The Last of the Moussakas Read online

  “Why do your family all dislike me so much?” Max asks, and not for the first time, as I untie my apron and then take the seat across from him with my glass of iced tea. “Apart from the fact that I once vomited over this exact table in front of all those diners. Oh, and the time I was arrested for breaking into that empty house, and Papa Marcos had to come and retrieve me from the police station, obviously.”

  He grins and shakes his lovely blond head. “No, I mean, before that—they’ve always hated me, haven’t they? Dion, Nico, Simone, old Noni, and definitely Papa Marcos.”

  “I don’t think Simone hates you,” I reply rather evasively and, by omission, imply that all the others do.

  Simone, my mother, always had a soft spot for Max, at least before he became a somewhat wayward, occasionally unpredictable visitor. She’s incapable of hating anyone, to be honest. I can’t speak for the rest of them.

  I’m not exactly in the mood for this conversation; if Max hasn’t worked it out by now, then he probably never will. And his own mother should have told him the old stories herself. That she never did only shows how little he and his lot care for us, for all their professed adoration of Aegina and their Greek heritage. He could have asked her at any time over the years about the fallout and resentment between the Bergmann family and just about every other old Aegean family on the island, particularly ours, but deep down he obviously doesn’t care enough.

  Evidently, he’s still completely unaware of the existence of that bloody book, and it’s not my job to enlighten him. If Papa Marcos and Noni don’t want us to talk about it, then it’s fine by me. I certainly have no desire to rake over those depressing old tales about Jürgen bloody Bergmann. And Max’s boorish, drunken behaviour with his fancy mates when he has come over here in the past only highlights to everyone what little respect he has for us and our shared history.

  I can’t help a stupid thrill at seeing him though. Even while I simultaneously hate myself for it, and I hate myself for how his careless touch made me feel last night. Sitting across from me now, all relaxed and smiley, I can’t fail to appreciate how great he looks in a plain white T-shirt and loose-fitting Levi’s. Like Apollo, all golden hued and silky limbed. He’s absently clicking his fingers and tapping his foot in time to a musical beat no one else can hear—typical Max. It was no surprise to anyone when he went into the music industry. I reckon even his heart beats in a syncopated rhythm.

  With no trace of a hangover, he’s suspiciously sober for this time of day. I wonder what’s wrong. Or perhaps, heaven forbid, he’s finally growing up.

  “I don’t know why they all hate you, Max. Ask them yourself.” I shrug. “And anyway, Papa Marcos can’t hate you too much because he’s told me to invite you to supper tomorrow night with all the family. He won’t actually invite you himself, of course, even though he is sitting just over there.”

  We both turn and stare at the portly, self-important Greek man reading the local newspaper in the shade, content to supervise the running of the restaurant from the comfort of his favourite chair. Max and I exchange a look.

  There are two serious religions on the island of Aegina. Or maybe three if you count the actual theological, god-bothering religion going on in Ekklisia Isodia Theotokou, the massive orthodox church that dominates the far end of the harbour. For most Aegeans, that religion is confined to Sundays and holy days. But the two real 24/7 religions recognised universally across the island are, without doubt, the inextricably linked joys of Food and Family. Even Papa Marcos will overcome his intrinsic dislike of Max’s parentage to know that when Family are in town—even a bad apple, second cousin like him—they should be invited to break bread with us in our home. Food and Family come first always, it’s as simple as that. Hence, the dinner invite, via me.

  “I’ll come to dinner if you’ll be there. I can’t face them all without you. And your old Noni, she fucking scares me to death, I’m not going in to say hello to her on my own.”

  I roll my eyes at him. For as long as either Max or I can remember, my great-grandmother, Noni, has fiercely ruled the Manolas household from a wrought-iron double bed in our cramped back parlour. The stuffy little room, which I try to avoid at all costs, is equipped with a commode chair, an ancient black-and-white telly, and a pile of crocheted blankets. My silent, ground-down aunt Cynta cares for her, and I swear I have never seen Noni out of bed or clad in anything but the long black dress and black cardigan that cover her stick thin body. I feel obliged to go in and say hello to her most days, and she grips my hand in her freezing-cold claw, tugging me close for a whiskery kiss, which smells of rotting rose petals and garlic. I’d never inflict that torture on my worst enemy, let alone Max.

  “I’ll be there, you idiot. It’s my day off anyway. I’m going over to Moni Island with a couple of mates, first, during the day if you want to come.”

  Please say you’ll come.

  I take a swig of my drink, feigning disinterest in his reply, and Max does the same. He’s drinking coffee, an unusual choice for him; I expected him to be happily tucked into the beers by this time of the afternoon.

  “So where are all your friends?” I ask him. “I’m guessing you didn’t come over to the island on your own?”

  “I did actually,” he replies, surprising me. “Fancied a break, just needed to get away from it all for a few days, you know, clear my head.”

  He says this in a fairly offhand manner, but I know him too well. The sadness I thought I caught a glimpse of when I woke him last night flits across his features.

  “What’s wrong with you?” I persist. “Are you ill? Why aren’t you drinking something stronger than black coffee?”

  He laughs. “Did you not think I’d had enough last night? And anyway, I don’t have to drink all the time, do I?”

  “No,” I concede, and then shyly, and in retrospect I have no idea why I blurted it out, “I prefer you like this.”

  If I didn’t know him better, I would say he blushed.

  “There’s nothing wrong, Georgie boy,” he carries on, examining his fingernails and avoiding my eyes. “Well, not really. I needed a break; I’ve been partying too hard and working too hard. I’ve made a couple of…um…unwise decisions lately and need to calm it all down a bit. Step off the merry-go-round.”

  Immediately, I swing from irritated that he manages to tilt my world on its side, merely by displaying the planes of his body in a tight white T-shirt, to worried. He’s not his usual carefree self. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  He shrugs and looks about, scratching his chin self-consciously. “It’s no big deal. I had one too many drinks one night, took a couple of pills, and woke up without a fucking clue where I was, who I was with, and what I’d done. For a while, I wasn’t even sure who I was!”

  He makes a joke out of it, but I’m not fooled.

  “Christ, Maxi, you’re going to run into trouble if you carry on like that.”

  He shrugs me off again. “Nah, it’s nothing. I’m…I’m good.”

  He stretches languorously with his arms above his head and smiles his lazy, seductive smile, the one that keeps me and my dick awake at night. “And I needed to get some decent sleep, Georgios. I’ve been burning the candle at both ends; it’s nothing to worry about. I wanted to escape and just be myself for a few days, here on Aegina, where nothing happens and everything stays the same. That’s all.”

  And that pretty much sums up, in a nutshell, the entirety of what Aegina represents to him. A peaceful mini-break destination. And me? Well, I’m just another part of this unchanging and predictable landscape, a comfort blanket for when his exciting, hedonistic whirl gets too much for him.

  “So, has anything actually changed around here while I’ve been gone?” He takes a vague look beyond the tables of the restaurant and over to the busy street behind. “I see the old town hall at the far end of the port is still boarded up. What’s happening there?”

  I know where he means without following the direction of
his gaze; the former town hall is a blot on an otherwise pretty, summery, bustling harbour scene. A previously impressive five- or six-storey neoclassical building, sandwiched between smaller shops and restaurants, in bygone days it was a landmark for all vessels entering the port by sea. Once a symbol of civic pride, it’s now an edifice of crumbling brickwork, missing roof tiles, and black-and-yellow tape sealing the doors and windows. It’s fair to say the old town hall is a sorry representation of Aegina’s declining maritime importance and Greece’s larger economic woes. Several local businessmen have variably and unsuccessfully tried over the years to turn it into a restaurant, holiday lets, and offices, all with limited success. The commercial and tourist trade needed to sustain such a large, impressive structure doesn’t exist anymore, not since the Greek banking collapse.

  “Mr Acheolon, who owned the restaurant, died last summer, and his sons made a hash of running it when they took over. They spent too much money—too many mouths to feed—and couldn’t afford the bills out of season. It was repossessed by the bank a few months ago, I think. And the higher storeys have been closed up for years. I don’t know if anybody could afford to take it over now. It’s a massive undertaking, needs a total overhaul. No one in Greece can possibly afford that sort of risky investment. So, unless it gets pulled down or eventually rots away and falls down, it’s going to continue to be a bloody great eyesore.”

  Max nods his agreement. “Yeah, it’s a shame, though, as it could be an awesome venue with the right financial backing. It would make an amazing hotel—imagine! With a cool nightclub below in the basement, a smart restaurant—and a spa maybe! You can see it from miles out to sea. Do it right, and it would draw in all the rich yachtie lot. Santorini and Mykonos, eat your hearts out!”

  He grins at me mischievously. “You could run a restaurant in a place like that, Georgios. You’d be brilliant at it; I know you would.”

  Now I’m laughing. “You live in a dreamworld, mate! The only restaurant I’ll ever run will be this one if I play my cards right. Papa Marcos is still promising he’ll hand it over to me one day.”

  Max’s expression turns serious, and he leans closer, frowning and dropping his voice to ensure we are not overheard. “Georgie, my sweet, that old git is playing you. I’ve told you before, he’s just stringing you along. I’d lay a pound to a penny he’s made the same promise to Dion and to Nico, although those two can scarcely run a bath let alone a restaurant kitchen. He’s playing you because he needs you so badly. His restaurant would be nothing without you. But in the end, all three of you will be sharing it, and I’ll tell you now, you will never make enough money to support three families. You’ll be just like that bloke’s sons over the road, not making ends meet and having to jack the whole thing in.”

  “On second thought, Max, I think I prefer you when you’re drinking,” I remark coolly, folding my arms across my chest. How dare he pitch up here and start telling me how to live my life? He’s got a bloody nerve. “And I think you’re wrong about Papa Marcos. I believe him when he says it’s going to be mine one day.”

  “In that case,” retorts Max, unruffled, “Why don’t you ask Dion sometime? Find out for sure?”

  He looks over to where my brother is setting a table in a painstakingly slow fashion, the simple task seeming to require all of his powers of concentration.

  “Or you could ask Nico, for that matter? If you can find him that is. I’ve never seen him in here actually doing any of the bloody work. Papa Marcos is not going to bypass his own son, is he? Even if Nico is a complete waste of space.” Max shakes his head. “Nah, Papa Marcos is a bloody old skinflint, all talk and no trousers. He still pays you less than three euros an hour, I’m guessing?”

  My flush of humiliation shows him he’s right. The concept of a national minimum wage doesn’t seem to apply to family members, not in Papa Marcos’s world anyhow. And my mother and I do live under his roof for free, so I sort of have to suck it up.

  “And he’ll leave you nothing; I guarantee it.” Max sits back triumphantly. He can be an annoyingly smart git sometimes.

  Vagia, January 1st, 1942

  Hello! This private diary belongs to Artemis Sophia Manolas. I am ten years old and I live in Our House, Vagia, Aegina, Greece, Europe, The World. I am going to try to write something down every day because I like writing, and Mrs Tzabó, my teacher, says I’m very good at it, but I need to practice to become even better. She says the best writers read a lot and write a lot.

  Maria Manolas—keep out!

  Vagia, February 3rd, 1942

  The soldiers have started to arrive in Vagia in groups of two and three, walking up the wooded hill from the naval base at Tourlos. It is very exciting, although a bit scary too. They seem quite shy, although they try to hide it; you can tell from the way they swing their arms and hold themselves straight as they walk, and how they clap one another loudly on the back after one of them cracks a joke.

  The soldiers are from a country called Germany, and they have taken over Greece, but I don’t really know why. They are trying to take over lots of countries apparently. The language they speak is harsh, and their voices are strange, as though they have very sore throats. None of us have ever heard it before, and it is the strangeness of their words that brings us out of our houses to listen and stare. Dimitris says they sound like they could be ordering a firing squad when they are simply asking the time of day, which everyone seems to find very funny. Apart from Dimitris himself, who just carries on staring at them with a peculiar look on his face that I haven’t seen my usually happy brother use before.

  They have already learnt a few words of Greek, enough to swap some of their biscuits and a few lepta for our fresh goats’ milk and cheese. The donkey man from Perdika stops outside our house every week with whatever he brings, and so the German soldiers wait there to buy his sugar and potatoes. They pay him in lepta too. Dimitris says that lepta are only good for wiping his arse with, and that we’d be better off trying to get meat and coffee from the soldiers, rather than money that will be worthless before the end of the winter. He has a lot of opinions about everything at the moment.

  Some of the soldiers are so handsome though, with their dark woollen uniforms and shiny silver buttons. I’d love to have some buttons like that. They wear long shiny black boots too. And they will be nice and warm, even at this time of year, although those uniforms will definitely be too hot in the summer. Maybe they have a different summer uniform, like children do at school in England. Mrs Tzabó told me about that because she once lived in London. London is the capital city of England.

  One of the older soldiers even has a long black leather coat, which he swishes around as though he is pretending to be a pirate. He is the least handsome, and he scares me the most. He is quite fat, although the black coat mostly hides the way his thighs rub together as he walks, and the skin on his cheeks is scarred and lumpy. There is something I don’t like about the way he is always peering about, sizing us up, staring back at us. I don’t think he likes us very much. The other soldiers all stop and listen whenever he speaks in that voice like a dog barking, so I think he is probably the man in charge.

  Maria is already dreaming about one of the younger blond ones, although she tries to hide it from Mama and Dimitris. Dimitris would be very cross if he knew because he hates the German soldiers more than anyone else in the village. All Maria thinks about and talks about with her friends these days is boys. Boys, boys, boys. Yuck!

  But the second time the blond soldier came to the village, I caught her spying on him from our bedroom window. Even though he acted like he hadn’t spotted her, he somehow stood taller and tried to look more important as he made a show of examining the patch of olive trees next to the house.

  Even I can see why she likes him, and I hate boys; he has blue eyes that crinkle at the corners when he smiles and a small straight nose, not like big ugly Greek noses. And even though his hair is cut short like all of the soldiers wear it, it still seems to
flop in golden curls over his forehead. That time she spied on him, he took off one of his thick leather gloves for a moment and reached to pull a leaf from one of the trees, bringing it to his nose and sniffing it. Doesn’t he know what olive leaves smell like? Then he put his glove back on, but not before I saw a shiny gold ring on a finger of his white hand, a wedding ring like Mama wears. These soldiers have so many shiny things—it’s not fair!

  Max

  Georgios is waiting for me in his crappy little boat as I park my jeep alongside the small jetty in Perdika over on the quieter, south side of the island. I watch him fiddle with the outboard motor for a few moments, absorbed in his task. In his faded pink board shorts and worn grey T-shirt, in the eyes of the few northern European tourists milling around, he is probably indistinguishable from the hundreds of other pretty, olive-skinned young Greek men who call this little island of Aegina home. But not to me. He never has been. And when I study him now, against the stunning blue Aegean backdrop and in the glorious morning sunshine, I see perfection in every sinewy muscle of his slender tanned body, from the untidy mop of black curls framing his fathomless, almost black eyes, to his strong hands and rough fingers, his narrow hips and slim calves. And his beauty is beyond skin-deep; I see the purest, sweetest, most gentle soul that ever drew breath. And if I were half the man that he is, I’d leave him well alone. But I’m not, and so I don’t.

  It’s taken me a while to get to this point, but to be fair, I’ve taken a fairly circuitous route. I’ve kissed a lot of frogs on the way—and a few princes too. But since my recent fright, which was followed by another fairly horrific incident that makes me cringe internally every time it hovers around the edges of my mind, there’s only been one man I simply can’t get out of my head. And I’m standing here on the Perdika jetty right now, drinking him in. I’d do it all over again; I’d plummet to those low depths all over again if it meant it would finally lead me to this place in my head that feels so right.