Written by Delphine Gauthier-Georgakopoulos
Bouzouki music rises and falls like a tide as waves of piglet, souvlaki, beer, and cigarette crash
from the square into the village. Two men come face-to-face in the main street, acknowledge
each other with a nod but do not talk.
It could be all about Pierre-Henri, who strides ahead. He’s tall and lean, his posture is
impeccable as he marches on, holding a bottle of wine, whiffs of expensive perfume in his
shadow.
But it’s about the other man, who is shorter and heavier, who slouches and stomps a couple of
steps behind. He places a small bottle of tsipouro under his arm to roll a cigarette. Perspiration
stains his shirt.
It could be all about Pierre-Henri as he breezes towards the front—the entire village greeting
him—before settling on the wooden bench next to the mayor. He brandishes the bottle of his
own made-in-France wine with a grin and asks for a bottle opener. He sits with his back
straight, taking his pick of suckling pig, Greek salad, and French fries. His thin fingers tap along
as the clarinet soars and soars, and the dancers spin and spin.
But it’s about the other man, the one no one greets as he trudges to the back. He pats a couple of
shoulders curved with tiredness before sitting on a wobbly plastic chair. When he places the
small bottle on the table next to the souvlakis oozing tzatziki and the sweaty cans of beer, a
couple of greying heads nod. He rests his head on his left hand. His right palm slaps the fast
rhythm on his thigh.
The entire village listens to Pierre-Henri, who gesticulates and laughs as he shares anecdotes
about ancient philosophers and civilizations in broken Greek. The mayor grins and grins,
savouring Pierre-Henri’s philhellenism.
No one listens to the Greek born-elsewhere reminiscing about the beautiful home left behind in
Albania. About his family’s status. Then. Before. And now… now, he rubs his calluses and
traces the latest cut on his palm. Now he weeds, trims, and cuts trees in gardens and fields that
will never be his while his wife cleans houses they will never afford. Forever foreigners in both
their countries, lost in a no-man’s-land of exhaustion. He grabs the neck of the bottle and takes a
deep gulp.
The entire village focuses on Pierre-Henri when he rises from his seat and strides to the stage. He
grins and gestures towards the clarinet before colonising the player’s stool. He plays well and
hastens the beat to show off his skill.
No one glances at the Albanian as he rolls a last cigarette, fumbles in his pocket for a lighter,
stands, gazes at the joyful crowd, and teeters away.
It could be all about Pierre-Henri and how the entire village claps and claps and claps when he
plays the last note, bows, and returns the instrument to its rightful owner.
But it’s about the table at the back lying bare; an empty tsipouro bottle, all that remains, like an
exquisite corpse.
.
Delphine Gauthier-Georgakopoulos is a Breton writer, teacher, mother, nature & music lover, foodie, dreamer. She loves butter, needs coffee, and hates easy opening packaging. Her words can be found in Roi Fainéant Press, BULL, Epistemic Literary, The Hooghly Review, Spare Parts Lit, JAKE, Funny Pearls, Every Day Fiction, among others. She is a contributor to Poverty House and the EIC of Raw Lit. Her debut historical novel Laundry Day was selected as a Runner-up at the Irish Novel Fair 2024. She lives in Athens, Greece. X/Facebook: @DelGeo14 https://delphinegg.weebly.com/