bought the newspaper the day before. The man inside says hello and Theo is relieved to have a word or two with him about the approaching summer and the difficulty of walking on the pavements with the abundance of cars parked on all the streets and the trees planted in the middle. He is glad of the conversation. In the village, he is in one conversation or another from morning till night. The silence of his own tongue feels unnatural and he continues talking until a new customer becomes impatient to be served, twitching for a cigarette.
His stomach flutters as he approaches the kafeneio , only to have it sink. The girl is nowhere to be seen. One other table is occupied, but the men sitting there are locked in huddled conversation, shoulders hunched, inviting no interruption. He puts up with the gritty coffee made by the man who also has a mole on his jawline, but further up than the girl’s, near his ear. He serves Theo without making eye contact and rejects his opening for conversation, a clear indication he is not the owner, just a worker, with no investment in the business.
Theo opens the newspaper and runs his finger down the list of today ’s jobs and, borrowing a pen from the counter, circles those that are possibilities. He cannot quite finish the coffee, and he returns to the kiosk to make some calls.
The next two days begin to form a routine of almost continuous coffees, the ends of his fingers turning black with printer’s ink as he scans through paper after paper. To his delight, the girl is in the kafeneio quite often, and she chats to him while he looks for jobs. He raises the courage to ask her name. Ananastia, or Tasia for short. It is without doubt the nicest name in the world.
‘ There’s one, try that. It’s not far from here.’ Her delicate finger pointing to an advert he has not yet reached in his systematic approach. She sets the coffee down, her face so close as she leans over.
‘ Oh look, there’s a job for a seamstress,’ she says.
Theo looks at her quizzically.
‘No, I am not saying for you to be a seamstress, it’s just that was my mama’s work, back home, before …’ Her words trail off as she continues her scan down the list of jobs. Her hair smells fresh, sweet.
‘ There, night watchman, oh no, that’s miles from here, although the trolley goes that far.’
‘ What made your family leave Kefalonia?’ Theo lays down the paper.
She sucks in a breath and straightens again, looks at Theo as if trying to weigh his intentions, and then pulls out a chair.
‘The earthquake of ‘53. I was only little.’ She indicates how little, holding out the flat of her hand at knee height. ‘I think it is my earliest memory. Mama died. My baba got me out …’ Theo has heard all about the earthquake on her island, which reduced nearly every house to rubble and dust. He can imagine her, a small child watching pictures fall from the mantelpiece, plates and glasses smashing on the floor. Putting her hands to her ears as the neighbours scream and the earth rumbles. Her baba rushing in to rescue her, grabbing her so tightly round her waist, lifting her, running. His arm clutching too tightly for her to breathe. Her little hands pushing against his chest to try to escape, to get some air, but his grip grows tighter. And then, so suddenly, he lets go, and she is alone out on the street as he runs back inside. The glass in the windows breaking, the wooden frames groaning as they twist and snap, cracks appearing where solid walls once stood.
Maybe
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