The Gypsy's Dream Read Online Free PDF Page A

growing.
    ‘ You’re not going to gather your olives?’ Stella searches Vasso’s careworn face for an explanation. Her hair, as always, looks as if she has recently come from the hairdresser’s but the lines between her eyebrows speak of the stresses she has endured over time.
    ‘ No. When we gathered them ourselves it made us a little money, but on my own I couldn’t manage, and to hire people will take all my profit.’ Vasso takes a bottle from under the counter. Rubbing lotion on her hands she qualifies, ‘It was Thanasis’ idea for me to rent his room. Two euros.’ She nods at the painkillers.
    Stella smiles, pays, pats Vasso ’s hand to reassure her that there are no hard feelings and returns, slowly, under the clear blue sky and warm sun, to music and laughter in the ouzeri . Stella’s heart lifts a little at the sound of the revelry, it’s like old times. When they first started there was often music, the radio was always on, smiling faces were the norm, there was dancing and laughter, and happy disorder. Her heart sinks again. Today’s party has nothing to do with her; it is all Stavros, Stavros showing off to Abby.
    Their weathered olive skins crinkled in smiles, trousers held up with knotted belts, shirt sleeves rolled up, missing teeth showing, the farmers are enjoying themselves. They have put the radio on their ta ble. Earlier Stella had turned it on to drown out Stavros as he tried to get Abby to understand his Greek. Usually the radio is behind the grill, by the sink, unseen. Stella feels a little embarrassed with it being out in public. It has grime in all the recesses and the handle has kitchen paper wrapped around it which looks like it has been there for weeks, compressed, tattered and no longer white. She swallows two pain killers with a shot of ouzo.
    The man on the radio sings with such intensity he might be declaring undying love. But he is not, he is singing about what he wants to eat. Mostly he wants fish, particularly red mullet, barbounia . The farmers are caterwauling along at the tops of their voices waiting for their chicken and chips to be cooked.
    I n the corner sits the girl. Her bag is on the floor beside her, and she clearly does not know what to make of the situation. She is sitting at Stavros’ table and he is pouring ouzo. The sun is struggling through the dusty window, spotlighting the scene. The farmers stand to perform. They interlace arms, hands on shoulders, and dance in the tiny space. Stella moves chairs and tables out of the way, her eyes on Stavros who is grinning and flirting with the teenager in a tongue the poor girl doesn’t understand. She looks slightly afraid. Stella is not sure if she feels more hurt by Stavros’ actions in front of her or afraid for the girl’s situation. Stavros is nearly thirty years older than … what was her name? Abby.
    One of the farmers is full of life; the lunc htime impromptu singing has brought energy to his limbs. He is feeling good; he has ‘ kefi’ , an appetite for life, joy. His hair is greying at the temples and his hands speak of years of toil, the skin thick and hard. But at this moment he is alive, his heart is full, he wants to dance, dance like there is no tomorrow, no field to dig, no olives to tend. To dance as if his life depends on it. He climbs on a chair and then jumps onto the table. It wobbles and threatens to collapse. The other farmers and Stavros cheer. The table holds his weight and he dances with his head brushing the ceiling, his friends kneel, as if about to propose, clapping in rhythm to encourage him.
    Abby claps self-consciously, hands making such little contact with each other, no sound , but she is smiling. Stavros shouts ‘ Opa !’ and raises his glass above his head towards the man. Abby giggles.
    The man on the table pauses on its edge. He is a youth again, he crouches low and then springs from the table, completing a somersault to the floo r with a wobbly landing and everyone cheers. No