Black Butterflies Read Online Free PDF Page B

further.
    ‘ Roula, just open the door, please.’
    ‘ It’s me, Mrs Zoe. Irini.’
    ‘ There, you know Irini, open the door.’
    ‘ There’s someone with her.’ Roula opens the door wide and walks back inside, no longer concerned.
    Inside is cool and dark. Dust hovers and swirls in the strips of sunlight streaming through the slats of half-closed shutters. On first glance everything seems white. The windows extend from waist height to ceiling all along the wall above the path outside, and halfway along the adjacent wall, giving the impression of a conservatory. The room is divided by a beam running across the ceiling where a wall has presumably been removed. Beyond the visual divide, two stiff-backed sofas without arms and two matching chairs are arranged around a low table. Judging by the tidiness and the pristine condition of the furniture, which is clearly decades old, Marina presumes this part of the room is left ‘for guests and best’.
    ‘ Come in, Irini, come in. I am just feeding Gran.’ This must be Zoe.
    Marina ’s eyes adjust and she takes in more detail. She can see, next to a table in the middle of the room, a bony old woman is seated, her hands curled inward across her chest, one side of her face drooping. She groans quietly. Roula has taken a hard-backed chair by the wall and watches a television that is mounted on a bracket attached to the dividing beam. She has turned the sound up again and is immersed in the soap opera. There are several wooden chairs lined against the walls under the shuttered windows. On one of these is a large old lady leaning over to one side, her weight melting her into the seat, fast asleep. Near to her is a pile of clothes heaped haphazardly on another chair in the corner.
    ‘ Hi, Zoe. I have brought you a customer!’ Zoe is standing in front of the woman by the table, a spoon in one hand, a bowl in the other.
    ‘ Ha, don’t let the tax man hear you say that.’ Zoe has a halo of white hair loosely knotted on top of her head. Her wrinkled eyes are moist and her creased mouth is soft. She catches a drip on the thin woman’s chin with the spoon. She pauses and turns to Marina. ‘You know how it is, can’t afford to be legal, can’t afford not to take people in. Pay for this certificate, pay for that legality, all before you’ve earned a drachma.’
    ‘ It’s the euro now, Mum.’ Roula corrects her without taking her eyes from the television. Zoe wipes one hand on the thin material of her clean white bib apron, through which the bold floral pattern of her shapeless dress can be seen.
    ‘ Can you turn that down a bit, please, Roula?’
    ‘ I love this programme, Mum.’
    ‘ Just a bit.’ Zoe puts down her spoon and picks up the remote control, and turns it down.
    ‘ Aw, Mum!’
    ‘ Anyway, come in, come in, come in.’
    ‘ Mrs Zoe, this is Mrs Marina.’ Irini uses the formal address of her mother tongue.
    ‘ Very pleased to meet you, Mrs Marina.’ She wipes the thin lady’s chin with the edge of her apron. ‘This is my mum – we call her Gran for Roula. She had a stroke years ago. Recovered quite well but another one five years back and, well ... Before that I looked after houses for foreigners.’ She sighs and puts a spoonful of food to her mother’s open mouth.
    Marina’s memory returns to the documentary. Care-taking for the foreigners, the man had said, was golden work. They had zoomed the camera in from a distant shot to a close-up of a very grand house. Americans usually, he had continued. Charmed by the island, they bought holiday homes but then found the distance restricted their visits more than they had imagined. One or two just needed a housekeeper to hold the key in case of an emergency, plumbing, drains, and to get the house aired before they came. Even though the work was negligible they paid well for such a passive job.
    ‘ A nice job, I imagine?’ Irini asks. Zoe smiles and nods.
    Was it a nice job? Marina wonders. The documentary