The Olive Tree
On a branch high in the tree, the caterpillar looked at himself in a teardrop of rainwater and failed to see the beauty that lay within...
Yanni sat at the bus stop, kicking the red sandy earth at his feet.
It was quiet except for the clicking noises of the cicadas as they hopped from leaf to leaf around the nearly dry trickle the villagers called the river. Above his head the olive branches drooped in the midday sun, their black fruits pulling the tree toward the ground. It was nearly November and time for their harvesting. Yanni loved harvest time. The common understanding of seasonal unity where no man or woman felt alone and each had a part to play in the survival of their neighbour. He delighted in the sapping tiredness of a full day’s work; women on ladders collecting the final few riches and men buckling under the weight of over full baskets.
The bus was late. He picked up a small stone from between his feet and chucked it into the water. A lizard scurried up the dry bank towards the rocks above. He would miss all this. It had been his world for so long. He had hidden everything so well, created a safe haven for himself. Only his guilt had shattered it.
A distant rumbling noise broke his thoughts. He looked up the road towards the horizon. It was not the bus. It was Nikos with his creaking, old van filled with barrels of wine. Every Friday he made the journey to the lower village, through the gorge in the mountains. His truck wheezed and rumbled as it pulled its weight apologetically across the uneven surface. Nikos himself added to its misery. He was a colossus of a man, a chest like Atlas but without the bearing of a God. In local legend, Nikos was said to have moved the Hadean Rock - a boulder of granite that lay in the heart of the village blocking the entrance to a small cave. It was behind this rock that the villagers believed was the road to the underworld - the pathway to hell. As a child, Yanni had worried that it would be his fate to find himself dragged, kicking and screaming, towards this rock and that the earth would then swallow him whole.
The van rattled past. Yanni waved towards the dusty window. He knew that Nikos had seen him but there was no response, his gaze was fixed steadily on the road ahead. He was just like everyone else. They had averted their eyes as he carried his bag down the steep road. His grandfather had warned him that people would be cruel in their objection. He had had advised him that leaving the village was the only escape.
‘Yanni, a small community like ours never accepts. You’ll be alone in your life here.’
However he had always felt alone. Even in the presence of crowds on a bright summer’s market day, the stalls dripping with the home-made produce of the people of the valleys, he had felt alone. They smiled, they talked, they whispered gossip of those not present, but they didn’t know him. They bought his jars of sweet-tasting forest honey, bartering them for eggs, bread or cheese and his secret remained unknown; and it could have so easily remained that way. He had hidden it for so long, buried it so deep within him that even his own soul had denied its truth; but it had fought its way to the surface, ugly and destructive, even more powerful for its suppression.
His mother had cried, his father had turned cold and spat insults at his feet. Only his grandfather had given him the time to explain, to try to communicate his feelings; but nobody sat with him now, they all knew he was leaving and their shutters were closed and their doors bolted.
Yanni looked up the road towards the village. The houses were small, the streets narrow and sandy, and clothes hanging from overhead balconies moved gently in the breeze. The only audible noise was the clanging and clattering of sheep bells, adorning the doorway of the only shop in the village. It was here that Grandfather lived. His shop was like the Delphic Oracle. From within its four walls, men and women would solicit advice from one of the oldest villagers. Dressed in his hand-woven jacket, Grandfather would stroke his beard and widely open his eyes. Every shopper left with a grey-haired wisdom that often gained further respect as it travelled throughout the community. The weather, births, deaths - all understood from the wisdom of his Grandfather.
As a boy, Yanni had sat on the woollen rugs at the back of the shop and listened to their stories. With loaves of bread tucked under their arms, they would lean over the counter and divulge their meagre transgressions; but Yanni knew that his transgression would not be dealt with this way - he knew that if he leant over that same counter, darkness would fall on that little shop and the Hadean Rock would roll.
A cloud of dust was coming towards him. It was the bus. From the isolated village high in the mountains, it would take Yanni down to the coast where the blue Aegean washed the shores. A sense of fear crept through his bones beneath his white cotton shirt. He suddenly realised that he might never see his village again and that the world outside was a place of strangers. How would he survive without his family and security? Part of him wanted to run back up the road, throw himself in front of the bolted doors and beg for forgiveness; but villagers were strange with something they did not understand, there was no prescribed attitude, there was no structure on which to base their feelings, and so they cut off the offending invader from their society and closed the door to his face.
With a creaking of tired brakes and numerous journeys, the yellow bus stopped at the feet of Yanni. He took a last glance at the village and stepped on board the rough metal rung. Buying a ticket to Patras, he walked down the aisle towards a spare seat. The smell of the bus was almost nauseating-it was acrid with petrol, perspiration and stale perfume. Cigarette butts littered the floor alongside tickets of forgotten travellers carried through the same valleys many months before. As he sat by the streaked window the valley opened up before him; the gorge widened as they descended and the small wizened olive gave way to the imperious poplar and larch that held their heads up high to the clear heavens. Sweet bushes flanked their sides and orchards of oranges and lemons displayed themselves in subservient rows before them. In this greener landscape the houses grew accordingly, balconies became verandas, wood became sandstone brick. The red roofs dominated the valley floor, while flashes of intense colour from the bougainvillea escaped from below their magnificent facades. Yanni had forgotten how rich these valleys were, how different from his mountainous refuge.
As the bus rattled along more people lined the route- men and women opening cafes, sweeping the streets in front of their houses, hanging their laundry in neat walled gardens; but down here, in their world, the sun baked hotter. He could feel the salty perspiration run in zigzag lines between his shoulder blades and he mopped his brow discreetly with the cuff of his shirt. The girl sitting opposite him smiled and fanned her face with a glossy magazine.
‘It’s hot today,’ she said.
Yanni nodded. She looked American, he thought, but he was not sure. Her face was pretty but her mouth too big. Her skin was pale.
‘Do you speak English?
The soft tone of her voice appealed to him, but he was unsure whether to reply, the inner nagging voice of his father was drowning her words. ‘Foreigners have no shame, no respect for one’s silence or space. They’re invaders. They bring their money, their loose culture, their openness and put up concrete hotels, neon signs.’
However, it was different now, he could ignore that voice - the village was many dusty roads behind him.
‘Yes, I speak English; but not very well,’ he replied, realising that his words sounded staccato, embarrassed in case she thought he was uneducated.
She turned in her seat to face him, her hair catching the sunlight.
‘I’ve just come from Epidaurus,’ she smiled, ‘magnificent! But I suppose you’ve been there many times?’
Yanni would have listened to her idle tourist details without a problem but being asked to take a part in her conversation irritated him.
‘No, I’ve never been.’
His shortness didn’t dissuade her.
‘Oh, you really should, the avenue of trees is beautiful and you walk up a pretty forest path to a huge amphitheatre. They still perform plays there. Can you imagine a more dramatic location to perform in?’
Yanni watched her as she spoke. She was prettier than he had originally thought. Her eyes had a definite sparkle when she talked, the brown flecks smoldering within the green; and, she was near enough to his age, maybe a year or two older, but no more than twenty-four or five; but even so, his mood was not for conversation. He couldn’t shake the gloom that sapped his strength. He looked out the window and watched the ever-changing landscape roll past. It seemed a long time since he had left the familiar sights and sounds of the village.
‘But my favourite place has to be Delphi,’ she continued, her interest unbroken by his reticence. ‘It’s breath-taking, the whole valley opens up before you. And what a climb! I was exhausted by the time I reached the top, but it was worth it.’
He felt jealous of her experiences; she was becoming the invader of his territory. In his dreams he had placed his life in the hands of the Oracle, but in reality its mountainous retreat had always been a journey too far from his narrow existence. He had rarely left the valley, let alone travel out of the peninsular onto the mainland.
‘No, I’ve not seen it.’ It was a brusque answer and all that he could manage in reply. He attempted to dilute its severity with a smile. The effort was far from successful; she appeared disconcerted by his cool demeanour.
‘I’m sorry. I’m talking too much; bad habit when I find things interesting. We just have nothing to compare with all this ancient History in America.’
She frowned slightly, her well-shaped eyebrows sloping down around her eyes. The moment was becoming awkward but he couldn’t think of anything to say. He needed to escape, but his mind couldn’t conjure up the route or how to take it. He thought of yawning, looking tired or falling asleep but that would have been too obvious. It would also have been strange to him. His own worries had kept him awake persistently for the last four months; the message of Easter haunting his nightmares, shadowy figures hidden within each darkened corner of his room.
He could remember standing in front of the small church door, the crowd sweeping past him, swinging and swaying like a giant drunk, meandering from side to side through the dusty streets, a deafening noise pouring from its collective mouth; and held aloft in their penitent hands, hundreds of burning effigies of Judas, each one representing the sinful traitor; the disciple whose name brought curses. It was an old custom of the villages, not practiced in the cities; but it contained such passion for those who upheld the tradition. The traitor was slain over and over again. His soul would never be allowed rest with the vengeance of the multitude.
The bus ground to a halt at a small town. The driver stood up stiffly from his leather seat and gave them twenty minutes.
‘Would you like a beer?’ she asked.
‘I don’t drink,’ he lied.
‘You don’t drink and don’t talk; I really should leave it at that, shouldn’t I?’
Yanni felt his face redden. The straight-forwardness of her words compelled him to politeness.
‘I’m sorry,’ he called after her, ‘let me buy you a cup of coffee. My name is Yanni.’
He thrust out a hand and she acknowledged his gesture with a smile.
‘I’m Anna, pleased to meet you.’ Her long thin fingers felt fragile in his hand.
They sheltered from the hot midday sun in a small taverna, under a canopy of vine leaves. Around them sat the other passengers, mostly farmers making their way to the city to buy goods from the large markets.
‘So do you live in that small village high in the gorge?’
The question surprised him and he gave a quizzical smile.
‘I saw you get on the bus,’ she offered.
‘Yes, it’s very small but its home.’
Then, for the first time since they had met, the words tumbled from his lips. With artistry, he painted the details of his village - the shop, the kafeneio, the old Byzantine church creaking under the weight of its turbulent history and the cross in the square, proudly carrying the names of those who had lost their lives for the resistance. In his accounting, he realised how hard it would be to turn his back on all these things. He knew so little beyond the isolated world among the clouds. He inwardly laughed at his own poetic way of thinking – ‘among the clouds’. It had often felt that way when he had climbed the olive trees in the garden and looked across at the white dense band bringing rain, descending into the valley during winter.
‘You can talk when you want to,’ she said, the corners of her mouth rising in a smile.
‘If you’d stepped from the bus onto my streets, then you would understand,’ he countered.
‘You’re lucky to feel that way about your home.’
Yanni thought of his grandfather and his shop on the corner and the people gathering on market day to parade their weekly gossip.
‘Are you away for the day or a longer trip?’ she asked.
This was a question he had not contemplated answering. He lowered his eyes and distractedly pushed his coffee cup around the table. She sensed his discomfort.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.’
‘It’s all right.’
They sat in silence until the bus started to fill and they left the awkwardness behind them with their empty coffee cups. This time she sat next to him. He felt dirty and scruffy beside her. His clothes were clean but they were old, his skin filled with the dust of the dry mountain air and as dark as his roughly knotted shoes. She had a brightly coloured dress, short above the knees and daringly thin. Her shoulders were bare and he could smell her perfume. On her lap she carried a leather rucksack. He didn’t think it would hold very much, it seemed small for a trip around Greece.
‘You travel light?’
‘Oh no, my main luggage is back in Athens. This is only a few bits and pieces. I could never have carried it all.’
‘Aren’t you scared travelling alone? You don’t even speak the language.’
‘I enjoy travelling and I’ll always find someone to talk to,’ she smiled. ‘Besides this is the home of all my heroes. I had to come here, whether alone or not.’
‘Heroes?’
‘I studied Ancient Greece back home. It was part of my degree.’
He had always wanted to go to university. He had studied hard at school, assiduously completing his homework while his elder brother ran around the fields pushing the goats in front of him with a thick olive branch.
‘You like our country for more than the beaches then?’
‘I haven’t even been to one yet.’
The roads were wider now and the bus moved faster. The houses changed from wood and brick to pre-cast concrete. A boring similarity crept into their design and Yanni felt that all individuality had been swallowed by the mass of people huddled in their rambling streets. His shirt collar tightened as he thought of their cars, their jobs, their wives and children. His throat choked and his hands sweated at the unfamiliarity of their faces. He needed to know someone and he needed to be known.
‘How long are you staying in Patras?’ he asked.
It was the first time he had opened a conversation.
‘Maybe a week,’ she smiled, happy for his curiosity. ‘Why?’
Yanni smiled awkwardly, not knowing how to phrase his words.
‘It is just that I could do with a friend in this place.’
‘Good,’ she nodded, ‘I’d like some company too; but just friends, yeah? I’m not sociable in every way.’
The innuendo made him blush. It was a thought that hadn’t in any way crossed his mind but she had made him feel as if his request for company was something base and forward.
‘I’m not interested,’ he replied. It was probably due to a mixture of his English skills and his embarrassment but the result was almost rude; and although he realized it, he felt safer not changing it or taking it back.
They sat in silence through the last of the journey, looking at the city as it unfolded outside their window - a moving kaleidoscope of colour and confusion, richness and intensity. Yanni was shattered by the stream of noise that flowed from the bustling streets. Cars honked impatiently, drivers shouted angrily and women tugged children behind arms full of shopping; all of their faces strange, all of their lives unknown.
Anna smiled at him as his face portrayed his worried emotions.