Zorba's Taverna: The Trouble With Goats and Mayors, page 12
Getting everyone on the inflatables was an event in itself.
Claude, naturally, took the flamingo, striking a pose so dramatic he looked like a saint in a very strange Renaissance painting.
Alex straddled the unicorn, gripping its neck with a dark expression.
“This had better not end up on Instagram.”
Mary ended up on one of the inflatable dolphins, which immediately rolled over and dumped her into the sea. She surfaced, hair plastered to her face, unleashing a string of language normally reserved for tax inspectors, faulty washing machines, and anyone who puts pineapple on souvlaki.
Dimitri simply grabbed the baby shark under one arm and began kicking furiously, like Poseidon on his day off.
Eleni claimed the Pegasus, announcing she would “fly over the goat like a hero”.
Claude shouted back that this was not mythology, this was an emergency, and Eleni replied, “Everything is mythology if you survive it.”
Spiros, who had been sitting on his bench watching with increasing horror, finally stood, complained, “This is madness,” picked up the inflatable pizza slice, carried it back to his bench, and sat down. “If I’m going to watch this lunacy,” he said, “I may as well be comfortable.”
Zorba came out from the kitchen, cigarette in one hand, glass of wine in the other, and took in the entire scene. “You’re all insane,” he said, then sat back down, which was his way of giving permission.
Theodora refused to get involved but appeared in the doorway with a wooden spoon and shouted tactical advice: “Kick harder, you’ll drift left! LEFT! No, your OTHER left!”
A ragged fleet of mythical creatures had hit the waves, paddling furiously with flip-flops, beach mats, and a pink flipper with a picture of Barbie discarded by a little girl on the beach.
From the shore, it must have looked like a children’s story book gone wrong:
The Flamingo of Justice.
The Angry Unicorn.
The Shark of Doom.
The Majestic Pegasus, now facing backwards but still committed to glory.
Tourists were cheering.
Someone started taking photos.
Maria began live commentary for The Telios Tribune: “Goat Escapes, Village Responds with Naval Engagement”.
Out at sea, Katerina watched our approach with mild disdain.
She bleated, a sound that could have either meant “Help me,” or “You fools will never take me alive.”
The current was carrying her faster now. The flotilla raced after her.
Claude’s flamingo was taking on water.
Eleni’s Pegasus had spun backwards and was now majestically retreating, slowly, defiantly, as though it had a personal grudge. She lunged, grabbed the pole, and spun it back around to face forwards. It immediately began to swivel backwards again, mocking her. By the third rotation she was muttering darkly about destiny; by the fifth she was threatening to call the mayor; and by the sixth she was riding it like a victorious general who had conquered municipal maintenance.
Mary had one leg in the air, still yelling at her dolphin.
“Faster!” Alex barked. “If she reaches the point, we’ll lose her!”
Dimitri finally caught the boat and hauled himself aboard with one heroic heave, still clutching the baby shark.
Man and goat locked eyes.
There was a silence so thick you could hear the tourists holding their breath.
And then, with a weary sigh, Katerina sat down. Defeated. Or possibly bored.
Dimitri started the motor and turned for the shore, our fleet of mythical beasts limping behind.
By the time we reached the harbour, the entire beach had gathered to watch. There was applause and cheering. One German tourist sang the theme from Pirates of the Caribbean.
When we reached shore, Katerina hopped off the boat, shook herself off, and strolled back towards the taverna as though nothing had happened.
“She planned that,” Alex grumbled, dripping wet.
“She always plans it,” Dimitri said, tying the boat with a knot so complicated even Houdini wouldn’t escape it.
Claude raised his arms, triumphant. “Well,” he said, “at least it was dramatic.”
Maria scribbled furiously, “Goat Dramatically Rescued by Unicorn Navy: Village Applauds Swift Action, Goat Remains Defiant”.
Spiros shifted on his pizza-slice cushion and announced dryly, “Next time, let her go. The goat might open a better taverna.”
That night, Katerina was back in her usual spot by the bins, chewing reflectively.
She looked smug. Which was fair. After all, how many goats get their own Viking funeral rehearsal, and a flotilla of mythical creatures sent to bring them home?
The next morning, the harbour was quiet.
Too quiet.
I wandered down with my coffee, half-expecting everything to be normal again.
It wasn’t.
Katerina was back on the jetty. Not chewing this time. Not leaping aboard. Just looking at the boat. Judging the new knot. Judging the sea. Judging me.
Spiros sat on his bench, still using the inflatable pizza slice as a cushion, cigarette in one hand, coffee in the other, watching her with a patience that suggested he had seen this before.
“She’s planning another escape,” I said.
“She’s planning a fleet,” Spiros replied.
Katerina turned her head slowly, locking eyes with both of us, then bleated once, long, low, and ominous, before strolling away.
Spiros exhaled smoke and nodded toward the boat. “Double the knot,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because next time,” he said, tapping ash into ground, “she’ll bring friends.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
A Debate by the Bench
There were no posters, no microphones, no refreshments – unless you counted the open bottle of tsipouro Claude had decanted into a recycled water bottle marked “Lemonade (Do Not Touch)”.
But somehow, on a Friday evening with no real warning, the first official mayoral debate of Telios’s campaign season unfolded.
Spiros, as usual, was on his bench. He hadn’t moved all day except to light a cigarette and share his opinion about the state of figs.
Maria, keen to “capture a civic moment”, dragged an empty chair out from the back storeroom and placed it opposite him. “A chat,” she said.
Spiros grunted.
“Public interest.”
“Public nuisance.”
Within minutes, the circle grew.
Eleni wandered over, paperwork in hand, saying something about procedural legality.
And then someone, probably Maria, possibly Katerina, said the words, “Let’s make it a debate.”
Debate is a strong word. What followed was more of a shouting match in instalments, punctuated by coughing, retsina, and historical references no one fact-checked.
Spiros, to be clear, had still not agreed to any of this.
“I’m not campaigning,” he said.
“You’re sitting in the candidate’s seat,” Maria pointed out.
“I’m sitting where I always sit.”
“That’s symbolic.”
“It’s shady.”
She turned to the gathering crowd. “As you can see, he’s humble.”
Spiros stared at her.
Claude stood. “Let us begin. First question: What is your vision for Telios?”
Spiros took a drag of his cigarette.
“Survive the summer without dying.”
A cheer went up.
Second question: “How will you address the coastal paving issue?”
Spiros snorted. “Let the sea take it.”
More cheers.
Third question, from Dimitri, slightly tipsy: “Where do you stand on mandatory helmets for scooter drivers carrying goats?”
“I stand in the shade,” said Spiros. “And I let the goats decide.”
At this point, the crowd had grown. Tourists wandered over, assuming it was a show. Someone set up a speaker and played bouzouki music softly, as if underscoring the entire scene with national pride.
Zorba, seated at his usual table just outside the kitchen – where he no longer cooked, no longer was in charge, but still held moral authority like a disgruntled sea god – leaned back in his chair and scowled. His scowl said: “You’re all fools, but I’m bored, so carry on.”
Someone shouted, “Ask him what he’s going to do about the taxes.”
Spiros replied, “Ignore them.”
Zorba raised one eyebrow. Approval – or as close as it gets.
And then, inevitably, Nichos appeared – not in person, but in the form of a press release, printed and immaculately stapled, delivered by a man on a moped who looked frightened of eye contact.
Alex read it aloud in full dramatic tone: “Mayor-elect Nichos pledges to modernise Telios with digital innovation, heritage-sensitive infrastructure, and community-centred regulation.”
It painted a glowing picture of a brave new world: digitised forms that never leaked (unlike the roofs), LED signs that told the truth (unlike the fishermen), and public announcements delivered not by shouting over the bouzouki player but by village-wide WhatsApp alerts – because nothing says “community spirit” like a notification at 3 a.m. reminding you to renew your septic tank licence.
Silence.
Then Spiros said flatly: “He wants to ban the fishing line again.”
Theodora hissed like a kettle.
Claude raised his wine bottle in solidarity.
Maria produced a new headline draft on a napkin: “The People Versus Progress: Spiros Leads the Resistance”.
By the time the sun began to dip behind the fig trees, the crowd had doubled. Spiros hadn’t moved. He hadn’t promised anything. He hadn’t smiled.
And somehow, that was exactly what made everyone so sure: he was the man for the job. By doing nothing – magnificently, stubbornly, consistently – he had become everything. The debate ended not with applause, but with an unspoken agreement that this was happening.
Alex returned to the kitchen, in search of a strong coffee.
Eleni took notes.
Claude proposed a campaign slogan: “Spiros: Too Tired to Corrupt”.
Dimitri suggested we make T-shirts.
Katerina chewed on a discarded press release.
The crowd drifted away, murmuring their approval, more convinced than ever that Spiros was the right man for the job.
Spiros lit another cigarette, watched them go, and grumbled, “Perfect. Just what I needed: more responsibility.”
But there was a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth.
A flicker of reluctant destiny.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The Arrival That Hadn’t Arrived
He still hadn’t come.
Andonis.
Andy.
The Future Husband.
The Californian–Greek son of Theodora’s cousin’s cousin who emigrated in 1957, made a fortune in whatever it is people make fortunes in over there, and only returned once, to complain about the lack of order and the lack of personal space in villages where everyone knows your shoe size and how many eggs you have for breakfast.
But even though his plane hadn’t yet materialised, his presence was already haunting us, like the ghost of a half-finished government tax office building: unwanted, unavoidable, and somehow always looming at the worst possible moment.
It began gradually. A scented letter addressed to Mary here. An email full of emojis there. Even a handwritten postcard that smelled faintly of airport duty-free cologne.
Theodora started humming love songs while stirring the soup.
Maria asked Claude to check the taverna lighting “just in case he turns up shirtless for lunch”, and even Katerina was acting skittish, which, in our village, was the surest sign that something unnatural was brewing.
Spiros, watching it all from his bench, exhaled a plume of smoke.
He flicked ash toward the lemon grove. “Good. We were due for a tragedy. Or at least a decent scandal.”
Then a parcel arrived. It was a booklet: glossy, and tied with twine that smelled alarmingly of eucalyptus.
Meet Andy:
A Guide to the Man Behind the Muscles
That was the title. And that was only the start.
Inside:
A foreword from his mother titled “Raising a Gentle Titan”.
A section on his favourite meditation playlists, ranked by moon phase.
A full account of his time volunteering at a dog yoga retreat, where he’d apparently achieved “emotional union with a Labrador”.
And, naturally, a full-page glossy photo of him paddleboarding in linen trousers, holding a green smoothie like it was a sacred relic.
Mary read it in silence, then used it to balance a wobbly table.
Then came the video.
Claude’s tablet, which we use mostly for weather updates and occasionally to Google if something Dimitri caught is legal, lit up without warning.
Andonis appeared on-screen, smiling the way people smile when they’re about to sell you a time share.
“Hi, Mary. Or should I say… Maria mou.”
Even the Wi-Fi looked embarrassed.
“I just wanted to send love. I can’t wait to walk with you on the path of intentional partnership. Relationships are journeys. But so are people. Let’s unpack together.”
The screen froze on a still image of him blowing a kiss to a cactus.
Claude shut the tablet, said “This is what happens when you ignore NATO,” and left to smoke behind the bins.
The taverna, by now, was quietly simmering.
Theodora had picked out her wedding shoes.
Maria was halfway through editing her documentary Love in the Modern Age.
But Mary was all smiles. All grace. All terrifying stillness.
She poured wine with robotic elegance, each glass filled like it was part of a choreographed ritual.
She cleared plates with the kind of force that suggested every dish was being judged – and found guilty. She gave a five-minute lecture on why Greek coffee should never, under any circumstances, be called “Turkish”, leaving the tourist nodding like a repentant schoolchild.
She stayed calm. She held her ground.
But you could feel it. The plates were starting to protest.
“He’ll be here soon,” Theodora said, clasping her hands. “Maybe next month.”
“He’s probably waiting for Mercury to go direct,” offered Claude.
“Or for his jawline to be symmetrical,” added Maria.
“Or his soul to align with a third-century moon god,” said Alex. “Honestly, I’ve lost track.”
And then, one final message from the man himself: “I’ll be there soon. Just waiting on the universe… and a passport.”
Mary poured herself a very large glass of wine, and went back to garnishing salads like nothing had happened.
But something had.
Because the village, which only last week was ready to stage a protest about the price of lemons, was now spiralling into the most dangerous of Greek conditions: pre-arrival hysteria.
The anticipation had fermented.
Worse, Theodora still believed. Believed that if Mary just met him, just once, something would click. Love would bloom. Tradition would be restored. Grandchildren would come.
Mary, meanwhile, skipped the quiet simmer and went straight for a slow, elegant boil.
Waiting. Plotting. Working.
She had no need for a man to sweep in and declare himself. But for her mother’s sake, she would let him try. Try to make his move, plant his flag, flex his romantic muscles.
Because when he finally did, she’d be ready, not with sighs and soft-focus glances, but with a plan. With wine, to survive it, or distract him, or just to make sure she had something to raise in victory. With heels, to stand her ground, balanced and unshakable, ready to look him straight in the eye. And with a goat, ribboned, defiant, a four-legged protest sign that read #FreeMary in careful hand-stitched rebellion.
Because if Andy thought he was stepping into a perfect island romance, he hadn’t met the village yet.
And he definitely hadn’t met Mary’s version of a happy ending.
Chapter Twenty-Five
A Collective Challenge
He had a notebook.
Not Maria’s notebook, which is sanctioned village property and is occasionally waved in the square like scripture.
This was a different notebook.
A large, leather-bound thing, perched on the table at the back of the taverna like it was planning something.
Its owner was a thin man in beige – beige shorts, beige hat, beige socks, even a face that somehow radiated beige energy – who claimed to be a “birdwatcher”.
“Interesting fellow,” Claude whispered, leaning conspiratorially over the salt. “He says he’s here to observe the endangered Calandra lark.”
Mary, passing by with a tray, kept walking without missing a step. “If he wants to see a rare bird, tell him to wait until Theodora throws a ladle. They never come back.”
But the man stayed.
And every day, he sat there.
Binoculars perched on the table, notebook open, sipping water with the slow deliberation of a man who was either profoundly patient or profoundly suspicious.
“Birdwatcher,” he said if anyone asked.
“Spy,” said Dimitri, narrowing his eyes.
“Auditor,” muttered Alex darkly, as though summoning a demon from the underworld.
“Tax inspector,” said Spiros from his bench. “I can smell them.”
Even the goat refused to trust him. One afternoon she stationed herself by his table, locked eyes with him, and stared until he flinched, which, frankly, only made him seem more suspicious.
The thing is, in our village, birds are not something you watch. They are something you either eat or shout at until they stop stealing your grapes.
