Aftershock by Bernard Ashley

‘To Taste the Assos Honey’. The musician was professional and courteous, not at all the spiteful figure of Makis’s nightmare; and they brought their duet to such a standard that they heard, ‘Well done! Well done!’ coming from Mrs Laliotis in the kitchen. Makis began to look forward to the coming Saturday.
    Except that Saturday was to be followed by Sunday…

    The Acropolis was a small Greek restaurant in Camden High Street, It put Makis in mind of the Mandolino. At one end of the roomful of old wooden tables and rush-seat chairs there had been a similar platform on which the musicians performed. On special nights, Makis’s father and other Mandolino men had sat in a circle on the platform, facing in towards each other, playing and singing Kefalonian songs – voices in harmony, with guitar, mandolin, balalaika, and accordian. Here in the Acropolis, though, the chairs were set in a line for the performers to face the audience.
    Sofia and Makis arrived with Mr and Mrs Laliotis, Makis carrying his Gibson the way his father would have done to walk to the village feast day, its case on a strap and slung over his shoulder. He saw his mother look into the room – at men in dark jackets with white open-necked shirts, women with immaculate hair, silky dresses and lace shawls, plates and cutlery set out, the Greek flag on the wall at the back of the platform – and she stopped in the doorway, putting her hand to her mouth. For a few seconds she was back in another country.
    â€˜We are sitting here.’ Mrs Laliotis led them to a table at the front, below the platform. Makis’s nervousness suddenly hit him in the stomach. Forget Denny Clarke. Nothing could get the heart thumping as hard as this: he, Makis Magriotis, was going to perform a duet with a musician from a BBC orchestra. And what frosted Makis’s skin was his mother being there. From sitting crying in her bedroom a few weeks ago, here she was at the Acropolis looking as fine and elegant as any woman in the place. Mr Laliotis pulled a chair out for her to sit, and now she truly looked like someone who belonged.
    People were still arriving, and recorded
rebetiko
music was playing, songs sung by the famous bazouki and singing pair Vassilis Tsitsanis and Marika Nimou. And Makis saw something he’d almost forgotten; men swinging and catching their
komboli
worry-beads, the way his father had done when he was relaxing with other men in the village. Where were those beads? Makis wondered. Probably buried with his father’s body in the cemetery. Well, he could do with a string right now to help steady his nerves!
    The Acropolis food was good, served buffet-style in stainless steel dishes:
stifádho, pastítsio
, meatballs,
moussakás, tzatzíki,
cucumber, courgettes, salads and
féta
cheese; but Makis just picked at a piece of bread. Mr and Mrs Laliotis didn’t eat much either. Perhaps, Makis thought, that’s how musicians always are before a performance. But at last the music began, provided by a quartet of guitar, mandolin, bazouki and accordion-playing – on their own as well as backing the singers – although this was no men’s choir as there had always been in the Mandolino. This was men and women, and some of the songs were from Cyprus. Throughout the first half of the concert Makis’s body felt lighter and lighter, his head like a helium balloon. When the time came, would he have the strength to even hold his plectrum?
    Finally, Mr and Mrs Laliotis were introduced. To great applause they went up on to the platform. The audience was relaxed but attentive – except Makis. He thought he was going to explode. His hands were hot and wet and shaking, and he had to keep testing his legs to see if they would hold him up when he was announced.
    He knew the Laliotis part of the programme which was before his part – and as the audience called for encores, he felt worse and worse. Why