Chapter 3: Athens
Athens has grown hotter over the years, and it's not just me saying that. When I was a child, I remember that even in the summers we'd sometimes need a light jacket at night; that hasn't been the case for a long, long time. We think it's the constant forest fires and the buildings that have gone up in the place of trees, and we've put air-conditioners in our cars and in every room of our houses and offices, so even if the dawns and late nights are still cooler, who'd even know any more?
When the flight into Eleftherios Venizelos Airport takes you over the city, you see acre after acre of concrete baking in the heat, with the panels and bodies of solar water heaters gleaming on every rooftop. I can't judge if it's beautiful or ugly, though I guess most people would say the latter. For me, that last stretch, especially if I'm sitting on the left side of the plane and can catch a glimpse of Lycabettus... well, it heals something in me, even though I know that in two or three weeks I'll be just as happy, happier, flying away again.
David was supposed to land earlier than me, flying in from Moscow, but the Aeroflot flight is delayed. I take advantage of the time to go to the ATM and get some money, then to rent a car. It takes several attempts to convince the customer service rep at the Sixt counter that I speak Greek fluently; it's not the first time it's happened. People see my name and assume I can only speak English, all evidence to the contrary. I guess a lot of us just don't listen very carefully.
David and I have barely spoken over the past month, and the few conversations were awkward. We ended each one trying to check if we still planned to meet, trying not to be too obvious about it. I rehearsed my reaction in case he told me he had to cancel, several reactions, depending on how he led into it.
He's here finally, walking through the sliding doors, scanning the waiting area. He looks exhausted, his face gray, his shoulders slumped in his business suit, but when he sees me, his eyes immediately lighten. For some reason I'm more self-conscious hugging him here than I was in London, and maybe that's why he feels different in my arms. Even his smell seems different, and after a second I step away from him.
"I rented a car."
He studies me for a second, a faint frown deepening the lines between his eyebrows, then he simply nods. "Lead the way."
As I drive us out of the airport, he busies himself with the radio, trying to find a station with music. He stops at a familiar song that I remember slow dancing to with Benny in our apartment, then he leans back.
"Remember when flying into Athens meant landing in the golf course?" he asks me.
"It wasn't actually in the golf course, you idiot," I laugh, but he's right, it was close enough. I sometimes miss the old airport. It was small and crowded, with those ugly yellow overhead signs you still see in some of the older and smaller airports around the world, but traveling back then meant something special, almost magical, at least to me, and the old airport became part of that.
His hand drifts over to mine, where it rests on the stick shift. He covers it lightly, his palm warm and dry against the back of my hand. I look at him quickly, expecting him to say something, but his head is against the headrest, his eyes closed.
"Tired?" I ask him softly.
"Yes. It's been a long month."
I don't really have an answer for that, and after a while I can tell from his breathing that he's asleep. His hand stays on mine throughout the whole way, growing damp with sweat after a while, but it doesn't bother me. I lace our fingers together, to make shifting gears a little easier.
He stirs when we park, looking around, probably expecting a hotel, but seeing only a quiet neighborhood street with pine trees lining it on either side, two and three story apartment buildings standing in small gardens.
"Are we stopping off at your mother's or something?"
I shake my head and point to a gate across the street.
"No. That's mine."
He unbuckles his belt and leans forward to look through the windshield.
"What, the whole building?"
"No, just the right half of the second floor. The balcony with the red and purple geraniums."
"So this is home?"
I shrug. I don't think of it as home really, just an apartment I bought years ago, using a big, unexpected bonus as a down payment. I had some half-baked idea of renting it out until I retire, but my friends told me so many horror stories about what tenants can do, not to mention the taxes and the difficulty of registering contracts, that I decided to keep it vacant and use it when I'm in Athens. I bought some furniture, and arranged with my sister, who lives only a ten-minute drive away, for her to check on things and water the geraniums once or twice a week.
I told my mother I'm coming home next week, because I don't want to answer any of the questions she's bound to ask if I show up with David, and I don't want to give up any of our time together while he's here to show up alone, but my sister knows I'm arriving today with someone and she's promised to steer clear. She's never had an issue with my being gay, but ever since she saw 'Queer as Folk' she has a rather distorted image of my sex life, so god only knows what she imagines she's avoiding.
The apartment smells stale and I open the sliding balcony doors of the living room, trying to let in some fresh air, but it's so hot and still outside that there's no noticeable improvement. Something heavy and oppressive hangs in the air, and I try to pretend it's the weather and not the unease between David and me.
"Living room," I point out the obvious. "Kitchen through there." David follows me down a short hallway, as I open doors. "Bathroom, bedroom, master bedroom." I draw back blinds and open windows. "I need to get towels and sheets. I can never quite decide if I should make the beds before I leave, or when I come back." I take a deep breath and order myself to shut up.
He ignores my babbling and stands in the middle of the master bedroom, his hand still on the handle of his wheelie suitcase. He rolls the suitcase to stand next to a wall, then shrugs off his suit jacket and walks to the closet.
"May I?" he asks, his hand hovering inches from the door handle, and I nod.
"Sure."
He hangs up his jacket and loosens his tie, then sits down on the bare mattress, half-lying back and propping himself on his elbows.
"Why are you being so weird?"
I could pretend not to understand what he's talking about, but he deserves more than that. Hell, we both do.
"I don't know. Would you prefer to stay in the center? We can book a hotel room. There's not a hell of a lot to do here."
"No. This is nice."
"There's no cleaning service."
He smiles. "I know how to make a bed and wash dishes. Don't you?"
I try to smile back, and I shift my weight from one foot to the other.
"It's more the cooking and laundry part that concerns me."
"I know how to do those, too."
"Yeah, me too. But this is supposed to be a vacation."
"It will be. I don't really associate hotels with vacations anyway; quite the opposite, in fact."
I shift my weight again.
"So you're okay with this?" I check again.
"If you are."
The thing is, I didn't expect it to feel this way. Sitting in Stockholm, this apartment had seemed like a practical spot to park our stuff and make further plans, maybe fly out to an island. Now, with him here, we need to think about groceries and cooking and making beds and splitting daily tasks, minimal as they may be. It's too... domestic.
I sigh and go and sit next to him and stare at the wall opposite.
"Do you own property?" I ask him.
"I had a house right outside Budapest, but I signed it over to Nora. I haven't bought anything since."
"I don't think of here as home," I clarify carefully, although I'm not sure why it's so important that he understand this point.
"Where then?"
