The Priest's Well (The Greek Village Collection Book 12) Read online

  Sara Alexi

  THE PRIEST’S WELL

  A NOVELLA

  oneiro

  Also by Sara Alexi

  The Illegal Gardener

  Black Butterflies

  The Explosive Nature of Friendship

  The Gypsy’s Dream

  The Art of Becoming Homeless

  In the Shade of the Monkey Puzzle Tree

  A Handful of Pebbles

  The Unquiet Mind

  Watching the Wind Blow

  The Reluctant Baker

  The English Lesson

  The knife slices through with ease, the blue blade bright against the red. Nails just a little too long leave half-moon indentations on the skin’s surface. The first cut releases liquid which trickles out over his fingers, making them glisten in the shaft of light that filters through the window. The flesh gives way as the knife slices through. Easing his fingertip grip, he puts down the knife to exchange it for a spoon with a serrated edge.

  The spoon gouges deep, excavating, ripping the innards from the fleshy wall, rupturing the wholeness, devastating the beauty, releasing his tensions.

  Why was the incident at the last post brought up? Was that necessary? Was it kind?

  The innards spill out, caught in the bowl, until there is nothing but a limp, empty shell.

  And here is the trick! Although this is an olive oil-based dish, he knows from experience that if he smears the inside of the tomato shell with butter now, at this point, it will add another subtle, rich layer to the flavour when it is cooked.

  Savvas smears it liberally.

  To be fair, the conversation was not really unkind. In fact, it was less negative than a lot of his superiors back in America. Some of those had been downright condemnatory.

  The green parsley and the fresh, fuzzy-leafed mint release their aromas as he chops. He takes a second to close his eyes and concentrate on the smells, and the tension across his shoulders relaxes.

  ‘Diplomacy,’ the bishop said, making small talk on the drive down. ‘Diplomacy is an important thing. Obviously, we must be truthful. Honesty is what we preach. But I think it’s fair to say that it is not always the best thing for the public to know everything.’

  Nodding at this point seemed like an appropriate response.

  ‘Too much information, like too much choice, is not necessarily a good thing. We have to consider the level of education of the congregation, even their breadth of experience,’ the bishop continued. ‘That is part of our duty of care.’

  The car sped on, the new polished leather seats a little slippery on the corners. They both maintained a tight grip on the door handles to stop them colliding with one another.

  ‘For example, it was unfortunate that so much was discussed in public about your last post, and perhaps given a slant that was more indicative of the public’s desire for gossip rather than the realities of the situation. It can be so damaging to a career of one so young as yourself.’ The bishop peered at him through bushy grey eyebrows.

  Savvas liked that. And it was true: the press only dwelt on the negative side of the whole affair. After all, everything he had done was for the good of the church. If those reporters had attended his services, they would have heard for themselves how distracting the low-flying planes were. Their racket made contemplation and prayer a difficult matter and interrupted his sermons to the point where he was obliged to stop and wait for the rumbling to pass and the echoes within the church to subside before he could continue. Why his predecessor had not raised money to insulate against the noise when the airport first opened was a mystery.

  ‘I can see how the amount you raised could have been questioned and I think, if there ever was a next time, perhaps a little keeping of receipts, a little accounting for expenditure might help.’

  That enraged him. Was the bishop suggesting he had pocketed the funds? Surely he must know that a papas as young as himself will only be treated with respect if he respects himself. He is a representative of God. It is imperative that he must, at all times, be smart and well-groomed, manicured and coiffured. How else will the congregation set him apart, recognise his stature? He must live his role wholeheartedly and also, he must keep a well-stocked kitchen to ensure that he is in a position to offer his hospitality at any given moment to bishops and archdeacons, should they call round. All that costs money. There is no getting around the realities of life, no matter how spiritual one becomes.

  ‘But,’ the bishop continued, ‘the church can always do with good active men and of course I am not only talking financially, my dear Savvas. Take your new position, for example.’

  His ears pricked up at this point. Not much had been said about where the church was sending him so far. He asked where they were going, but the reply—the name of a town he had never heard of—meant nothing to him, and he did not want to admit his ignorance. His knowledge of Greek geography is poor, and it embarrassed him. Besides, after the reports in the tabloids, he was given very little choice. Also, returning to Greece would have fulfilled his mama’s dream for him. But returning to where? They had already driven for over an hour out of Athens, and the roads were practically deserted, the low houses made of plythra, the rendered mud-brick conspicuous by its rounded corners. There was scrubland on either side, and, occasionally, the sound of goat bells. At intervals along the roadside, orange sellers sat with their carrier bags full of the fruits, hoping to tempt the passing drivers. They were heading into a social wilderness.

  Returning his attention to the cooking, he stirs the onions, which are now translucent, and the sweet aroma of garlic begins to make his new kitchen smell more like home. Even if it is a rather small home. The pine nuts and the rice are stirred in next. Normally, he would add the meat at this stage but as there was none in the fridge when he arrived, this version will have to be with raisins. An extra spoonful of the kernels will make up for the beef.

  How pleased his mama would have been for him to end up in such a remote location, he is not sure. He can hear her now:

  ‘Make me proud, Savvas. Make your baba proud.’ She talked with such authority, both for herself and for his baba, who died when he was six years old. He only really knew his baba through her but she assured him, at six feet four, he was even more to reason with than her. Which was hard to imagine. His teen years, without a male role model, were a difficult time; confusing, full of unanswered questions.

  ‘Have dignity, stay close to God, and never turn your back on who you are,’ were his mama’s instructions when he struggled with questions of what his life was all about in the days before leaving school. ‘Above all, you are Greek, Savvas. Be proud of that!’

  Her ambitions for him felt so lofty and then, towards her end, so hurried. There was no time for contemplative thought. She suggested he become a priest, and a priest he became. How proud she was, lying in her bed, the white sheets neatly tucked in, the pointless jug of water by her side, her parched lips cracking into a strained smile as she stared at the pictures of him outside the church, ordained. She looked at that picture so long, her weakened fingers struggling to maintain a grip, and eventually it slipped to the bedspread and then to the floor. As he picked it up, he saw there were tears in her eyes and she whispered, ‘So proud.’

  He dabs his eyes with the edge of his apron. The onions must be making his eyes water.

  Would being in Greece have been enough for her, no matter how lowly the station, or should he have challenged the wisdom of the church to demand he remain in America? He could have waited for a more stately position.

  Too late now. It’s done.

  The oven
door needs a little brute force to get it to open, but the inside has heated quickly. Perhaps he needs to turn down the temperature a little. An extra sprinkle of breadcrumbs to keep the tops from burning might be enough.

  The tapsi of stuffed tomatoes, surrounded by potatoes and liberally coated with olive oil, is now ready to slide into the oven. This is going to be a good meal. A private housewarming for one. He takes a glass from the overhead cupboard and checks it for finger marks and is surprised to find it is spotless.

  A glass of wine accompanies him to the adjacent room, where he slumps into the chair by the open fire. The chair is not uncomfortable, but for a man of the church to live in two rooms—one to cook and eat in and one to sleep in—what does that say to the people? He will definitely have to do something about that. He smooths his beard, which is coming along quite well now, and adjusts the knot of his ponytail at the back so it does not dig into his neck as he rests back.

  Pinching finger and thumb, he picks tiny flecks of dirt from his floor-length black cassock before sipping his wine, looking around the room.

  In places, the greying plaster is crumbling to dust and falling off the wall. Where the door handle has hit against the wall is a deep gouge, and along the bottoms of the walls, in corners where small insects have burrowed, there are tiny mounds of red earth from their tunnels in the mud brick. These areas will need attention. There are no drapes hanging at the two small windows, which gives the room a bare feeling. The dark wood, half-glass-fronted kitchen crockery cabinet by the main door is the only item with any ornamentation, but even this is drab. A table for one up against the wall also supports the countertop stove in which his tapsi of stuffed tomatoes bubbles away. All in all, it won’t do.

  Through the window by the table, all that can be seen is the solid, blank back of the square-cut grey stone church. An impenetrable sun shield. The spring warmth is in the air outside, but it has yet to penetrate this hovel. The flames lick up the back of the chimney, drawing him closer, mesmerising.

  ‘Take your new position…’ the bishop said in the car on the way from the airport. ‘Your predecessor was a good man. A very good man. But perhaps…’ He paused and looked out the window then, as if lost in thought before resuming, ‘Perhaps too good a man.’

  It wasn’t the comment that intrigued Savvas, it was something that the bishop left unspoken that caught his attention. The pause, the sigh, the lack of explanation.

  ‘How can that be?’ He asked the question directly.

  ‘Ah, well…’ He could sense rather than see the man’s cheeks take on a ruddier colour. The bishop cleared his throat nervously. ‘It is true that we must walk the way of Christ.’ His voice was quiet, humble. ‘There can be no argument with that.’ He shook and then nodded to emphasise this point, but he could not make eye contact. Savvas waited. The silence in the air between them, pressuring the bishop to account for his unspoken comment, the rumble of the tyres against tarmac seemed louder. The older man nervously glanced at the chauffeur, whose eyes were fixed on the road ahead.

  Savvas bowed his head as if in agreement and, leaning in, created the impression of intimacy.

  ‘It is just that sometimes…’ the Bishop reduced his tone to a whisper. ‘Sometimes a man can be so humble, it does him no favours.’

  ‘Yes, yes, how right you are,’ Savvas murmured. ‘And my predecessor was such a man, you suspect, Bishop?’

  ‘Suspect? I know. The house attached to the church in this village…’

  At this point, Savvas looked up and sharply. A village! No one had said anything to him about a village! A tiny Greek peasant village over an hour from Athens! He was about to speak out when the bishop continued, ‘It is a rather grand house.’

  This refocused Savvas and for the moment, he held his tongue.

  ‘A wide hallway, chandeliers, rather a fine dining room, a large balcony at the front and a small but maintainable garden at the rear.’ The old man had smoothed his black robes over his knee with his free hand.

  So it seemed it was just as well he had held his tongue. Maybe the place would suit him. A nice house and a small parish. It could be a good start.

  ‘Well.’ The bishop leaned even closer to Savvas. ‘He gave it away,’ he hissed though his teeth.

  ‘What?’ Savvas sat upright. The driver glanced through the rearview mirror at this, making the briefest of eye contact.

  ‘Yes.’ The bishop kept his head bowed over his knees, trying to maintain his hushed tone. ‘His argument was that a single old man had no need of such space and luxury. Whereas his housekeeper, with her gardener husband, who, when they were not serving on him and maintaining the church, lived with their daughter in a two-room cottage. So he swapped.’

  Savvas swallowed and shut his mouth at that point, not trusting himself to speak.

  Pouring a second glass of wine, he stands and walks the two paces to check on his dinner. The smell is most appetising but the tops are definitely going to burn unless he turns the heat down. His stomach twists. He has not eaten since the light lunch he had with the bishop in nearby Saros town, after which the chauffeur drove them directly to the village.

  On that brief journey, the bishop hurriedly informed him that the gardener, since the bestowal of the house, had passed away. Or did he pass away before? It was not entirely clear. Either way, it seemed the housekeeper and her daughter were now installed in the larger house.

  ‘The widow took up the burden of the gardening as well as the housekeeping and church duties,’ the bishop explained.

  Savvas was about to enquire of the duties of the widow as regards his own domestic comfort such as the laundry and cleaning when the bishop continued.

  ‘But it was too much for her, poor woman. No one knows how long she laid unable to move on the cold marble floor by the altar. She had a second stroke six months later and now is confined to a chair.’

  Savvas wondered then to what kind of place he was being taken. The papas in a small village house, his immobile housekeeper in her grand house unable to perform the least of her duties. It seemed there was a lot to do to straighten things out.

  ‘But I think you will find the daughter keeps everything well now,’ the bishop assured him.

  ‘When you say my predecessor gave them the house, you mean he let them use it or…’ But his question hung unfinished as the driver pulled up to what was indeed a very fine-looking house with an open vista next to a rather small and uncared-for cottage tucked behind the church. Between the two stood an old-fashioned well with boards covering it and flowers in olive oil tin pots displayed on top. Someone had painted the tins in bright colours.

  That was a couple of hours ago. The bishop rapped on the door of the grand house until it opened a crack, closed again and reopened, and something was handed over. The old man adjusted his kalimavkion, which a slight breeze was trying to pluck from his head, as he made his way back to the car.

  ‘Nefeli apologises. She cannot come out to greet you as she is just feeding her mama, but she assures me that the house has been prepared and the larder stocked.’ With a gracious movement, the bishop opened the car door and invited him out. ‘I think perhaps it is really her shyness that has kept her indoors.’ This last sentence was said with a wisp of a smile, as if offering some joviality into a situation that was clearly, through Savvas’ eyes, far from amusing.

  He had never before stood in front of any building so basic with the intention of entering. The tool shed behind his old church in America was just a breeze block affair, but even that had a sense of purpose. This greying squat cottage looked very much like it had grown, beginning life, perhaps, as a wall, then a second wall added at an angle to become a sheep enclosure, maybe. It would be easy to imagine that a roof was added to turn it into a donkey shed but how, from that, anyone had had the vision to make it a house is beyond imagination! Words stuck in his throat. He was rendered speechless. As he stumbled to untangle the priority of his feelings, the bishop used the pause to put t
he keys in his hand and, more quickly than he could have ever anticipated, the old man wished him well and jumped back in the car, leaving him standing there in the dusk, alone.

  His dinner is beginning to burn. He can smell it. He has always had a very delicate sense of smell. If he was a proud man, which of course he isn’t, he would be proud of his sense of smell.

  The stuffed tomato tops are browned but not blackened, the skins softened and collapsing like old feather pillows. The tray of food is hot and he is not about to use the edge of his new outer cassock, which he still has not removed, to take the tomatoes out of the heat. Looking around the room reveals nothing useful. From previous exploration, he knows that one side of the lower cupboard of the kitchen crockery cabinet is stacked with plates and jugs to keep them dust free, and the other side is stocked with basic dried foodstuffs. The tomatoes were in the fridge with other basics. At least the housekeeper seems to know her job.

  But right now he needs a towel or a cloth, and she’s overlooked that.

  A narrow door next to the china cabinet opens into a small wet room. This has been built onto the older stone house with breeze blocks, their outlines still visible under a thin coat of white paint. With a shudder at the thought of showering there, he snatches the towel from the rail and returns to save his dinner. The towel smells of damp.

  The flavours are good, the rice perhaps a little dry, but the tomato shells themselves are exquisite with the butter, especially if he scoops into each mouthful a good quantity of pine nuts. He swills this eagerly anticipated food down with two more glasses of wine, puts the empty plate on the floor, and lays back in his chair, his hand across his extended stomach.

  This is the moment in the day he most looks forward to. Work done, a good meal inside him, the door to the outside world shut. True, there is much to do, both on the small scale of unpacking his bags and boxes and also on the larger scale of sorting out where he will live long term. But right now, he is content.