The Last of the Moussakas

Excerpt

The Last of the Moussakas
Fearne Hill © 2021
All Rights Reserved

GEORGIOS, AEGINA TOWN, GREECE. SIX WEEKS LATER

“I’d heard you were back,” I say neutrally, eyeing the lean, blond man slouched at one of the outside tables. His pale-blue shirt is rumpled and half undone, although he has clearly tried to rebutton it at some point and failed to align the buttons correctly. In one hand, he nurses a bottle of Fix lager and in the other a thin roll-up from which he takes a long drag before attempting to focus his blue gaze on me. I fold my arms across my apron.

“And if Papa Marcos sees you, he’ll tell you to get on your way; you’re not welcome here after what happened last time.”

Papa Marcos is actually my uncle, not my father, but that’s what everyone has called him for as long as I can remember. And this is his restaurant.

“Christ, that was ages ago, Georgios,” slurs the young man, shaking his head in mild protest. A wave of that thick yellow hair falls over his face with the movement, and he lazily pushes it aside before taking another swig from the bottle. He misjudges the precise location of his mouth and some of the amber liquid dribbles down his chin unnoticed. Ash from his cigarette falls unimpeded onto his jeans.

“Well, Papa Marcos has the memory of an elephant, and frankly, I don’t blame him if he tells you to bugger off. You’re lucky you’re even allowed back on the island, to be honest.”

The blond man regards me for a long second, his heavy-lidded gaze momentarily focussed. I feel a familiar lurch in my stomach, somewhere between pleasure and pain, and deliberately push it aside. Not tonight and not like this. Not ever again, in fact, I tell myself. I can’t continue tormenting myself like this, I just can’t. Picking up a tray, I gather empties from the table next to the man, aware of those blue eyes blearily following my every move as I cross to and fro around the outside restaurant area, clearing up the debris from departed diners.

We’ve reached midsummer, and the night has been as busy as any so far this season. I’ve cooked for eight hours non-stop, catering for well over a hundred covers. Day trippers and weekenders from the mainland pack into Aegina, joined by a smattering of rich yachting types and locals enjoying a hot Saturday night. It’s after one in the morning; the last table of guests has finally paid up and left. The town still buzzes with families and groups of friends at the neighbouring bars. Having wiped down the last of the outside tables, I disappear back inside.

After another half hour I’m done in the kitchen. Papa Marcos has long gone, as have the rest of the kitchen staff, leaving me to cash up and lock up. I’m the only person he trusts to do this reliably, not that he gives me any credit for it. I get paid just as little as everyone else, despite doing the bulk of the prep work, cooking, and having to manage a disparate bunch of occasional chefs, porters, pot washers and waiters. I can be sure as hell my lazy cousin and my brother won’t go the extra mile. I try to spend the time thinking happy thoughts about Agnes, my girlfriend of a couple of months. She’s nice, really nice, and pretty too. Shame I hardly have time to see her.

I extinguish the outside lights and, in the gloom, almost miss the body now sprawled across the table in the far corner, the empty green beer bottle dangling loosely from one elegant tanned hand. I detect gentle snoring as I approach and watch for a few moments as the man sleeps on, head cradled on his arm, his fair lashes resting on his cheeks, shoulder-length golden curls fanning around his face. A snail trail of saliva dribbles across his sleeve. And yet, despite his dishevelled and drunken state, I know without a shadow of doubt that Maximillian Bergmann is the most beautiful man I have ever seen.

“Max,” I begin, nudging him gently. Too gently, it would seem, as the snoring rhythm remains unaltered. “Maxi!” I shout a little louder, gripping his upper arm and shaking him with more force. “It’s home time, Maxi!”

Max gradually stirs and looks around hazily until his bloodshot eyes alight on my familiar face. He smiles tipsily. “Always here to save me, my Georgie boy.”

I ignore him; I’m tired and hot, my feet are aching, and I’m desperate for my bed. I can’t recall the last time I was allowed a day off. “Right, come on Max, just stand up. I’m not messing about. You need to go home.”

The harsher tone of voice and the tug on his arm bring Max to a more alert state, and he lurches to his feet, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

“And I’m not a boy!” I add, pulling Max along with me. “I’m twenty-five, Max. Almost a year older than you!”

Max pushes me away. “I need a piss.”

He steps back from the table and turns towards the beach. “Has anyone ever told you how cute you are when you’re cross, Georgios Manolas?” he mumbles over his shoulder.

He weaves his way through the tables and steps down off the restaurant decking, onto the narrow strip of pebbly sand which makes up the town beach. After only a couple of paces, Max reaches the water’s edge, swaying slightly as his fountain of pee arcs into the shallow foam at his feet.

“And you wonder why the good folk around here don’t like you very much,” I mutter under my breath and glance around to check we are still alone.

Max buttons himself up then totters back to where I’m waiting for him. He smiles his perfect easy white smile at me as if he hasn’t a care in the world. He probably doesn’t, I think uncharitably and check my watch. Possibly too late for taxis, and one look at Max makes it unlikely any drivers will agree to have him so inebriated in the back of their cabs anyway, particularly if they recognise him from previous trips. And even though the sensible half of my brain tells me to let Max find his own way home, the other half warns me that I won’t sleep easily knowing he’ll end up crashing somewhere on the beach for the night.

“Come on then, Max,” I sigh wearily. “I’ll give you a lift. The scooter’s parked over here.”

My Vespa has seen better days, having belonged not only to Dion, my older brother, but also to my older cousin Nico before him. Neither of them treated it with the care it deserves. Yet, although it may resemble a rust bucket, the 150cc engine is solidly reliable, even with the extra weight of a second adult. As Max clambers behind me, I warn him to hold on tight. “And don’t fall asleep! Stay awake! I haven’t got a helmet for you!”

Max’s arms obediently snake around my waist, and my oldest friend nestles the warmth of his body into me, resting his head comfortably against my back. We have shared scooter rides many, many times over the years, and as I head up away from the main street and along the coast road, it seems that Max snuggles in even closer. There had been a time when I lived for moments like this, alone with Max’s lean torso warm along the length of my back, but not now. I’m not going to let futile dreams of what could be with Max fill my head again, even if my heart demands that I push my foot to the pedal and just keep on going. I fail miserably to conjure up a mental image of my new girlfriend Agnes’s pretty face.

Aegina is not a big island, only about fifteen kilometres across and ten kilometres north to south, so it doesn’t take very long on the empty roads to get to Max’s parents’ place, cloistered in the hills above Kypseli village. Once we leave the coast road and wind our way up the narrow lanes, we encounter not a single soul.

His parents’ house is a newish villa but built in traditional old Greek style. With lush bougainvillea creeping up the walls, the two-storey elegant limestone sprawl contrasts sharply with the plainer, shabbier village dwellings on either side. Situated in an enviable spot; the views from the terraces stretch all the way to mainland Piraeus, with olive and lemon groves dropping away from the main house and providing acres of much-needed shade in the heat of the day. His parents had demolished the previous villa several years earlier and built this even grander place in its stead. At the time, my mum and I couldn’t see why they had bothered, it’s not as if they frequently visit the place. In fact, Max and his shifting collection of hangers-on are the only regular visitors these days. We negotiate the security gates, and as we head up the long private drive, I can see all the lights in all the rooms blazing, the empty swimming pool lit up like an airstrip for small aircraft. I shake my head; my dad would have said they’ve got more money than sense.

I kill the engine, and with my foot resting on the ground for balance, I wait for Max to move. He doesn’t budge an inch, his arms remain firmly wrapped around me, his front pressed cosily into my back. I wonder if he’s fallen asleep after all.

“Hey, Maxi, time to let go.”

“What if I don’t want to let go?”

His drowsy words are muffled against my neck. His fingertips find their way into the gap between the buttons on my shirt, and I can’t help an involuntary hitch in my breath nor ignore Max’s murmur of contentment as his smooth palm caresses the skin of my flat belly. “You like that, don’t you, Georgie boy?” he croons throatily into my ear.

That sweet accent, mostly Greek, but betraying a hint of foreignness at intense moments like this. I let my head drop back, losing myself in the sensation of the leisurely circular massaging of my belly and the feel of that hot breath and soft lips grazing my ear. God, it would be so easy to say yes, to climb off the scooter and allow Max to lead me by the hand into the house.

Pushing his hand away, I force myself to stay firm. “Stop it, Max,” I plead, closing my eyes. “Come on; please get off the bike. I’ve got work again in the morning, and I’m knackered. Just get off now. Please.”

The warm press of body against mine vanishes. The seat rises slightly as Max’s weight lifts, and I look up, sensing him standing next to me. “I do love you, Georgie boy, you know that, don’t you?”

I turn away from him, fiddling with the wing mirror. “Whatever. Go to bed and sleep it off.”

I head back to our little house hidden amongst the backstreets of Aegina town. A dwelling ideally suited to a family of four, ours accommodates an extended family of eight. Privacy and solitude are rare commodities, and the gulf between my modest home and the one I’ve just ridden away from feels as vast as the Saronic sea, the stretch of water separating Aegina from the mainland.

The whine of my scooter engine sets off a cacophony of local dogs, ours included. I give him a cursory pat as I pass him chained up in his usual spot under the eaves at the side of the house. God knows what all these territorial dogs, so beloved of us islanders, are actually guarding; none of us has anything of value worth stealing, but perhaps we just like to know who might be dropping in on us anyway.

The house is quiet, and I efficiently remove the sweat and grime of my working day under a dribble of a lukewarm shower before creeping into my room. I share the tiny space with Dion, and in the half-light, I can make out his lumpy body under the covers, flat on his back, dead to the world. His ugly snores are such a familiar soundtrack to my nights that they hardly register. I undress silently and slip into the narrow bed, separated from his by only a foot, and close my eyes.

Sleep eludes me as I knew it would; it is always the same whenever Max Bergmann strolls back into my life without warning. In between his visits, I can sometimes manage to forget about him for days at a time, and then just when I’m back on track, he turns up out of the blue, shaking me to the core, flipping my ordered existence upside down. I have a bloody girlfriend now, for God’s sake!

Giving up on sleep, I flick on my phone and indulge in a guilty pleasure: tracking his movements online via his company’s Instagram page. His last gig was headlining a drum and bass festival in Berlin, and before that, he’d done a stint at a big club in Manchester. Globetrotting—well, Europe-trotting as usual. And what had I done while Max had been lapping up the adoration of thousands of fans? Cooking approximately a gazillion moussakas and preparing my entire family’s body weight in tzatziki.

Truthfully, I had been expecting Max to appear again sooner or later. He rarely leaves it longer than a couple of months between visits to the island. He’s half Greek, after all, and spent much of his childhood here. His roots are on this island, and that drags him back, but his presence always unsettles me now. So different from when we were kids, when I counted down the days on the calendar until his boarding school holidays with growing excitement, knowing he would be back with me, and I’d have weeks and weeks with him all to myself. But lately, his presence feels like an open sore I can’t resist picking.

There is a familiar pull as my mind helplessly replays the feel of him riding pillion on the bike, pressed up against me, his soft palm flat against my belly, those maddening stroking circles, his breath and his low seductive voice warm against my throat. What if I don’t want to let go? My hand has strayed to my dick, achingly aroused against the well-worn duvet, and I’m working myself, imagining those circles moving lower and lower until it is Max’s hand on me, Max who is stroking me, Max who is loving me. My own fist is a poor substitute, but my balls tighten nonetheless, and I roll over onto my stomach as I start to come, rubbing myself hard against the friction of the sweaty sheet, stifling my frustrated groans against the pillow.

*

Max reappears the next day at around three in the afternoon; he knows it is the best time to catch me, when the kitchen staff have a brief lull between the lunch diners and the early evening coffee and baklava crowd. I watch him surreptitiously out of the corner of my eye as I oversee one of the new guys filleting lavraki until I am satisfied he can be trusted to do it unsupervised.

Max takes a seat at an empty table in the shade and orders a drink, chatting to Dion briefly. It will be brief for two reasons: firstly, Dion will scarcely give Max the time of day, and secondly, Dion doesn’t have the wit to sustain a long meaningful conversation with anybody. Papa Marcos nods graciously to me, indicating I’m free to take a break for ten minutes, as if bestowing a massive favour. I’m more than ready. I managed sixty covers at lunchtime.

“Why do your family all dislike me so much?” Max asks, and not for the first time, as I untie my apron and then take the seat across from him with my glass of iced tea. “Apart from the fact that I once vomited over this exact table in front of all those diners. Oh, and the time I was arrested for breaking into that empty house, and Papa Marcos had to come and retrieve me from the police station, obviously.”

He grins and shakes his lovely blond head. “No, I mean, before that—they’ve always hated me, haven’t they? Dion, Nico, Simone, old Noni, and definitely Papa Marcos.”

“I don’t think Simone hates you,” I reply rather evasively and, by omission, imply that all the others do.

Simone, my mother, always had a soft spot for Max, at least before he became a somewhat wayward, occasionally unpredictable visitor. She’s incapable of hating anyone, to be honest. I can’t speak for the rest of them.

I’m not exactly in the mood for this conversation; if Max hasn’t worked it out by now, then he probably never will. And his own mother should have told him the old stories herself. That she never did only shows how little he and his lot care for us, for all their professed adoration of Aegina and their Greek heritage. He could have asked her at any time over the years about the fallout and resentment between the Bergmann family and just about every other old Aegean family on the island, particularly ours, but deep down he obviously doesn’t care enough.

Evidently, he’s still completely unaware of the existence of that bloody book, and it’s not my job to enlighten him. If Papa Marcos and Noni don’t want us to talk about it, then it’s fine by me. I certainly have no desire to rake over those depressing old tales about Jürgen bloody Bergmann. And Max’s boorish, drunken behaviour with his fancy mates when he has come over here in the past only highlights to everyone what little respect he has for us and our shared history.

I can’t help a stupid thrill at seeing him though. Even while I simultaneously hate myself for it, and I hate myself for how his careless touch made me feel last night. Sitting across from me now, all relaxed and smiley, I can’t fail to appreciate how great he looks in a plain white T-shirt and loose-fitting Levi’s. Like Apollo, all golden hued and silky limbed. He’s absently clicking his fingers and tapping his foot in time to a musical beat no one else can hear—typical Max. It was no surprise to anyone when he went into the music industry. I reckon even his heart beats in a syncopated rhythm.

With no trace of a hangover, he’s suspiciously sober for this time of day. I wonder what’s wrong. Or perhaps, heaven forbid, he’s finally growing up.

“I don’t know why they all hate you, Max. Ask them yourself.” I shrug. “And anyway, Papa Marcos can’t hate you too much because he’s told me to invite you to supper tomorrow night with all the family. He won’t actually invite you himself, of course, even though he is sitting just over there.”

We both turn and stare at the portly, self-important Greek man reading the local newspaper in the shade, content to supervise the running of the restaurant from the comfort of his favourite chair. Max and I exchange a look.

There are two serious religions on the island of Aegina. Or maybe three if you count the actual theological, god-bothering religion going on in Ekklisia Isodia Theotokou, the massive orthodox church that dominates the far end of the harbour. For most Aegeans, that religion is confined to Sundays and holy days. But the two real 24/7 religions recognised universally across the island are, without doubt, the inextricably linked joys of Food and Family. Even Papa Marcos will overcome his intrinsic dislike of Max’s parentage to know that when Family are in town—even a bad apple, second cousin like him—they should be invited to break bread with us in our home. Food and Family come first always, it’s as simple as that. Hence, the dinner invite, via me.

“I’ll come to dinner if you’ll be there. I can’t face them all without you. And your old Noni, she fucking scares me to death, I’m not going in to say hello to her on my own.”

I roll my eyes at him. For as long as either Max or I can remember, my great-grandmother, Noni, has fiercely ruled the Manolas household from a wrought-iron double bed in our cramped back parlour. The stuffy little room, which I try to avoid at all costs, is equipped with a commode chair, an ancient black-and-white telly, and a pile of crocheted blankets. My silent, ground-down aunt Cynta cares for her, and I swear I have never seen Noni out of bed or clad in anything but the long black dress and black cardigan that cover her stick thin body. I feel obliged to go in and say hello to her most days, and she grips my hand in her freezing-cold claw, tugging me close for a whiskery kiss, which smells of rotting rose petals and garlic. I’d never inflict that torture on my worst enemy, let alone Max.

“I’ll be there, you idiot. It’s my day off anyway. I’m going over to Moni Island with a couple of mates, first, during the day if you want to come.”

Please say you’ll come.

I take a swig of my drink, feigning disinterest in his reply, and Max does the same. He’s drinking coffee, an unusual choice for him; I expected him to be happily tucked into the beers by this time of the afternoon.

“So where are all your friends?” I ask him. “I’m guessing you didn’t come over to the island on your own?”

“I did actually,” he replies, surprising me. “Fancied a break, just needed to get away from it all for a few days, you know, clear my head.”

He says this in a fairly offhand manner, but I know him too well. The sadness I thought I caught a glimpse of when I woke him last night flits across his features.

“What’s wrong with you?” I persist. “Are you ill? Why aren’t you drinking something stronger than black coffee?”

He laughs. “Did you not think I’d had enough last night? And anyway, I don’t have to drink all the time, do I?”

“No,” I concede, and then shyly, and in retrospect I have no idea why I blurted it out, “I prefer you like this.”

If I didn’t know him better, I would say he blushed.

“There’s nothing wrong, Georgie boy,” he carries on, examining his fingernails and avoiding my eyes. “Well, not really. I needed a break; I’ve been partying too hard and working too hard. I’ve made a couple of…um…unwise decisions lately and need to calm it all down a bit. Step off the merry-go-round.”

Immediately, I swing from irritated that he manages to tilt my world on its side, merely by displaying the planes of his body in a tight white T-shirt, to worried. He’s not his usual carefree self. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He shrugs and looks about, scratching his chin self-consciously. “It’s no big deal. I had one too many drinks one night, took a couple of pills, and woke up without a fucking clue where I was, who I was with, and what I’d done. For a while, I wasn’t even sure who I was!”

He makes a joke out of it, but I’m not fooled.

“Christ, Maxi, you’re going to run into trouble if you carry on like that.”

He shrugs me off again. “Nah, it’s nothing. I’m…I’m good.”

He stretches languorously with his arms above his head and smiles his lazy, seductive smile, the one that keeps me and my dick awake at night. “And I needed to get some decent sleep, Georgios. I’ve been burning the candle at both ends; it’s nothing to worry about. I wanted to escape and just be myself for a few days, here on Aegina, where nothing happens and everything stays the same. That’s all.”

And that pretty much sums up, in a nutshell, the entirety of what Aegina represents to him. A peaceful mini-break destination. And me? Well, I’m just another part of this unchanging and predictable landscape, a comfort blanket for when his exciting, hedonistic whirl gets too much for him.

“So, has anything actually changed around here while I’ve been gone?” He takes a vague look beyond the tables of the restaurant and over to the busy street behind. “I see the old town hall at the far end of the port is still boarded up. What’s happening there?”

I know where he means without following the direction of his gaze; the former town hall is a blot on an otherwise pretty, summery, bustling harbour scene. A previously impressive five- or six-storey neoclassical building, sandwiched between smaller shops and restaurants, in bygone days it was a landmark for all vessels entering the port by sea. Once a symbol of civic pride, it’s now an edifice of crumbling brickwork, missing roof tiles, and black-and-yellow tape sealing the doors and windows. It’s fair to say the old town hall is a sorry representation of Aegina’s declining maritime importance and Greece’s larger economic woes. Several local businessmen have variably and unsuccessfully tried over the years to turn it into a restaurant, holiday lets, and offices, all with limited success. The commercial and tourist trade needed to sustain such a large, impressive structure doesn’t exist anymore, not since the Greek banking collapse.

“Mr Acheolon, who owned the restaurant, died last summer, and his sons made a hash of running it when they took over. They spent too much money—too many mouths to feed—and couldn’t afford the bills out of season. It was repossessed by the bank a few months ago, I think. And the higher storeys have been closed up for years. I don’t know if anybody could afford to take it over now. It’s a massive undertaking, needs a total overhaul. No one in Greece can possibly afford that sort of risky investment. So, unless it gets pulled down or eventually rots away and falls down, it’s going to continue to be a bloody great eyesore.”

Max nods his agreement. “Yeah, it’s a shame, though, as it could be an awesome venue with the right financial backing. It would make an amazing hotel—imagine! With a cool nightclub below in the basement, a smart restaurant—and a spa maybe! You can see it from miles out to sea. Do it right, and it would draw in all the rich yachtie lot. Santorini and Mykonos, eat your hearts out!”

He grins at me mischievously. “You could run a restaurant in a place like that, Georgios. You’d be brilliant at it; I know you would.”

Now I’m laughing. “You live in a dreamworld, mate! The only restaurant I’ll ever run will be this one if I play my cards right. Papa Marcos is still promising he’ll hand it over to me one day.”

Max’s expression turns serious, and he leans closer, frowning and dropping his voice to ensure we are not overheard. “Georgie, my sweet, that old git is playing you. I’ve told you before, he’s just stringing you along. I’d lay a pound to a penny he’s made the same promise to Dion and to Nico, although those two can scarcely run a bath let alone a restaurant kitchen. He’s playing you because he needs you so badly. His restaurant would be nothing without you. But in the end, all three of you will be sharing it, and I’ll tell you now, you will never make enough money to support three families. You’ll be just like that bloke’s sons over the road, not making ends meet and having to jack the whole thing in.”

“On second thought, Max, I think I prefer you when you’re drinking,” I remark coolly, folding my arms across my chest. How dare he pitch up here and start telling me how to live my life? He’s got a bloody nerve. “And I think you’re wrong about Papa Marcos. I believe him when he says it’s going to be mine one day.”

“In that case,” retorts Max, unruffled, “Why don’t you ask Dion sometime? Find out for sure?”

He looks over to where my brother is setting a table in a painstakingly slow fashion, the simple task seeming to require all of his powers of concentration.

“Or you could ask Nico, for that matter? If you can find him that is. I’ve never seen him in here actually doing any of the bloody work. Papa Marcos is not going to bypass his own son, is he? Even if Nico is a complete waste of space.” Max shakes his head. “Nah, Papa Marcos is a bloody old skinflint, all talk and no trousers. He still pays you less than three euros an hour, I’m guessing?”

My flush of humiliation shows him he’s right. The concept of a national minimum wage doesn’t seem to apply to family members, not in Papa Marcos’s world anyhow. And my mother and I do live under his roof for free, so I sort of have to suck it up.

“And he’ll leave you nothing; I guarantee it.” Max sits back triumphantly. He can be an annoyingly smart git sometimes.