The Traveller by Afrodykie

Wake-up call

THE wind blows, like a Cape south-easter, but not quite.

You snuggle into your pillow. Good day for a little lie-in.

Fat chance.

The phone rings.

It’s Elizabeth, from one of the mini markets on Eressos Square.

The fish is here, she says.


You get dressed as quickly as you can, you’re in Eressos, so haste is not recommended. No sudden, quick moves.

You walk the couple of metres, about 100m you suppose, to the square.

And there it is; a little truck filled with all sorts of fish, including calamari. Their dead eyes see nothing.

Blobs of ink in cooling flesh. Right!

The sardines are from the Gulf of Kalloni. The best sardines in the world, they say.

You buy some, and calamari and another two fishes that also have a name, but you miss it. This time.

Next minute, there’s Vento.

She ran away last night when you took her for a walk, and then here she is this morning.

Very happy to see you. Drat. She runs away again, after a while, when you’re at home.

This dog. Really! Vento, Wind, it is a good name for her.

You wonder if you will see her again.

She has a brother in Skala, the village down the road. 

They’re feeding him at Parasol, Jill from Ireland tells you.

She’s sitting at a table on the square, also with a dog that was a stray.

You start chatting.




About the dogs, naturally.
You get another phone call. Two in one day, on your Greek telephone number.
Wow! You’re really settling in.
The handyman’s coming to fix the light in your writing room.
And to establish the cause of the strong pertroleum smell.
Ah. A big leak. What you had suspected.
I Did It My Way, the landlord, phones from London. Again.
You appreciate the way she and her agent handle things. Quick. Efficient. No stress for you.
I just want you to be comfortable, she says.
You can hardly be anything else in a home filled with luxurious furnishing, including a fridge the size of the Cango Caves
Yes. Life’s good.
Grisa, from the other mini market, tells you how to prepare the calamari.
You remember the chokka from Port Elizabeth, years ago. White gold, they called it, those fishermen with fingers sliced by their nylon hand lines, even through their rubber protectors.
Friends are coming to dinner this evening.
You’re putting the table on the verandah.
Summer’s asserting herself. The temperature’s rising.
You feel it. You can’t ignore it. No matter how you try.
Things are hotting up. Big time.
In more ways than one!
Va-va voom. Bay-beeeee.


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