Intimate Distance by Katerina Cosgrove

note.’
    â€˜No, I have to see her and say goodbye.’
    â€˜We said goodbye last night,’ Zoi says, losing patience. ‘At dinner. Don’t you remember?’
    â€˜I’ll tell her for you, my child,’ Pandelina says. ‘Don’t worry about it. Come, let’s go. It’s twenty past.’
    She hustles us into the courtyard, thrusting bunches of basil into our hands as goodbye tokens.
    â€˜Take this and smell it on the bus, Mara. It’ll stop you from feeling sick.’
    We stand at the bus stop clutching our luggage. The café opposite is dark and silent, the first time we’ve witnessed it so. Seeing it I’m forlorn, it’s as if everything is futile now. We don’t talk to each other and Pandelina is between us, hands on hips, stoically waiting too. She discourages conversation. Then there’s light in the distance, the sound of a vehicle. We crane our necks forward and watch the blinking light become bigger and bigger until finally we realise it isn’t the bus but a motorbike coming toward us.
    â€˜Dimi,’ I shout, involuntarily, and turn to Zoi and Pandelina, apologetic. ‘What’s he doing up so early?’
    We wait in silence as Dimitri brakes. He leaves the lights on and we’re all illuminated in the greenish glare as he gets off.
    â€˜What are you doing here?’ Zoi asks.
    â€˜I was out all night,’ he says, addressing his reply to me. ‘I rushed back to say goodbye to you.’
    I step forward awkwardly and hold out my hand to him.
    â€˜Goodbye, then.’
    He pulls me to him and kisses me on the cheek.
    â€˜I hope you’ll be okay. I’ll be back too in a few weeks, before the birth, I promise.’
    â€˜We don’t need you to come back,’ Zoi says. ‘We’ll be fine without you, I promise.’
    Dimitri finally looks at his brother and Pandelina steps in, seeing the dangerous look in his eye.
    â€˜Time for us to go now, Dimitri.’
    He doesn’t turn around and she grabs his arm high up near the armpit.
    â€˜ Ela , I said. You can give me a lift back.’
    She gets on the bike, showing her fat legs in their rolled-up stockings, and all three of us can’t help laughing after all as Dimitri revs the bike and waves goodbye.
    19
    WHEN EVENING COMES in Athens, the dying light spreads flat over the public squares and congeals like blood, egg yolk, tears on a cheek. When evening comes, the church bells on every street begin to clang for vespers. When evening comes, the protesters assemble on street corners and plan their next attack. Inevitably, they are tear-gassed and hauled off to prison, but there are always more. When evening comes, I stop on the landing between the second floor and the third, uncertain what to do.
    Stars stud the milky glow of yet another sunset. One, two, then a group of three, come out at the same time. Tonight we walk the steep path to a special place overlooking the city and harbour. My tread is heavy now. I never thought I’d be one of those women who clutched their lower back all the time when pregnant, but I do. Soaked with sweat, we sit on the cool ledge that wraps around all four walls of the chapel. It’s a stone ledge worn by centuries of people, sitting, resting under the soothing cypresses. Hills with round shoulders crowd the trees.
    When I turn my head finally to look at Zoi he’s lying down and his head is thrown back. I put my hand out to touch his Adam’s apple but draw it back again. His thin shirt sticks to his nipples. Then I touch him, with tenderness, as if I’m saying goodbye. Down the mountain; from the height we can reach after a half-hour walk the city looks careless, unstructured, thrown together as if by a child.
    At home, it’s a little after dinner. Kiki clears away the last of the plates, leaving Zoi lingering over his. He’s a slow eater and still picking at the remnants of his food, delicate