Zorba's Taverna: The Trouble With Goats and Mayors, page 11
It was resistance.
A taverna-led, goat-assisted, olive-oil-fuelled uprising of sheer indignation. A movement against plastic dreams and Wi-Fi cafés. Against the spreadsheeting of our lives.
And Spiros? He was the accidental messiah. The reluctant revolutionary.
Eventually, he would have to be told.
But not today.
Today, he smoked in the sun, complained about olive prices and how figs were sweeter in the 80s, while around him a quiet rebellion baked in the oven, stirred in the soup, and bubbled in the village air like good tsipouro and bad intentions.
And Nichos?
He would never know what hit him.
***
It was late.
Not the loud kind of late, when the taverna is still humming and someone’s arguing with a chair. But the soft kind. The sea had gone smooth. The fridge had stopped rattling. Even Katerina had curled into some obscure corner of the garden, dreaming of tyranny and half-eaten menus.
Alex sat on the back steps of the taverna with her head in her hands.
Not dramatically. Not even heavily. Just… still.
I watched her from the doorway, a tea towel still slung over my shoulder like I might do something useful with it. I didn’t say anything right away. Sometimes, the best way to help Alex was to not interrupt her thinking.
But this wasn’t thinking.
This was weighing.
After a while, I sat beside her. She kept her eyes fixed ahead but stayed put; permission enough.
The moon lit her profile. Strong, as always. But her fingers were tapping that nervous rhythm she never admitted was a tell.
“What if we can’t hold it?” she asked quietly.
I let the silence sit a while as the breeze drifted in.
“What if it’s too much? The taverna. The village. The… everything.”
She gestured, vaguely, towards the olive trees, the sea, the chaos of our lives. The unseen paperwork. The volunteer meetings. The fridge repairs and the budget estimates. The goat.
She sighed.
“I fix things. I organise them. But what if–”
She paused.
“What if I’m just keeping everything from falling apart?”
I reached over and took her hand. She didn’t squeeze back, not immediately. But she let me hold it, which, from Alex, was a full admission of fear.
“You are,” I said.
She turned, startled.
“But here’s the thing,” I added. “You’re really, really good at it.”
A long silence.
Then a laugh – soft, tired, but real.
“That’s not comforting.”
“Didn’t mean it to be. Just meant it to be true.”
She leaned against me, forehead against my shoulder.
“I didn’t want to be in charge,” she said.
“I know.”
“They’re going to vote for Spiros.”
“I know.”
“And I’ll have to clean up behind both of you.”
I smiled. “Obviously.”
For a long time, we sat there. Tea towel useless. The fridge silent for once. The moon above us, the sea doing its slow, patient breathing.
Finally, she pulled back. Stood. Brushed the dust from her skirt like she was shaking off doubt itself.
“Right,” she said. “Back to work.”
Because Alex is strong.
But now you know: sometimes, she’s scared too.
Chapter Twenty
The Reluctant Candidate
There are certain moments in life that require immense courage: childbirth, war, cancelling plans with a Greek grandmother, and, most scary of all, telling Spiros something he doesn’t want to hear.
We’d avoided it for weeks. Whispered. Danced. Dodged. Pretended we hadn’t noticed the gathering storm cloud of inevitability hanging over the village square.
But there comes a time in every tale of cowardly conspirators when one poor soul must be pushed forward like a human offering, clutching only a sacrificial plate of pastry and the faint hope that they’ll return alive.
That soul was me.
I had known it was coming. The way condemned men sense the hangman’s lunch break ending. Everyone else had quietly vanished behind crates, corners, and questionable wine bottles. Even the goat turned her back on me.
“Should we draw straws?” Claude had offered earlier, swirling a glass of red that had no right to call itself wine.
“No straws,” said Maria. “Straws favour the fool.”
“I nominate Dimitri,” I’d said.
“I’ve already been struck by lightning,” Dimitri replied. “I’m on borrowed time as it is.”
I turned to Alex, our fearless general.
She blinked once, then stopped blinking altogether.
“No,” she said. “I’ve faced inspectors, angry grandmothers, and a man who tried to pay for lunch with a love poem. I draw the line at Spiros.”
And just like that, the silence thickened, and everyone else took one subtle step back. That’s how you know you’ve been chosen.
So now I stood there, alone, like a Spartan child sent into the mountains to prove himself, armed not with a spear, but with a plate of lukewarm baklava and the knowledge that Spiros once made a man cry for suggesting the moussaka was “too eggplanty”.
They say Spartan mothers told their sons, “Come back with your shield – or on it” (ḕ tàn ḕ epì tâs). I understood that now. I had no shield, only sticky fingers and the scent of fear.
Spiros was in his usual spot: his bench, his watchtower, angled perfectly to the sea. He hadn’t moved in hours, except to light a new cigarette or grumble about how tomatoes had lost their flavour since the EU got involved.
I approached slowly, the baklava trembling slightly in my hand. Each step felt like a final confession.
He didn’t look up.
He just sniffed and said, “That better not be store-bought.”
I sat beside him, carefully, like a man lowering himself onto a landmine he hopes is only decorative.
“We need to talk,” I said.
He exhaled.
“That’s never good.”
“It’s about the village.”
“That’s worse.”
He eyed the baklava. Then me. Then the baklava again.
I cleared my throat. “We want you to run for mayor.”
A breeze stirred. A lemon dropped from the tree with a heavy thud, as if even the fruit had chosen this exact moment to register its opinion.
He neither blinked nor spoke, staring out to sea instead as if I’d just asked him to lead a charge on the Acropolis.
“No,” he said flatly.
“You haven’t heard the argument.”
“I don’t need to. It’s a no.”
I pressed on, because I’m an idiot.
“You’re the only one people trust.”
“They shouldn’t.”
“But they do.”
“Well, they’re fools.”
“You understand the village,” I said, desperately. “Its rhythm. Its stubbornness. Its mysterious bins.”
“I understand peace and quiet. You’re disturbing both.”
I tried logic. Emotion. Civic pride. Even guilt. I mentioned his grandfather. I mentioned democracy.
He sighed.
By now, the others were emerging from their hiding spots like guilty meerkats. Maria ambled up, pretending she was “just passing”. Claude arrived with a bottle of something labelled “Emergency Bravery” and passed it around. Dimitri followed with a bowl of soup that smelled like week-old anchovies.
Alex stood by the door, arms crossed. Watching. Waiting. Judging.
Spiros scanned us all slowly, as though he was being forced to choose between root canal or poetry night.
“You’re serious,” he said.
“We are,” I said, voice cracking slightly. Now wasn’t the time to tell him the nomination forms had already been signed and delivered.
He shook his head.
“I’ve spent decades avoiding politics. And now you want me to stand in it? Waist-deep? With campaign flyers and microphones and strangers asking about parking bays?”
“We’ll do all the work,” Maria said quickly. “You’d just sit there. Symbolically.”
“Like a scarecrow.”
“More like a lighthouse,” Claude offered. “Strong. Stoic. Useful. Slightly damp.”
He lit another cigarette. The flame flared. The silence deepened.
“You’re mad.”
“Yes,” I said. “But it’s a collective madness. We’re all in it. Together.”
He looked at me.
Not through me; at me. Properly. It felt like he was deciding whether to throw me into the sea or tell me to walk there myself.
Then he stood.
We all tensed.
He stretched, groaned, adjusted his waistband… and sat back down.
Eleni, who’d materialised like a bureaucratic spirit of fate, quietly stamped a form.
Spiros stayed silent, not agreeing but not leaving either.
And just like that, we knew.
He wouldn’t campaign.
He wouldn’t smile for posters.
He wouldn’t show up to any debates.
But he’d sit.
And in Telios, that was as close as anyone had ever come to saying “Yes.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Father Evangelos
It’s not often the village priest becomes the most stable person in the story. But in Telios, stability is relative, and Father Evangelos had the look of a man who had once performed an exorcism on a broken boiler and won.
He wasn’t your typical priest. He blessed bread with one hand and stirred lentils with the other. His sermons included references to motor oil, ancient Sparta, and once, memorably, Mamma Mia 2. But what he lacked in theological rigidity, he made up for in kindness, and the terrifying accuracy with which he could read people.
So when Mary started avoiding the square, ducking behind fig trees, slipping out the back of the taverna, or pretending to rearrange lemon baskets, he noticed.
And when Spiros, increasingly encircled by passive-aggressive campaign posters and a goat with a sash, began grunting more than speaking, he noticed that too. Father Evangelos looked straight through you, not in a cold way, but in a way that made you feel seen all the way down to your soul. The sort of noticing that made people sit up straighter, confess things they hadn’t meant to, or abandon a plan halfway through because they knew he’d already seen right through it.
Which is exactly why Mary had to work harder when he was around; he’d catch the glint in her eye before she even picked up the mixing bowl.
One morning, Father Evangelos invited them both for tea.
Not together. He wasn’t mad.
Mary came first. She arrived with arms folded and eyebrows raised.
“I’m not marrying anyone,” she said, before sitting down.
“Of course not,” said Father Evangelos. “That would involve paperwork.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I mean it.”
“So do I. We’ve only just had the tax forms translated. A wedding would collapse the system.”
Mary blinked. Then, unexpectedly, she laughed.
He poured tea. It smelled faintly of cinnamon and possibly holy water – or maybe it was just thyme.
“I hear the aunties have been busy,” he said.
“They treated me like a prize chicken at an agricultural fair,” Mary said. “Except I have more opinions and fewer feathers.”
“They mean well,” he said.
“They mean control.”
He nodded. “And you mean freedom. A fair standoff.”
She looked at him, uncertain.
“Do I disappoint them?” she asked, suddenly small.
“No,” he said gently. “You confuse them. Which is better.”
A pause.
He reached under the table and handed her a koulouri wrapped in wax paper.
“You don’t owe anyone a performance,” he added. “Just be kind. Especially to yourself.”
Mary blinked hard and took the koulouri. She didn’t cry, but she came close.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll talk to the aunties.”
“Will you tell them to stop?”
“No. I’ll tell them to pace themselves.”
Later that same day, Spiros arrived. Father Evangelos was watering the basil.
“I’m not running for mayor,” Spiros grunted.
“Of course not,” said the priest. “That would involve standing.”
Spiros paused. Then he glared. “I’m serious.”
“So am I. You sit. They campaign. Seems to be working.”
“It’s madness.”
“Yes,” said Father Evangelos. “But it’s our madness.”
He gestured to a chair. Spiros remained standing but stayed put, which, by his standards, was practically a hug. “I’m not built for this,” he told the priest. “I don’t do slogans. Or events. Or…” he gestured vaguely at the sea, “… hope.”
“You’ve been a lighthouse since before the rest of us knew we were at sea,” said Father Evangelos.
Spiros grunted, which was not a disagreement.
“There’s a rumour,” the priest continued, “that you once stopped a bureaucrat with nothing but a raised eyebrow and a glass of house red.”
Spiros looked away, muttering something about poor wine and weaker men.
“Leadership isn’t speeches,” Father Evangelos said. “It’s presence. And you’ve been present longer than anyone.”
“I didn’t ask for this.”
“No one did,” the priest replied. “Except the goats. And Claude. And everyone else.”
A long pause.
Finally, Spiros sat down. Only slightly. On the edge. As if he was preparing to bolt at any sign of respect.
“Fine,” he said. “But I’m not campaigning.”
“Of course not.”
“I’m not smiling.”
“God forbid.”
“If they print leaflets, I’ll burn them.”
“Please do. That paper chafes.”
They drank tea in silence. Two men. Two mugs. Three types of rebellion. Then Spiros said, “Mary’s strong.”
“She is,” said Father Evangelos.
“Too strong for marriage.”
“Maybe. Or maybe strong enough to wait for the right reason.”
Another silence.
Then the priest said, “And maybe you’re just stubborn enough to be exactly the kind of mayor we need.”
Spiros snorted.
But he didn’t disagree.
By sunset, both Mary and Spiros were in slightly better moods.
She returned to the taverna with a fresh koulouri and less tension in her shoulders. He returned to his bench, lit a cigarette, and nodded when a tourist asked if he was “the famous mayoral goat-whisperer”.
Later, someone asked Father Evangelos what he’d said to them.
He shrugged. “Sometimes,” he said, “people need to be reminded they’re allowed to not know yet.”
And somehow, that was enough.
But because when the storms come, literal or emotional, Father Evangelos shows up with coffee. With candles. With calm.
And in a village like ours, that’s all you need to be holy.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Katerina the Conqueror
Dimitri’s boat, normally snoring gently at the jetty, was making a noise.
Not a wave noise.
Not a seagull noise.
A chewing noise.
We rounded the corner in time to see Katerina standing proudly on the prow, gnawing the mooring rope like it was the world’s toughest strand of spaghetti, and she was determined to finish it before anyone stopped her. With a sound like a sigh, the rope gave way.
The boat drifted free.
And just like that, Katerina was at sea.
She didn’t panic.
She didn’t bleat for help.
She stood there, square-legged and unblinking, staring at the horizon as if she had been waiting her entire life for this moment.
“She’s… leaving,” Alex said, shading her eyes.
“She’s stolen my boat,” Dimitri growled, though there was the faintest note of admiration.
The boat began to drift faster, caught by the current, heading for open water.
By the time it passed the taverna, Katerina had taken on the air of a conqueror. She stood at the prow like a figurehead, the wind tugging at her ears, bleating loudly, either showing off that she now owned maritime property, or crying for rescue.
Either way, we could not let our hairy taverna menace disappear off to Skiathos.
She might find another taverna to terrorise.
And after all, she was family.
“Right,” said Alex. “We need a boat.”
“There are no boats,” said Dimitri. “All the fishermen are out.”
“Then we need… something floaty,” Mary said.
And that’s when Claude spotted salvation.
He paused, shielding his eyes against the sun.
“Look!” he cried, pointing. “Our fleet!”
The toys were everywhere, scattered across the beach like the aftermath of a particularly lazy shipwreck. A few bobbed in the shallows, being ridden by shrieking children, while others lay sunbaked, waiting for their owners to cook themselves into needing to use them. A full flotilla of tourist inflatables.
“Men!” Claude declared, in a tone that suggested we were about to storm the beaches of Normandy. “To the flamingo!”
Within minutes, we had commandeered:
One enormous pink flamingo.
Two blow-up dolphins (one missing a fin).
A unicorn with a perpetually shocked expression.
An inflatable baby shark that grinned like a psychopath.
A swan the size of a car tyre.
A pizza slice with a bite missing.
And, inexplicably, a flaming gold Pegasus that looked like Zeus’s pool toy.
The tourists, delighted rather than offended, gathered in a semicircle with beers in hand to watch the preparations.
