By that moment I was getting in the mood to eat and the waiter approached the table, it was the guy who had placed my backpack on the chair. It was the sort of Greek who looks Egyptian, with a beautiful smile, curly dark hair and Greek nose. He proceeds illustrating the katalogo: “There is lamb, agnello, fagioli in salsa di pomodoro, coniglio al rosmarino, moussaka”. I ask him to translate moussaka at that point. He ventures in that, forgets the melanzane, I laugh and the drunk brother who was stably sitting at my table gets up with a smirk. I order the okra. If there is something I love the Greeks for are indeed the way they create gardens and cook. The drunk brother was the one who created the garden of twirled beautiful vines, he comes back to my tables and stresses the apostrophe to Alexandra around ten times each sentence he says. “Alexandra, relax here while I go talk to my cousin over there. I will be back, Alexandra”. I laugh no more, I feel bad for having given a fake name. “See my cousin, Alexandra? He is a great man. We are there, Alexandra.” And I think of my own cousin, the only cousin I have, the only person I know with his Lucanian spirited blood who could reach Katalimata faster than I do, the only one who, besides me, could even attempt at it. My cousin is a monkey, the residue of a forgotten ancestry, unable to abide by the rule of men, who once came to Knossos clad like a tramp, and in Aradena, which people evacuated due the reciprocal vendettas, he flew over the bridge like the Messenger of the gods, that is his name. He crossed the ghost town without a care in the world, while the goats, I cannot forget, were enraptured by his moves. I turn and greet the drunk man’s cousin, who is named like the drunk man. I do not say my name, but khareka.
In the meantime the sober brother comes back to ask me to pay. “You can stay here all night, I do not care but I have to go so pay now, only cash”. I cannot resist the temptation of telling him to take it easy, that he is visibly stressed out. “I know Greeks have problems with relaxation”, he does not even contradict it. The Greeks, cannot relax if the taverna fails, and cannot relax if the taverna succeeds. But the drunk brother, the vine weaver stands out. If I had not met the drunk man, no way would I have ever been sitting at their place. What’s indeed the point of being sober if you are a man and nag like a fucking hag.
“Alexandra, you should come to the music festival” the drunk man lists several people who will be there and I mull it over for real. Greek tavernas always offer fruit. If this does not occur just spit in the waiter’s eye. No way would this happen in Kato Zakros. The fruit of Kato Zakros is stellar. After the gorgeous fruit platter I get up, I leave my backpack on the chair with all my stuff in it and just take the brush and toothpaste. I wonder if I should hide them but I am just wearing the floral dress, no pockets. All the men look at me and I smile as I head to the restroom sink. While brushing my teeth in peace, I hear someone chasing me down. It is the damn young waiter who had gathered up my backpack from the ground and was translating moussaka into italian. He admires me brushing my teeth, translates his admiration into words and hands me his toothpaste for me to taste.
I just keep looking at him, in front of the mirror and the sink.
I cannot taste his for my mouth is still full of mine. But I tell him my real name.