Many thanks to the one who made this story possible, and the two who made it readable. Any lack of readability, or possibility, is entirely the fault of the author.
I shouldn't like Metaxa. I'm not really a brandy drinker, and I don't like dark liquor in general. Can't abide bourbon or scotch or anything that resembles whiskey, or rye. I don't even like liqueurs, except Frangelico--hazelnut anything is a big weakness of mine--so it makes no sense that I like Metaxa.
But I do. I love it. I love how it smells, how it lights up my sinuses, how intimidating it is before it even touches my tongue, how I always think I'll choke on that first sip and it burns and I should, but I don't. It goes down fast and hot and powerful and just a little bit painful and so, so good.
So I sip Metaxa and I smoke a cigarette even though I quit a long time ago, because while cigars go with brandy, a glass of Metaxa demands a cigarette. It just does--and what Metaxa wants, Metaxa gets, at least on a warm night in August in an open-air taverna on the caldera side of Santorini. I'm not exactly what you could call a world traveler, but I've spent enough time in Greece to know that you do not defy Metaxa in its native land. I haven't lit up in the States in fifteen years, but right here, right now, this extraordinary vessel of Dionysian fire requires a burnt offering and I am not about to deny it anything.
The mid-forties-ish owner of the restaurant is friendly and smart and looking for an American wife. He greets me by name, every evening, as beneficent and implacable as the Mediterranean sun. He doesn't remember, or else he can't quite believe, that I do not like ouzo, and only by ordering Metaxa just before I've finished my meal can I fend off the endless small straight-sided glasses of clear licorice-smelling liquor he would send me, with his compliments, over and over again.
I carry a lighter with me because, even though I only smoke one cigarette, I put it out and light it again four or five times before it's gone. I make it last for the whole glass of Metaxa. I bought the lighter after my first night here, when I bummed a cigarette from the proprietor and made the mistake of smoking it straight through, at which point the Metaxa demanded another, and then another. I awoke the next morning absolutely vile with nicotine hangover and owing Yiannis a pack of Marlboro Reds.
But Metaxa, while demanding, is neither unreasonable nor greedy. It can be satisfied by one drag for every three or four sips. I've learned to extinguish and re-light without losing too much tobacco in the process, and so manage to enjoy myself, pay homage to the exquisite infusion in my glass, yet wake in the morning feeling tolerably human.
It is a system of elegant balance and deep satisfaction.
And it's the sort of thing I enjoy ruminating over. Slowly. Lovingly articulating and arranging the thoughts. I lean back in my chair, watching the patrons in the taverna, the tourists poking their heads in the door before moving on. The people in the street below wander and greet one another, visible in the light washing out from the shops in the warm Aegean night.
I've asked the waitress for the bill, but she knows I'm in no hurry and will bring it sometime before the Metaxa is entirely gone. It's probably past ten-thirty already, judging by the crowded tables. It's the height of the evening-meal rush and my conscience is contemplating raising a polite hand to tell me it's getting toward time to release the table soon, but I'm feeling good and I have not yet passed the point at which it's plainly rude for me to keep sitting here. A lone tourist has just stepped in, looking around.
Yiannis approaches the man and they exchange a few sentences, which I can't hear above the cheerful stew of sounds made by fifty or so people talking, laughing, eating, arguing--yes, cheerfully arguing, as only Greeks can do--and flirting and drinking and ordering more of everything. I see Yiannis flash his Benevolent Host smile and begin to turn away, but the stranger speaks again.
Yiannis stops smiling. He shakes his head and waves a hand in that universal "no way" gesture. The man responds, lifting one hand out in the general direction of where I'm sitting, in the back next to the half-wall that opens the dining room to the air.
Yiannis shakes his head again, glancing briefly back at me; I catch his eye, raise an eyebrow, turn my hands up and mouth, "What?" Yiannis pauses, then glares at the man, who waits patiently, hands in the pockets of his loose-fitting linen trousers. After a moment, Yiannis walks to the bar, takes down the bottle of seven-star Metaxa, approaches my table.
He has the cork out and is reaching to pour me another before he's even quite close enough to hear me unless I shout. "Yiannis, I'm almost done here," but he's already refilling my glass. "Ianthe is preparing my bill."
"From me to you," he says, but there's a frown where his enormous smile normally resides. "What's up?" I ask him, and then, "What is going on?" Yiannis speaks English pretty well, but I try to avoid idiomatic confusion. When I remember.
"This guy, he wants to ask to share the table with you," he rumbles. "I said, no, he does not disturb you. He can wait for a table."
I reach over to pick up my notebook and pen. "I'm almost done here, I'll be leaving in a minute-a few minutes," but Yiannis picks up the glass of Metaxa and sets it down in front of me. "You don't go yet. Stay and enjoy. He will wait until someone is finished."
I look up at Yiannis, then over at the man by the door. He appears perfectly at ease, as though there were not a thing in the world he desired that he didn't already have.
"Is he wanting a meal? Or just to drink?" I ask, thinking that if he only intended to sit and drink, then I wouldn't be depriving the restaurant of custom by keeping the table to myself.
"He say--he says he wants to eat something. But look at him," Yiannis smiles at me, "he will not starve. He can wait." Yiannis is proud of his own physique. "English," he says dismissively, neatly summarizing all the man's deficiencies. I suppress a grin. The man at the door does not look like a slave to the Stairmaster. He is about Yiannis' height, maybe ten years older, and seems in reasonable shape to be walking around mountainous Greek islands, with perhaps a bit of softness showing beneath his shirt. A rumpled linen jacket is looped through one arm.
I pick up my cigarettes and slowly draw one out, thinking. I reach for my lighter but Yiannis whips his Zippo out of his pocket and lights it for me. I tap the back of his hand with one finger in thanks and lean back in my chair again.
"Tell him, if he can tolerate--if he does not object to cigarette smoke while he eats, he is welcome to share the table," I say finally.
Now, I have strong feelings about smoking while someone at the same table is eating. I just think it's abominably rude and I have never done it, even back in the U.S., in the days when restaurants still had smoking sections. But Yiannis has just bought me a drink, and I care much more about not being rude to him than to the stranger waiting at the door, and I know better than to defy the Metaxa. So I take a slow sip, and smile at Yiannis, who is frowning again. "It's okay," I reassure him, "he doesn't look dangerous. And you're here, right?" I stretch out my arms. "And everyone else. What can happen?"
Yiannis keeps looking at me for a moment; then he suddenly shrugs, that trademark smile coming right back into play. "What can happen?" he repeats, and laughs. "Okay!" Looking back toward the door, he waves Mr. Patience over.
I watch him navigate a course amongst the overflowing tables. He moves with graceful economy, an unhurried and sure-footed gait that brings him to us without once bumping into anyone or having to backtrack. I wonder briefly if he's a waiter himself, back in whatever place he calls home. Yiannis holds a hand out toward the empty chair without saying a word to his new customer, turning his back to him the moment the man's weight is committed to sitting. "I will be back, soon. You want something, you tell me. Yes?" he says to me.
"That's great, Yiannis. Epharisto."
* * * * * * *
I turned to smile at my new table-mate. He half-rose from his seat as he offered his hand. "My name's Thomas." I shifted the cigarette to my left hand and clasped his in my right. His hand was warm, and dry, and firm, and much larger than mine, which surprised me a bit. He wasn't such a large man that I would have expected his fingers to wrap all the way around mine, as though I were a child. "Hello, Thomas. I'm Martina." From his half-standing position, he was looking almost straight down at me, but his eyes met mine squarely and never wandered. Well, Thomas, I thought, points for not looking at my tits. This might not be unpleasant.
"Thank you for allowing me to share your table, Martina," he said as he sat back down. "For a moment, I thought the host might toss me straight over the wall."
I laughed. "Yiannis is looking for an American wife," I said. And smiled. Trying for enigmatic. Would he get the joke?
"Well, who isn't then?" he replied, without missing a beat. I was so startled I actually snorted. He laughed then, not too loud, but clear, and our laughter mingled and wove together for a moment like an improvised madrigal, drifting away somewhere above our heads along with the smoke curling up from my cigarette. Seeing it burning in the ashtray, I reached over to put it out.
