The Brother Who Stayed

Barba Fotis sat at his customary table outside Mihali"s coffee house, a half-empty ouzo glass in front of him. Swallows wheeled in the air above the little port, reminding him of bats against the rosy evening sky. Summer was coming. So was his younger brother, Stelios. Stelios, whom he hadn"t seen for thirty years. The ouzo had a melancholy aroma this evening, a bitter residue.

Few people remembered Stelios, who had left so long ago to make his fortune in a distant country. Dutifully he had sent money home for his sisters" dowries, then got married himself on the other side of the world to a woman who died childless.

Now Stelios deigns to remember the family home. Now he remembers the family home and composes a nostalgic letter. It is a fine thing to welcome a brother after thirty years. A brother who did not share the cares, the hardships, the long, hungry winters now returns to claim his share, his place beside the hearth. A fine thing!

No doubt it had not been easy for Stelios either, eking out an existence in a foreign country: first by washing dishes, then as a waiter, until eventually he had managed to open his own cafй, which he had later traded in on a more up-market establishment, a taverna that had flourished in the sudden fashion for Greek food, and made him wealthy.

So now - what? Stelios would want his half of the land, and no doubt he would want to live in the house with Fotis, a confirmed bachelor.

But who had worked this land, tended the grapevines, pruned the olives and figs? Who had repaired the terraces, stone by stone? Who had stopped the slate roof from caving in, kept the walls whitewashed, the shutters freshly painted? Certainly not Stelios. And after the two sisters" weddings, remittances had stopped.

Fotis signalled abruptly for another ouzo. The second tasted sadder and more bitter than the first. It would be only one more hour before the ferry docked.

"Getting excited, Barba Fotis?" a woman"s voice called to him. It was Agathoula, who had known them as boys. Now, like Fotis, she was a pensioner in her sixties.

Barba Fotis looked at her unsmilingly, but didn"t answer. The distilled bitterness of thirty winters would have spurted from his throat like bile if he had opened his mouth. "He"ll feel like a stranger after all this time," chirped Agathoula.

"And so he is!" thought Barba Fotis vehemently. "After thirty years away, you can"t claim to belong…"

"Don"t forget to come for a coffee, join us for a meal," said Agathoula, going on her way. He remembered that Agathoula had once fancied Stelios, but that was water under the bridge, she"d found another bridegroom. Now she was a grandmother, with no regrets as far as one could tell.

Fotis had regrets. He had no wife or kids to warm his age. They had been luxuries he could scarcely afford, in any case. Some of the people in the village referred to him as "the hermit crab". Now even the roof he was unaccustomed to sharing seemed threatened. If he and Stelios could not get on, Stelios might want to split the property. Fotis could not bear to think of such a thing, but the ugly possibility nonetheless lurked in his mind like a scorpion. Who would have thought  that Stelios would want to come "home" after all these years. What a fool Fotis had been to imagine he would be left in peace in the little nest he had feathered so frugally. He should have remembered the serpent never strayed far from the fig-tree. Vipers multiplied. Crows had a way of appearing out of the blue, ruining the fruit just as you were starting to dream of the harvest. Now the migratory bird had remembered the good things he was missing. In half an hour the ferry would arrive.

Slowly Barba Fotis drained his ouzo to the dregs. In truth the scorpions in his mind had put him through great torment lately. He had, in his bleakest hour, taken down the rusty shotgun, wondering if the best solution might not be a bullet: to put himself out of his misery? To scare off his brother, the cause of his present turmoil? Maybe to despatch them both? He had been undecided.

Now he slapped some drachmas down on the tin top of the small round table, got painfully to his feet and reached for his walking-stick. Adjusting the peaked seaman"s cap on his white hair, he turned towards the harbour. A plume of smoke and a silhouetted ferry shape grew as he gazed.

Unhurriedly, limping slightly because of his arthritic knee, he covered the short distance to the quay and stood well back. The anchor chain shrieked and shuddered as it was played out. The massive hatch came down and passengers surged ashore. He recognised his brother suddenly, looking from side to side, trying to pick him out in the small crowd milling at the dockside. Stelios had grown a paunch, but lost his hair.

Barba Fotis"s face worked, conflicting emotions played with his features, which became by turns a grimace, then a mask that held back tears. But why was Stelios carrying only one suitcase?

Now Stelios had spotted him. "Foti!" he was calling, "Foti!"  Stelios was embracing him, speechless with his own emotions.

"Ah, Foti, it"s been so long. I feel almost a stranger. But after thirty years of work I thought I"d earned a holiday. Then I began to remember the island summers, and nothing could keep me away."

"Holiday? What holiday? I thought you were coming home…"

"I had to see you again, brother, and have a look at the old place too, but I"ll be going back there. By now I"m half kangaroo. And I still got the business, and my friends, even a woman there… It would be a lot to leave, and what would I do here?"

Fotis looked at him soberly, inwardly incredulous. How could his brother be serious? What kind of man would choose exile? The scorpions whose venom had inflamed his mind had vanished. In their place like balm there welled a half-contrite, immense relief.

"Welcome home, brother. The figs are ripe. there"s still some good wine left from last year."