The miraculous encounter

The miraculous encounter.

Manolios was walking slowly and deliberately across the quiet path that led to the edge of the village and the allotments. A man in his mid-thirties and a keen loafer, he sported the unofficial uniform, facial expression and physical demeanour acquired after many years of strategic inactivity. He was dressed in his hardly used farming clothes comprising faded blue dungarees, orange sunhat, and ill-fitting wellies. A costume akin to a spy's disguise, enabling him to mingle in strange and unfamiliar worlds. A man incognito. Dressed for a higher purpose, a mission...well you get the idea. 

He was clearly nervous as he made his usual little throaty sounds, which were the cause for his nickname in the village: ‘Choiros’ (hog). He was not happy about the nickname nor the connotations, but sadly this annoying habit (amongst many others, it has to be said) was so deeply ingrained, that he simply could not stop. Also, to be fair, he was similar to a pig in... oh, so many ways, not just the grunting. 

On he went until he came to Maria’s allotment. It was one of a dozen or so, all identical to an outsider, but not to Manolios. To him, the small patch of land, with its orderly rows delineated by cane supports (and a sweet sounding wind chime), was the epitome of order and loveliness. “Oh, that woman was a marvel.  Where did she get all these fancy ideas? A wind-chime!” He mused shaking his barrel-sized head, and his face grimaced an expression of quizzical bewilderment. A UFO landing on the local church would have impressed him less.

Manolios often fell asleep with the aforesaid allotment on his mind and woke up dreaming of Maria tending the plot, her apron tucked into her belt, exposing a bit more of her hirsute legs than usual, and at one special occasion, even her beautiful, ample, lily-white, dough-like, hairy belly.  Manolios figured that her unfeasible and frankly startling hairiness was another sign that everything around her grew in abundance. He crossed himself to alleviate his guilt. It was at times like these, when he had been watching her for quite some time, waiting for just that moment, that Manolios blushed so hard, that his face really hurt, and his clothing felt tight and uncomfortable. His eyes watered involuntarily and he wiped them roughly making them redder than usual. 

He slowed down as he approached as if to pay this much envied agrarian masterpiece its due respect. Although truth be told, it was not respect that had brought him out at this unearthly hour, nor the much mulled-over image of Maria herself; it was in fact, Maria’s tomatoes.  Manolis had another love, that competed and often won over all other passions, including his not-so-secret crush on Maria. Food. The red orbs of delight hang in exorbitant numbers from the vines, all gleaming red and unfeasibly large. Today, the morning dew formed tiny tears of moisture which further accentuated their engorged flesh. He unwittinglyy licked his lips, as the large pendulous tomatoes came into focus and appeared to approach him.... and not the other way round. He stopped and took a guilty look at the adjoining fields and the little road. Nothing could be heard or seen and his heart soared,  like an eagle's heart he thought. He was about to pounce on his prey. He was brave and strong and a bit like an eagle, maybe exactly like an eagle. Apart from the feathers and the beak, claws, speed and eye-sight. The eagle-like bits, really.   

It was all still, apart from a distant cockerel and the little wind chime that barely swung in the languorous stillness of what promised to be another glorious day. He reached trembling over the feeble netting that separated the allotment from the road and almost as if he was in a dream,  grabbed a titanic, ripe tomato.

For a moment, he hesitated, but he knew now that there was no turning back. He pulled gently and the globe of earthly pleasure yielded its considerable weight into his hand. He held it for what seemed an eternity but was, in reality, a fraction of a second. He started salivating with anticipation. Soon...very soon he would be biting hard into its silky, aromatic flesh. Oh, joy, joy, joy. Tomatoey joy. He smacked his lips, grunted and caught a glimpse of a stray cat staring at him with what he assumed was the feline equivalent of admiration. 

He felt his eyes well up with tears of gratitude as he held it, turning it to examine the gleaming orb, a whole world of guilty pleasure, right there, in his hand. The stork, the smell, the little cleavage formed by the strained curves. He felt like a powerful effendi (a ruler) no…even more like the Pasha himself. No pleasure could be denied him. He, the mighty Manolios took his bounty, like a true ruler.  Resistance was futile, for all the world was his. "Oh my lovely, my lovely...my ..." The world had slowed down and an eerie silence held sway. The leaves stopped swaying in the almost non-existent breeze. 

He was now slightly cross-eyed at the particular juncture and his body and mind had entered a state close to rupture. He was quickly brought back to the reality of the guilty here and now, as he caught sight of a movement just to his left. A small black figure, flapping in extra layers of black cloth was ambling towards him. Unthinkingly and full of remorse and fear, he squeezed the gigantic tomato into his large, dirty pocket. Coming towards him, was Papa Vangelis, the village priest and a man that Manolios had feared all of his life.  Papa Vangelis, as well as making the whole village quake like condemned sinners in his sermons, also had a remarkably heavy hand, which he liked to exercise on the young of the village. 

Manolios felt a sudden urge to visit a latrine, as he desperately fought to adopt a nonchalant air of innocence and normality. It was impossible. He felt himself shaking and sweating profusely at the thought of being caught stealing from another villager, not to mention that the particular villager, (oh my God, she was bound to find out) held his heart and soul in her plump, gorgeous little hand. Disappointing her was tantamount to losing everything. Manolios’s world was crumbling like a paximadi (a dry whole meal rusk) being trampled under a heavy boot. He could think of no other suitable metaphor in the time he had left on this earth. 

He looked at the frowning face of the priest, his bat-like countenance waddling in the dusty path, his black oily cassock flapping menacingly, like wings. Manolios expected a tirade of abuse, even if, he had not been seen stealing the tomato, for the good priest believed that everyone was a sinner, a dirty worthless sinner, and as such should be humiliated whenever possible. Papa Vangelis yielded his powerful voice as a weapon and his cutting remarks were dispensed freely and as a matter of priestly duty. Father, of course, picked his victims well. With the well-to-do, he unfurled his full-on syrupy tongue, waxing lyrical and wishing them the protection of the Lord and eternal heavenly loveliness. But today, completely out of character and to Manolios’ utter stupefaction, the Father greeted him in a low incomprehensible slur and continued the waddle towards his allotment.

Manolios was so relieved at this spiritual event, this glimpse of Papa Vangelis’ humanity, this… miracle, no less, that he let out a deafeningly loud greeting like a shrill bird call or a pained high- pitched squeal. This sudden outburst caused the Father to jump as far as a man of his weight and level of fitness, could challenge gravity.  He swayed a little sideways and then regained his balance.  

Manolios’s eyes were suddenly drawn to the priest’s tall black hat which stirred in a most peculiar fashion. Papa Vangelis had reached for it with both hands and was now holding it tight against his ruddy forehead, forming a deep sweaty line.  His considerable girth was still swaying in slow motion, as waves of cassock-concealed-fat were coming to rest, having been thrown into turmoil.  He waddled down the dusty path resembling a man running with his legs tied together.

Manolios shrugged and watched the figure get smaller and fainter.  He scratched his head, and then reverently reached to feel for the tomato, which strained,  warm and tender, trapped inside his pocket.  He sighed as he stroked it, his calloused hands snagging the fibres of the rough pocket lining and then carefully, with an imperceptible limp, he headed for his house as fast as he judged he could he could walk without a tomato-related incident, and the pleasures of the eating kind,  that awaited him.

As he walked home he failed to see the open door of the quale cage at the side of Maria's allotment, but that is another story.