Romanians
My grandfather, Nicos, owned some olive groves and other land on the Pelapponese. It was family land but Nicos had been forced to leave after the earthquake made the buildings unstable. He was away quite a while, doing this and that, until he woke up one morning when he was no longer young and something told him he had to go home to the country he'd left. There was no-one there any more to tend the fields and the olive groves. It was time he returned.
He'd been back in the old country for four years, and he had days when he was sorry he'd returned. Then he'd look at the terraces bright with spring flowers; terraces carefully made by his grandfather and great-grandfather, and the whispering silk-grey olive trees and he'd sigh. It was all beautiful. The trouble was, it didn't pay the bills.
"What will you do, Grandfather? " I was visiting, not intending to stay. I had no idea about how to prune trees or harvest olives, and I didn't want to learn. But I was sort of interested all the same.
"Search me. Every year I make a loss. Every year I hope it'll be different. People don't want to pay for good food. But we must hope."
"What are you hoping for, exactly?"
"The apricots and pomegranates are doing well. I planted more of them last year. Magic fruit, pomegranates. People from Iran and Lebanon, those countries, pay good money for pomegranates in the States."
I didn't need to remind him. This wasn't America. People in Greece grow their own pomegranates, or their relatives do, but maybe he had a point. They did look good, blossoming in the sunshine. I could almost share his optimism.
He was getting old and the maintainance of it all was becoming a burden. He showed me the banana plants he was growing next to the house:
"They need more fertiliser." It was all an effort. The fertiliser sacks were heavy. I helped him all I could. A battered truck came swaying along the track. I couldn't see the driver for the clutter inside.
"Romanians," said my grandfather shortly. The truck stopped on the verge.
For years it had been Albanians, rattling along the country lanes with pick-ups full of white plastic garden furniture to sell, or watermelons. Suddenly they'd all left and gone back to Albania. Romanians were different. They lived in squalid shacks on the outskirts of Athens and Corinth and were treated with suspicion. But many of them, I knew, were skilled workers. The truck showed no signs of driving on.
"They may be looking for work," I said.
"Can't afford to pay them."
"Maybe if they could stay on your land?"#
"What, have that lot running around here stealing my things? No thank you."
"You don't know they're dishonest."
"They live in shacks. Like Third World people. I don't trust them."
The driver of the truck got out and came over. He was a muscular, dark-skinned man with bad teeth. He smiled at my grandfather. I liked his face, even with his bad teeth. It was a face that wasn't trying to hide anything. Open, I suppose you'd call it. There were other people in the truck. I could just see dark shapes bobbing about in there. He stood straight and looked Grandfather in the eye.
"You have work for me?" he asked.
"No," said my grandfather.
"He could clear out the barn for you," I told my grandfather. "Make sure there are no snakes. Rebuild the terrace at the top." The man nodded in agreement.
"No money," my grandfather said, folding his arms. The Romanian was quiet.
"Work. Stay." He gestured towards the olive groves. "How much you pay?"
