Sara Alexi - The Illegal Gardener

Juliet is offered a light with the words, “Christos Anesti,” Christ is risen.

“Alithos Anesti.” In truth he is risen, Juliet responds.

For the elderly people of the village, there is reverence, quiet excitement, the end of forty days of fasting. The days without meat are over. The candles must be carried all the way home without blowing out to give luck for the year to come. Above the door, on the frame, the smoke from the candle will be used to make the sign of the cross, a blackened smear renewing last year’s cross. The children know that behind these doors of their respective homes a feast awaits them, and they are pulling on coats, ready for food and the game of cracking eggs that have been dyed red. There may even be a present or two.

There is life everywhere, young and old brimming with joy. Latecomers hurry with their candles, greeted by all; early leavers are flecks of twinkling light in the distance. The village is united.

Juliet thrills in her participation and cups her candle to ensure it stays lit. She wants the luck and would like to renew the cross on her house, simply because it is hers and she can if she wants to. She positions herself back from the main throng so she can watch without being drawn in. She is on the outer edge of the crowd, but senses someone behind her. She turns and wishes them a Good Rising, holding her candle out to offer a light.

Juliet looks in the dark for a candle at waist height, but there is no candle. Instead, there are hands in pockets. She looks to the face of this non-believer. It is Aaman.

“Oh, hello. Isn’t it amazing?” Juliet looks over the sea of candles, which now flicker their way home, dispersing slowly to each corner of the village, a bobbing orange glow surrounded by laughter, colourful plasma coursing through the veins of the village from the heart.

“It is interesting.”

“Have you been in the church to see? Come on, let’s go over where it’s a bit more central. We’ll be able to look in from over there.”

Juliet pulls at Aaman’s sleeve. He yields easily, and they wiggle their way through the crowd. The people are thinning out now, but there is a dense clump around the church door and there are many still inside, talking, praying, kissing icons. But a few feet away from the door, the square has empty patches. There’s a woman with her arm around a beautiful little girl, who in turn, holds the hand of an energetic little boy a year or two older.

“Where is your father now?” the woman rhetorically asks as the boy breaks free. “Spiro, stop running with that candle. You will fall.”

“Nai, Mama.” Yes, Mum.

“I am going to go and look for him. Stay here, Spiro. Be good and stay with Vasso.” Vasso begins to cry. The mother bends her knees. Her skirt is too tight, so she pulls it down as it rides up before wiping her daughter’s eyes and giving her a hug.

“I won’t be a minute, Vasso. Spiro will look after you. There are so many people in the church, you wouldn’t like it. I won’t be a minute, I will just get Baba, OK.” Vasso nods and her shiny, well-brushed, waist-length curls bob. Spiro runs back and dutifully holds her hand, but as soon as his mother’s back is turned, he is running again, round and round, through the crowds.

Juliet peers into the church at the gold gleaming above the throng of people, on the walls, and hanging from the ceiling. Whispered prayers merge alongside laughter and back slapping. The church seems to belong to the people rather than the people belonging to the church. They are so tightly packed, they shuffle as one, as if boiling, centres of calm and edges that break away in little flurries. Some shuffle to be nearer the altar. Others form a queue up to a glass case that contains a painted icon. A lady at the front of the queue genuflects before the glass, crosses herself and then kisses it. She crosses herself three times before stepping aside for the next person to repeat giving the honour. Some of them with lifeless eyes perform the ritual and once complete, they break away unaffected. Others have tears in their eyes and reach for lace-edged handkerchiefs.

Some women wear tight dresses and short skirts, their makeup heavily applied, the heels high. There is no subtlety in the adornment. Juliet reflects that there is something very sacrilegious in their sense of occasion. The men are in suits, leather jackets, or shirts, but all wear loafers. They smoke outside.

A brush past Juliet’s legs brings her back to consciousness. Spiro runs around her and Aaman until they smile. He then, suddenly, stands still behind his sister, little Vasso. Spiro’s candle catches Juliet’s attention.

Everything changes. Anticipation slows time. Horror brings action. Juliet jumps towards Spiro. The mother runs. Vasso screams. The candle flares. People shout. Vasso’s hair burns. Tip to crown. Fizzing, spitting. Aaman pushes. Juliet staggers. Aaman lays his hand on the girl’s head, in one motion runs his hands down the hair, taking the oxygen, removing the burning, killing the fear. Juliet breathes again.

As fast as it happened, it is finished. The mother encloses her toddler in her arms and inspects the outer layer of hair that is singed away. Spiro is left alone with his inner conscience; no words could be louder. The crowd’s momentary tension dispels. Vasso is offered a sweet. One old lady, the same height as Spiro, takes hold of his arm, speaking quickly and emphasising her words with tugs on his sleeve. Spiro cries.

Aaman looks around to find Juliet shaking. He supports her to a wall and holds her steady. He is not surprised by her reaction. He is calm.

“You must breathe,” Aaman says. “Take one breath and then let it out. Good, take another. You are all right. There is no need to fear. It has happen, it has finished. The girl is all right.”

The mother of the toddler comes towards them, unsure, reticent. She looks at Aaman before asking Juliet to thank him for her and then turns back to her children. Aaman understands but he is not interested; his attention is not taken from Juliet.

Juliet gently rubs her arm; Aaman lays his hand on top of hers to stop the motion and then just as gently takes his hand away. Juliet is crying, no sound, the feelings too deep. Even the tears have trouble surfacing.

“You can tell me if you like.” The tears affect Aaman. He wishes he was bigger, not knowing if or how this would affect what he could do for Juliet in this moment. He is sitting, turned towards her. His knee touches hers. Juliet looks at him with soulful eyes.

“I was six years old. In my room, Dad was out. It was a bungalow. No stairs,” she adds to help Aaman understand. “Mum is watching TV and I am meant to be sleeping. In a room at the back, past the bathroom. But something feels wrong so I call her. ‘Mummy?’ She doesn’t answer. She often doesn’t answer me. But I know something is wrong so I call again. ‘Mummy.’ When I call her ‘Mummy,’ if she answers, she would say, ‘Yes, by some major error in my life!’ Always ‘By some major error in my life.’ She is not the kindest of mothers. She is not a bad mother, she just didn’t seem to have any interest in me. I think she found children boring back then and it grew into habit. That, and some weird jealousy about me and Dad. But I had grown used to her by the age of six.” Juliet explains that she had actually thought she could be no other way until she saw her talking to one of the girls in her class at school. She was kind and gentle with her and even gave her a bit of a half hug. Which had hurt her.

“But, anyway, I was calling her this time she didn’t answer at all. I could hear her laughing watching TV. I called really loud. She answered ‘Yes, by some major error…’ But she was laughing at the TV and never finished her sentence. I watched the light coming from the TV across the hall floor. I could make out the shapes of people moving. I wished Dad was home. He was great. But only Mum was there and Mum didn’t come. So I went back to bed. I said to myself that if she was laughing, then everything must be fine. I curled up with my little teddy."