Intimate Distance by Katerina Cosgrove

overwhelmed at the visit, sees perhaps six strangers a year; Yanni who mixes resin wine with cola and hands it to us in glasses with a scum of red dust on them; Yanni who hides up above the village among the shells of empty houses because he’s young and impaired and afraid; Yanni whose mother comes running down the sloping path holding pies in her grubby hand, hot and flat and fried on a griddle, with goat’s cheese inside; Yanni who brings us honey so old it’s candied through, and smears it on the pies.
    As we sit and sip and crumble our food into the oil, sopping it up, I look away down to the water so far below us and the wind rises, coating the glasses and plates and table still further with dust, until we too, just like Yanni and his mother, are dirty. Alcmene has built their hut beneath olive trees with gnarled branches, ancient roots thrust deep into the soil, red soil; the cave paintings of their forgotten ancestors.
    15
    THIS MORNING ZOI and I went for a walk to the village chapel. It’s half-hidden among oaks; leaves casting patterns, a moving mosaic of copper and green. The one place we’ve both agreed would be ideal for our mythical wedding, where we could actually envisage getting married. And it’s most propitiously the church of Saint Nicholas, patron saint of travellers. But not now, maybe sometime, later on, when things are different, better.
    To the left of the chapel is an overgrown walnut tree with an old bell hanging from it, thick rope wound around the mossy bough, and a wide flat space for feasting and dancing. Zoi skidded over the fallen walnuts, crunching them under his muddy boots. We’d been fighting all the way up the mountain, arguing about what had happened in Athens, but without mentioning names. It deteriorated further when we got there.
    â€˜You know what’s wrong with you, Zoi?’ I said. ‘You’re too nice.’
    He squatted in front of me and broke the fallen nuts open with a stone. Smashing hard, to make me jump. I watched the wrinkled meat of walnuts in his hands. He began eating them, raw and fleshy, white under crinkled skin.
    â€˜Nice,’ I mocked. ‘You can never think badly of anyone. Including yourself. You’re afraid to really look at yourself, to take a good look at yourself.’
    My voice was shrill, hunting him as he turned and strode away, crashing through the dry leaves and undergrowth that snagged at his trousers, twigs that tore at his legs. Thin lines of blood appeared on the pale flesh of his inner arm. He stopped and sucked at the drops springing up on his skin. I could still see him in the clearing through the trees.
    â€˜I should take a look at myself?’ he yelled. ‘What about you? Look at what you’re doing to us. To your own child.’
    He was still shouting and his voice was coming nearer now.
    â€˜Do you really think I don’t know? I was stupid before, I didn’t want to see, but now I know.’
    I opened my mouth to speak. My hands moved to my belly as he came running toward me and I didn’t realise what he was going to do until he was standing over me. He put his hands to my throat. His hands large, black in front of me. Go on, do it. Show me how you really feel. Yet as I felt his fingers closing on my neck, they pinched only a moment and then became soft and caressing, circling my veins and tendons in strange, slow movements. I stood up unsteadily and he held me, his breath hard in my mouth. We staggered against each other, glued together in shared confusion. What do we do next? Can I forgive her? Can I trust him? I almost fell and he lifted me up a little under the arms.
    â€˜Zoi, I did want to hurt you, of course I did. But now – ’
    My breath was cut short. In an instant he had me down on the ground again and was bearing down on my shoulders with both hands and I became frightened for the baby and lashed out, kicking him in the groin.
    â€˜You