Nothing to report. Gran seems happy and relaxed and enjoying the slow pace of island life. Will call soon. Love you, Evie xoxo
*
The next morning, a man rushes in and spits Greek words at me. I’m so used to his visits now, that I’m not perturbed. He doesn’t have the patience for me to use my translation app. Instead we use charades in order for him to get his point across, which actually takes far longer than the app would but it’s also a lot more fun. He gestures outside to where his donkey is tied up.
Even this doesn’t faze me anymore. Yeah, sure a donkey at a bookshop; I’ve seen worse. I get the feeling it’s more like his pet than a farm animal. Zeus loves the donkey visits and I often catch them nose to nose as if they’re communicating without sound. Today the man gesticulates wildly at the animal and performs charades that I can’t translate no matter how hard I try. He points to me, and then outside.
‘Ah, the donkey needs water?Aqua?’ I mime myself drinking water from a bottle.
‘So latrevo.’ I make a mental note to remember how to say water in Greek.
I hold up a finger, telling him to wait. I find one of the dogs drinking bowls and take it outside to the donkey, refilling it with water from the hose.
The man’s wrinkled face creases with a smile. We’ve had a number of these performances and I’m slowly but surely able to understand what he’s after. While the donkey drinks with Zeus supervising, the man wanders into the bookshop and peruses a table with a small selection of second-hand books. I wish I knew what he was looking for. I’m determined to crack the code.
I take stock of him, yet again. He seems to be drawn towards books about animals. Perhaps, like Zorba the pig farmer, he also has a plot of grazing land? I take a few books from the shelves and show him. He shakes his head no. With an apologetic raise of the hands, he’s gone for another day.
While I’m pondering what books he might like that I can have ready for his next visit, another customer arrives, widening her arms as she enters like she just won first place in a running race. ‘The gods have answered my prayers! This used to be a very sad excuse for a bookshop and now look at it! A riot of colour, of words, the sweet smell of new novels. I vow to spend my summer days in here expanding my mind. And also, because my mother is driving me crazy but what can you do? She’s been ill so I must bite my tongue and be a good dutiful Greek daughter. But my oversized suitcases are fit to burst with the big guilt trip she’s sending me on. Mothers, eh?’
‘Tell me about it.’ I laugh at her description. ‘Our moms sound freakishly similar.’
‘Is your mother Greek?’
‘No.’
She twists her mouth. ‘Then you’re probably on easy street, but we won’t do that whole competition thing because everyone has their own journey and I’m not big on comparison woe.’
‘Right.’ I don’t quite know what to do with this starburst of a person. She’s effusive but in a very relatable way. ‘Comparison is the thief of all joy.’
She slaps a hand down on the counter. ‘Yes! You get it! Iknewyou’d get it. You’ve got a certain vibe, an energy about you that screams a quiet intelligence. You’re not one to parade your superior brain power but it lies just below the surface nevertheless.’
Is this the part where I tell her that quote is something I once read on a coffee mug? ‘Why thanks but …’
‘No buts. You just are. Deal with it.’
‘Umm OK.’
She holds out a hand to shake. ‘I’m Roxy, short for Aphroxia.’
‘I’m Evie. Short for Evie.’
‘You look like an Evie – of course you do. Tell me, Evie, what’s your favourite book?’
‘I can narrow it down to top ten at best.’
‘We’re going to be great friends.’
‘Let’s swap book recs.’
‘Deal.’
There’s something about Roxy that puts me at ease. I’m not usually a fan of friendships, having no desire to be remonstrated with when I turn down yet another invitation to leave my abode, but for a moment, I open to the idea of making it happen.
*
Gran and I are finalising the wording for the literary cocktail menu for Epeolatry. I play around with a design and sit typing them up ready to be printed. Gran informs me her friend Athena from the Squashed Olive, a nearby café, has agreed to do the catering for the launch. I’m only half-listening as I drop and drag design elements, giving the menu a roaring Twenties Gatsby vibe using black and gold.
‘You’ve missed your calling,’ Gran says peering over my shoulder.
