Family Ghouls
Old Vasili Moustakas was dead. I knew this because he was walking up the main beachfront street with his frank 'n' beans dangling out through the slit in his pajamas and no one else seemed to notice. They were the same blue-and-white striped bottoms he was wearing last month when he was hit by a car. That had ended badly for everyone involved.
Maria Stamatou ended up with a broken nose and a busted bumper, and Vasili Moustakas was nearly chopped in two. His walker had done zip to protect him.
Yeah, the oldest man on the island had definitely gotten the worst deal. And Maria? Well, she got a new nose which made her pretty happy, from what I hear. Her sister used to tell people that Maria could crack open a bottle of Heineken with her old nose. They say she probably ran old Kyrios Vasili down on purpose just so her father would buy her a new nose. My name is Allie Callas (born Aliki— Alice— Callas) and I see dead people. In my experience, the dead aren’t spooky. Most of the time they’re weird and annoying. I live on Merope, a small island tethered to the ocean floor in the Aegean Sea, wedged between Greece and Turkey. I’m thirty-one. Single (ask my mother and sister. They’ll tell you; then they’ll ask if you have a single brother, son, nephew, second cousin twice-removed, or a garbage man with a pulse and no wife). My parents are Greek, but we spent most of my childhood in the United States, besieged by phone calls and letters from both families, desperate to know why my parents cut out their hearts, pooped inside them, then set them on fire and put the fire out with skewers.
When I was thirteen they succumbed to the pressure and moved back. As a result, Merope isn’t quite home. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a beautiful island. We have blazing summers and mild winters, with the occasional freak sprinkling of snow. It’s also the biggest hotbed of sin outside of Mykonos and Athens; although you wouldn't know it if you were a regular tourist. You'd smile, take photographs of the quaint and charming scenery, including the pretty blue-and-white sign that reads Merope: population 21,271. You would “ooh” and “ah” over the ruins and the remnants of the olden days. You would Facebook and Instagram our churches. Then you'd go home and tell people how lovely it was and how nice the people here are. It's all a carefully crafted and maintained an image. The reality is much more gruesome … once As for me, I’m the woman people on Merope call when they want something done. Need an impossible-to-find whatzit for your loved one's name day? I'm your woman. Have you been left out of the town gossip and alienated by your former friends? Call me and I'll find out why. Is your boyfriend cheating with his sleazy ex? I'll bring pictures. People are always willing to pay good money for help and information.
You'd think I'd be really unpopular at parties with a job like that, but on the contrary, people eat it up. They pull me aside on the street and tell me the kinds of things that no one would believe if they were printed in a glossy gossip magazine.
My business card reads Finders Keepers in a plain font, black on cream. Below that is my cell number, and right next to that is my email address. (Contrary to the opinions of the local clergy, Merope has entered the computer age.) Vasili Moustakas stood poised on the edge of the street, tethered fishing boats bobbing along the concrete dock not far behind him. He grinned his gummy grin and flipped his middle finger up at me. It’s funny how cocky people get when they die. Death is a great anonymizer.
It's easy to be a rebel when hardly anyone can see you. From my bicycle seat, I watched Kyrios Vasili step out into the traffic. This time there was no screeching of brakes and crunching of metal as Maria’s BMW had done when she collided with the old man's walker. Cars— three of them— zoomed right through him as he crossed the road. He shuffled over to my bicycle. “Little Allie Callas," he said. “Have you got a smoke for an old man?" “Smoking will kill you. And you just gave me the finger!” His cackle burst into a phlegmy cough. I winced as he brought up an invisible lump of muck and spat it onto the pitted blacktop.
"I wanted to see if you were watching me. He waved his loukaniko— his sausage— at me. Ugh. Dirty old men are the worst, especially when they’re dead.
Across the street, my mark moved. It was Friday evening, and instead of watching TV at home or cruising the promenade with friends I didn’t have, I was minding someone else's business … for a very reasonable fee. The blood had ceased its circulation in my thighs hours ago. My digital camera was at the ready, waiting for the moped rental guy to put so much as a pinky out of line. His wife— my client— was positive he was treating female customers to more than just a test ride. She was probably right. They usually are. Now it was up to me to snag the proof. Only Vasili Moustakas and his dead penis stood between me and the money shots.
0 Commentaires