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  “We’re in the kitchen Evangelia,” Deirdre called out as the hairdresser arrived. Evangelia had made a slight detour to drop the change into Stavroula’s taverna as Fotini was obviously becoming forgetful. Melecretes had been incredibly grateful, rushing out from behind the counter to thank her and insisting she call him Mel. He’d pressed her to stay for a coffee on the house, but she’d explained she had a prior engagement. Evangelia blushed as she recalled he’d insisted “tomorrow then,” in his husky Idaho accent. There had been a definite twinkle in his eyes.

  By the time Iraklis returned with the wine Sofia’s appearance was transformed. The black leather had been replaced with a voluminous floral blouse smelling of mothballs, her face was free of all make up except Deirdre’s soft pastel pink lipstick, the nose ring was safely stashed in her pocket and her purple hair was concealed in a cheery floral headscarf that clashed with the blouse.

  Iraklis looked around the room, inwardly relieved there was no sign of the scary teenager. Sighing with relief he accepted the seat Mrs Kolokotronis pushed him into, between Deirdre and a pretty girl who smiled at him shyly.

  “Come and say hello nicely to Sofia, she won’t bite,” Mrs Kolokotronis urged him.

  “But, but....” he stuttered in confusion, before pulling himself together and shyly saying “nice to meet you.”

  Iraklis wondered how Mrs Kolokotronis had managed to get rid of the scary Goth and replace her with this floral vision of loveliness.

  “It’s nice for you and Sofia to have each other for company, there’s not enough young blood in the village,” Thea said, confusing Iraklis as he tried to work out if the smiling Sofia and the intimidating Goth were one and the same person.

  Sensing his confusion Sofia piped up, “I decided it was time to change my image. The Goth look is so last season. I hear you caught dinner, you must be so talented to have netted that whopper on your first attempt.”

  “Beginner’s luck,” Iraklis beamed.

  “Perhaps you could show me some time,” Sofia suggested, angling for an invitation and hoping she wasn’t being too forward.

  “I’d be happy too. If Gorgeous Yiorgos says it’s okay to bring you along on the boat you could join me on my next day off,” Iraklis replied.

  “I’d love to. Evangelia, you will let me have a day off to go fishing?” Sofia pleaded.

  “Who am I to stand in the way of young love?” Evangelia replied, causing both Sofia and Iraklis to blush profusely.

  “Do you have any hobbies?” Iraklis shyly stuttered.

  “I like to donate blood in my free time,” Sofia shared.

  “That’s very noble dear,” Thea piped up. “But don’t give too much, yous is already too skinny.”

  Evangelia, deciding she would prefer Sofia to dress normally in the salon, suggested, “I can spare you tomorrow Sofia if you need to go up to town to shop for some less gloomy clothes. Just make sure you’re back for the afternoon shift.”

  “Oh thank you, you’re so kind Evangelia. Nona will you come with me and help me choose something more appropriate for the village?” Sofia said.

  “It’s a date,” Thea replied, delighted to see the sunny teenager she remembered emerge from the gothic darkness.

  Thea’s happiness was complete when she overheard her goddaughter whisper to Evangelia, “Do you suppose you could do something with my hair? I’m bored with purple and want to try something new.”

  Everyone stared at Thea as though she had lost her marbles when she blurted out “thank goodness for that, there’s nothing more of a passion killer than a man with purple chest hair.”

  Chapter 19

  Something of the Dark about Him

  “What’s your game, old woman? I ordered you to drive us to the finest restaurant in town, not this backwater establishment,” Dastan the Kazakh complained threateningly as Nitsa parked the old Mercedes taxi in the ‘No Parking’ spot outside Stavroula’s taverna.

  “This is the finest restaurant now Mel ‘as taken over the cookin.’” Nitsa snapped back. “Mel came all the way from America to chef ‘ere.”

  “In that case I will overlook you ignoring my instructions,” Dastan conceded, suitably impressed an American chef was working locally; having no idea Mel ran a gyros joint in Idaho.

  “Come now Masha, don’t pout. In my great independent nation of Kazakhstan we place more value on the superlative quality of the food than the surroundings. I have partaken of many fine meals in yurts far more humble than this.

  “Just as long as my step-daughter doesn’t decide to leave my ‘usband’s bedside and turn up ‘ere,” Masha reluctantly agreed, acknowledging she had yet to sample Mel’s cooking. “Stavroula would make my life a living hell if she knew I was gallivanting with yous when I told ‘er I ‘ad to rush ‘ome to see to the donkey.”

  “Let’s be ‘aving yous, yous can’t be sitting around in the taxi,” Nitsa chivvied the bodyguard.

  “He will be fine sitting in your taxi with a horse sausage sandwich,” Dastan said, pointing to his companion who much preferred that option to standing guard in the doorway.

  “I’m not ‘aving yous getting crumbs in the upholstery,” Nitsa insisted pushing him out and driving off in search of more unwilling passengers she could extort an exorbitant fare from.

  Melecretes was delighted to welcome such an apparently wealthy customer as Dastan whose ostentatious display of gold jewellery spoke of great riches. Having mail order Masha on his arm was an additional pleasure as Mel never tired of feasting his eyes on her voluptuous silicone assets.

  Mel’s obsequious welcome was ruined by Fotini pointing at Dastan and cackling, “That’s the oily malaka that was in the sea before July in the most indecent swimsuit I ‘ave ever clapped eyes on. It barely covered ‘is bits.”

  “Madam, I will have you know my swimming costume is a mankini. I wear it with pride since our great independent nation of Kazakhstan decided to embrace ‘Borat’ as good for tourism, even though the movie initially brought excruciating embarrassment to our great independent nation.”

  “What’s he chuntering on about Mel, I cant’s make sense of ‘im? What’s a Borat?” a frustrated Fotini demanded.

  “He’s talking about the hilarious movie ‘Borat,’ set in his country,” Mel shouted, wishing Fotini would invest in a hearing aid.

  “You do realise the cameras never came near our great independent nation of Kazakhstan; the movie was filmed in some Romanian shanty town. They thought to mock us, but we had the last laugh by eating the tourist dollars of many foolish Americans who before ‘Borat’ couldn’t even find Kazakhstan on a map.”

  “It’s so important to have a sense of humour,” Mel said edging away, sensing there was something dark and sinister about Dastan, and afraid to admit he was ignorant of the location of this mafia chap’s country.

  “Of course the movie did not depict us fairly,” Dastan continued. “For instance I only sold one of my four sisters into prostitution. I tried to resist, but the camels the pimp offered were such fine specimens, giving the superior fermented milk we use to make our delicious national drink of shubat. And you will never find any of my countrymen wearing polyester since the great oil boom.”

  His mention of oil reminded Masha of her mission to uncover the Kazaks’ oily intentions. Nudging him towards a table she simpered, “Yous will ‘ave to tell me all about youself an’ what brings you to Greece.”

  “It will be my delight Masha, but first let us order food.” Turning to a hovering Fotini waiting to take their order, he demanded, “Bring us your finest caviar old woman and some Russian tsai.”

  “Brings yous what?” Fotini spluttered.

  “It’s fish eggs, yous ignorant peasant,” Masha explained.

  “Who’s yous callin’ a peasant, you plastic floozy,” Fotini retorted, stomping away to the kitchen to have a good spit in their food.

  “’Ad the cheek to call me a peasant they did, an’ there they sit wanting filthy fish eggs. Th
ey must be really poor in ‘is country if they cant’s even run to proper hen’s eggs,” Fotini told Mel.

  “I’d try not to wind him up Fotini, there’s somethin’ of the dark side about ‘im,” Mel advised.

  “Po po, he’s nothin’ but a tasteless jumped up malaka with an overgrown eyebrow, he dont’s scare me,” Fotini replied defiantly.

  “I’ll go and take their order,” Mel volunteered, desperate to keep Fotini from hurling more insults at the wealthy customer.

  “Well yous may as well take ‘em this bit of fish meze to start with,” Fotini said, passing him the platter of anchovies, sardines and crabs she had retrieved from Evangelia’s mop bucket, then fried and garnished with a generous spray of spit and some mouth watering black olives. Socrates had already taken a take-out fish meze up to Stavroula in the hospital to keep her strength up.

  “That looks tasty, he won’t be able to turn ‘is nose up at that. Fotini, yous is a real asset to the kitchen,” Mel praised her, carrying the meze over to Dastan and Masha.

  “This looks most excellent,” Dastan said to Mel’s relief, picking up a fried anchovy and dangling it under Masha’s nose.

  “Actually I find the smell of fried fish a bit nauseating at this stage of my pregnancy,” Masha objected. “Mel, can you just bring me some bread and oil? No really Dastan, you tuck in, I ‘aven’t much appetite after breathing in all that ‘orrible ‘ospital bleach.”

  “I like a woman who watches her figure. This is most excellent, Mel you are a master chef indeed,” Dastan praised Mel, who had no intention of confessing he’d had no hand in the meze that had been all Fotini’s work.

  “Can I tempt yous with a lovely lamb kleftiko to follow?” Mel asked.

  “Indeed, lamb is my favourite meat after horse and goat,” Dastan approved, waving Mel back to the kitchen and greedily devouring the fish meze.

  “What is this?” he demanded as Fotini splashed a cup of tsai tou vounou down in front of him.

  “What does it look like? Yous said yous wanted tsai,” Fotini countered.

  “Russian tsai. Vodka, bring me vodka old woman,” Dastan shouted.

  “I’ll ‘ave the mountain tea, it might ‘elp with my nausea,” Masha said, resigned by now to remaining vodka free for the duration of her pregnancy.

  “I expect if you want a taste of Russia you must cook traditional food in your house as these Greeks only cook Greek dishes,” Dastan said.

  “I cook borscht, but that is all. My talents lie in other directions. Sometimes I miss the plov, the golubtsy and the herring under the fur coat,” Masha sighed. “But I couldn’t care less if I never ‘ad to eat the frozen pony liver ever again, I ‘ated the stuff. One winter it was all we ‘ad, day after day of frozen pony liver washed down with melted ice, ‘cos my drunken lout of a father spent all our money on vodka, leaving nothin’ over for a nice side of reindeer.”

  “Such beauty should not know such hardships. Did you experience great suffering?” Dastan said, grabbing her hand and ardently kissing her fingertips.

  “Verkhoyansk was a harsh place to live, frozen solid all winter. We ‘ave three weeks of hot summer when we are tortured by swarms of Siberian mosquitoes, far more ‘orrid than Greek ones. Greece is a paradise in comparison.”

  “I can offer you great riches back in my land. You could bathe daily in health-giving crude oil, gorge on caviar and dine on the finest horse ravioli,” Dastan offered, suggestively fingering the ostentatious gold medallion hovering amid the chest hairs sprouting from his open shirt front.

  “Dastan, yous forget I am a married woman,” Masha reprimanded, removing his groping hand from her knee and thinking he must be insane if he thought she would ever expose her delicate skin to crude oil or presume she could be tempted to run off with him to eat revolting horse ravioli. His reference to oil once again reminded her of her mission so she fluttered her false eyelashes and said, “So Dastan, yous is obviously an important bigly-wig. If I ‘ad to guess I would say you is bigly in oil.”

  “I do have a predilection for bathing in the stuff, but my line of important business is not oily,” Dastan replied.

  “Really, I ‘ad you down as a prospector.”

  “You are very astute Masha, I am indeed a prospector, but I grease the wheels for gold prospecting, not oil.”

  “So Bald Yannis ‘ad it all wrong and yous is just ‘ere on ‘oliday, not on business,” Masha surmised, presuming the most gold to be found in Astakos was in her jewellery box.

  “Why is that bald brute discussing my business? This is intolerable,” Dastan cried, lowering his sunglasses to peer at her suspiciously.

  “Well I think he might just ‘ave been a bit worried that if you started drilling for oil it would make the land a bit oily for ‘is goats to graze on,” Masha improvised, sensing Dastan had a bit of a dark side and wondering how to bring the topic back round to gold.

  “So the bald brute ‘as more than one goat?” Dastan asked.

  “Him and Soula ‘ave ‘undreds of the things now. Yannis ‘ad ‘is goats sponsored by the Japanese.”

  “That is most interesting. I am looking for a new goat supplier,” Dastan revealed.

  “I wouldn’t ‘ave ‘ad yous down as a goat herder,” Masha said in surprise.

  “Of course I am not a goat herder, do I look like a peasant? I have my fingers in many cakes. I need a reliable supplier of goats for our great independent nation’s national sport.”

  Looking completely blank Masha speared the paper tablecloth with a toothpick, wishing she had the courage to stick the toothpick into his groping hand, but deterred by his menacing air which grew darker by the minute. Responding to his remark about the Kazakh sport she hazarded the guess, “So in Kazakhstan yous ‘ave a team of goats playing sport? I ‘ave to say it sounds even more boring than the football.”

  “Masha, have you never heard of the great Kazakh national sport of kokpar?”

  Masha’s clueless expression was all the answer Dastan needed to launch into an explanation.

  “Kokpar is Kazakh polo. Men on horses compete to drag the ball into the goal. What makes our great independent nation’s sport so unique is instead of a ball we use a decapitated goat carcass, though if those eejits at Amnesty International get their way the dead goat will be replaced with a plastic dummy.”

  “I don’t think Bald Yannis would let you ‘ave ‘is goats for that, he’s unnaturally fond of ‘em.”

  “Indeed, I have heard about such perversions,” Dastan replied with an involuntary twitch off his hairy monobrow.

  “Perhaps unnatural was the wrong choice of word,” Masha hastily interjected, not wishing to tar even Bald Yannis with the stigma of bestiality. “Yannis just likes to make money off ‘is goats by dressing ‘em up. Anyway he’s a vegetarian.”

  “Now that is unnatural,” Dastan scoffed. “I never trust a man who refuses a nice piece of kazy or horse penis.”

  Their intimate conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Hamish and Fenella. The Scottish pair had already dined at ‘Mono Ellinka Trofima’ before retiring to Toothless Tasos’ fisherman’s cottage for an early night. The prospect of trying to sleep on the sitting room floor whilst the maudlin Tasos, who was uncharacteristically drunk on ouzo sobbed in his deckchair, sent them fleeing back into the night.

  “Just half a kilo of wine please,” they requested from Mel, trying to stifle their yawns.

  “I bring yous a little fish meze to ‘elp soak up the wine, it not goodly to drink on an empty stomach,” Mel said, clueless they had just stuffed their faces with generous portions of Yiota’s octopus in red wine.

  “Now where were we?” Dastan asked Masha, having lost his train of thought with the interruption.

  “We were talking about yous gold prospecting,” Masha lied, desperate to steer the conversation away from decapitated goat carcasses and edible horses, as she still felt queasy.

  “Yes indeed, gold prospecting. That is the important business that brings
me here.” Leaning across the table intently with his gold medallion flopping into his lamb kleftiko and his tongue loosened by many glasses of vodka, Dastan let his guard down and responded to Masha’s calculated charms. “I have reason to believe Astakos is sitting atop a rich seam of gold.”

  “Fascinating, where exactly is this gold seam yous plans to exploit,” Masha encouraged, gazing deeply into Dastan’s sunglasses.

  “Beneath the village landfill site,” the Kazakh revealed.

  “That stinking rubbish dump,” Masha sceptically exclaimed, remembering when the landfill site had been cordoned off by some misguided idiots in the Department of Antiquities as a possible place of valuable architectural interest, that later turned out to be of no interest at all.

  “There is gold there, I know it, I have a nose for these things,” Dastan shouted, thumping the table dramatically with his fist and sending his plate of lamb kleftiko crashing to the floor where it was promptly pounced on by Stavroula’s taverna cat Boukali. The cat scuttled off to the kitchen with its lamb prize, where Fotini grappled to grab the meat from its jaws, rinsing the piece of lamb under the cold water top ready to be minced up to go in the next day’s moussaka.

  Pouring another glass of vodka Dastan revealed “The gold mining company I prospect for have promised me twenty-thousand American dollars, not Kazakh tenges, if I can successfully bribe the Greek officials to give permission to sink the gold mine on the rubbish dump. I am in secret discussions with your local mayor who, I believe, is an eminently bribable fool.”

  “So yous isn’t the mafia?” Masha blurted impulsively.

  Dastan straightened up and leant back in his chair. Lowering his sunglasses he peered over the top of the dark lenses and raised his glass of vodka, pointedly ignoring her question and ominously saying, “To you, my magnificent Masha. We will share many nights in my great nation, I promise you.”

  Masha, shuddered involuntarily, sensing Dastan’s promise was a threat and vowing to make Bald Yannis do his own dirty work in future as she found Dastan’s presence decidedly menacing. When the taverna door opened she had never been so relieved in her life to see Nitsa enter and she immediately called the old crone over to join them, gushing, “Those ‘air extensions take fifty years off yous.”