TOURIST GIRLS

    

    Kostas was angry, and a little drunk.

    These damn American girls kept too much to their own. He’d been in the bar two hours and was getting tired of the words, No, thank you. The best of them, the dark-haired woman in the comer with the halter top, was surrounded by three men at all times-Americans, like she was. He couldn’t get near her. The rest huddled together like sheep.

    Why did you come to Greece and not want to meet Greeks?

    What was wrong with these tourists?

    TK’s was closing soon. Apart from die old gnarled fisherman who just sat there with his Metaxa three-star he was the only Greek in the place. The old man had been drunk when Kostas arrived. He still was. The old man was the only one in the bar who looked more foolish than Kostas did.

    The old man had hungry eyes.

    Hungry for what? One of these putanas?

    Maybe for the old days, he thought-for bouzouki.

    The music was all American now or Europop and Kostas did not dance. Beautiful women all around him, dancing, touching, sweating, and he was blessed with a pregnant wife and no sense of rhythm. The god of his fathers was no damn god of mercy. At least the fisherman- his name was Theodora-could dance the old dances, the hasapiko, the kalamatianos, if given a chance. He’d seen him.

    He hoped the old man would not get the opportunity tonight.

    He could bear just so much humiliation.

    

***

    

    But there! Dammit!

    He checked his watch-a Bulova. It was almost two o’clock. It had been Bowie or Madonna all night long and here it was the last dance probably and they gave the old bastard a serviko! He knew it! The last indignity was to have to watch this drunken old lecherous fool. To hell with the god of his fathers! Gahmoh teen Panagyeea mu! I fuck my Virgin Mary!

    Just look at him!

    Girls all around him all of a sudden. American girls, who like to play at being Greek but do not fuck Greeks, do you, girls. Don’t worry, old man. You’re safe tonight. Nine or ten of them around and now the music’s too fast for the old malaka and the women are doing the hora or the Mexican Hat Dance or some goddamn thing, paying him no attention at all as he tries to teach them. Drunk! All of them drunk!

    He thought they had no pride.

    A Greek has pride.

    He drank the last of his seven-star and ordered another. The waitress told him it was last call. He shrugged. Of course it was. The waitress put his drink in front of him and he gave her an appraisal. Not bad. He actually liked fat thighs. So long as they were not too fat of course.

    The woman who walked through the door, however, did not have fat thighs.

    The woman was sleek and elegant.

    She took one look at the children cavorting with the drunken old man and nearly walked out again. Then she saw Kostas.

    And he could not believe it He had made the woman pause. He! Kostas! He felt himself blush with pleasure.

    But now he must do something.

    He smiled.

    It was not much to do.

    Shit!

    To his surprise she smiled back. She's not even drunk! he thought. I would bet on it!

    She inclined her head, motioning him toward the door.

    He did not even finish his Metaxa. He slid off the chair and was beside her in an instant.

    She was taller than he was. He was a little dismayed. But no matter.

    He held the door for her and from behind he had a chance to look at her. Her dress was black-some sheer thin material cut almost to the waist in back and wide at her long graceful neck. She was thin, yes, but her legs were wonderful. And her ass! He would have killed his sister for that ass! Just to hold it between his hands and whisper to it in the night…

    He could think of nothing to say that was not completely stupid so he said nothing.

    She smiled at him again.

    What a mouth! What eyes!

    His pulse was racing.

    “Let’s walk, shall we?” she said.

    A good idea. He had to sober up for her. The cool night air would help. He would walk firmly, breathe deeply. A longish walk, perhaps. Romantic, by the sea. Though of course that was up to her.

    “Yes,” he said.

    They walked silently up to the windmills. He watched her look down to the rocks below. The moon made the water sparkle.

    “Down there,” she said.

    “Yes…it’s nice.”

    He wished his English were better.

    They started down. Her shoes were not made for climbing but she was very surefooted, as sure as a donkey-better than he was because of the brandy.

    Halfway down he had a wonderful idea.

    He would have her there, on the rocks.

    He could barely contain his pleasure at the notion. Yes! his business might fail, his wife might give birth to a hundred squalling malakas, get fat and grow a mustache and a beard as well for all he cared. Just give him this woman, this night, here by the sea in the shadows of the windmills of Mykonos and he would rejoice for the rest of his life.

    It was almost as though she’d read his mind.

    “Want to go down to the rocks?”

    “Oh yes. Very much.”

    “Good,” she said and grabbed his arm.

    And her fingers were strong as a vise as she hauled him out in front of her and held him there over the drop. He whimpered once. Then she shoved him out away from her down to the rocks below.

    He fell and did not die.

    He lay there, spine cracked, brain leaking, and through blood-filled eyes saw her leap from where she stood twenty feet above him and land like a leaf within inches of his thighs and then reach down with the long sharp nails he had not noticed before but which glittered now in the moonlight and saw her tear him open and break apart his chest with her elbows askew like a hunter setting his trap.

    Then he saw nothing.

    He felt no pain.

    Perhaps, he thought, it was the seven-star Metaxa.