Free The Messenger of Athens: A Novel by Anne Zouroudi Page B

upon the shelf. Giving her ten thousand drachma, he forced the roll into the tin, already stuffed with notes.
    “You haven’t taken any while I’ve been gone?” he asked, and she lied. No.
    “Because,” he said, “it won’t be long before we’ve enough to buy the land. And then we’re halfway there.”
    He hadn’t given her enough. He never did. He didn’t know the price of meat, or milk, or oranges. It didn’t matter. The tin was always there, when more was needed.
    Andreas pulled the crust from a small piece of bread and, lifting the birdcage from its hook, carried it outside. He hung it beneath the vine where the sun was warmest, and, taking a crumb between thumb and finger, offered it through the bars to the silent lark.
    “Come on, Milo,” he coaxed. “A treat for you, a song for me.”
    Cautiously, the bird watched him; then, hopping along the perch, it picked the bread from his fingers.
    “Good lad,” he said. “That’s my boy.” The bird took another crumb, and another. As Andreas walked back inside the house, the bird lifted its head and began to sing.
    N either pleasure, nor distaste, but disinclination: she felt the inconvenience of undressing, at this time of day, and anticipated the discomfort of nakedness, in the damp chill of their bedroom. But the duty was hers, as much as preparing his food or ironing his clothes; it was a common enough bargain, her compliance for his money.
    He did his best; he tried to make himself a temptation, lying ready but casual on the bed, his erection pushing up, ridiculous, beneath the towel around his waist. The bathroom had restored him to domestic humanity: his beard was gone, his nails were scrubbed, his hair was slick and flat, and all around him hung the sweet scent of soap and his cologne.
    She found a smile, and put it on; she wore it as she stripped herself of clothing. He opened his arms, and she went to him, pressing against his clammy skin. He pulled the blankets over them, and pressed his mouth on hers, pushing his tongue between her teeth.
    “Wife,” he said, releasing her. He was smiling in his pleasure, in his gratification-to-come; it was the same smile she had seen an hour before, when she had served him with his pasta. He whisked away his towel, and, fumbling with himself, pushed into her. She winced. He grasped her breasts—his hands were cold—and beganto pump. While his pumping was slow, and grinding, she watched the wall; as his pumping gathered pace, she matched him with the movement of her hips, to hurry him along. He took his time, but she was determined, and, before he had intended, gasping, his face screwed up in a chimp-like grimace, he was done.
    When he opened his eyes, her smile was there, and getting warmer. He put his arm around her shoulder, and pulled her close.
    “Wife,” he said. “My wife.” He ran a hand across her naked belly; his palm was rough, like sharkskin. “I’m feeling lucky today. I have a feeling today could be our day. I came across a little bed of oysters while I was gone—only half a dozen youngsters—and I kept them for myself. Oysters do a man good; there’s nothing better to boost vitality. So I’ve been thinking…”
    His words were lost in yawning.
    “You need to sleep,” she said. Soothingly, she stroked his head.
    “I only sleep when I’m with you,” he said. A minute passed and he was gone, tipped into sleep and softly snoring.
    For a while, she held him close; the heat of sex had warmed the bed, and she was comfortable. In the hollow of his collarbone, his skin was glossed with sweat; from beneath the arm thrown back on the pillow, like a wolf through the forest his true scent came stealing, negating soap and cologne in maleness and musk. It was pleasant to her, and, dog-like, she sniffed it. Butbeneath the musk, something else was there: ever-present, unmistakable—the reek of fish.
    She slipped from the bed and carried her clothes to the bathroom, washing away the sticky