Story for performance #42
webcast from Paris at 09:31PM, 01 Aug 05

Mr Costa’s cap wriggled gleefully as he raced between the rows of carnations towards the two young women and their laughter. They were laughing so much, they almost toppled into the flower beds in which they were bending, snipping and scooping out bunches of long-stemmed flowers to place in the buckets beside them.

Mr Costa completely misinterpreted the girls’ merriment. Although they had worked for him for a week, how could he understand the excitement they felt to be picking carnations on the most magical Greek island of all? Little did he realise how happy the girls were to be earning $10 a day. They would receive their week’s pay today—enough to cover their costs: their room at the youth hostel, their bus ride to the flower farm and back, and their evening meal. They had it easy compared to the English boys who were picking rocks from the hard soil of the olive tree plantation nearby.

They looked forward to the end of the day, returning ‘home’, dusty but elated. They would shower and change and meet up with the English boys, and head through the skinny lanes—wide enough for one fat donkey—passing the ‘chair house’—an odd-shaped building with a large dusty window through which they could see piles of old chairs—sitting on a small, deserted square. They would be drawn towards the sound of clinking glasses and animated voices, and follow the aroma of moussaka, spanokopita and galatoboureko to find themselves, amongst a clutch of tavernas, at a little table with a flickering candle and a bottle of retsina.

Mr Costa didn’t realise how excited the girls were by the free breakfast he provided for them each morning when they arrived at work; cooked in his camp kitchen—a bunsen burner precariously balanced on the uneven ground beside the carnation rows. He would pass them plates of boiled eggs and soft bread, and cups of sweet, black coffee. And he would give them lunch too—meatballs in tomato sauce, and salad, and generous glasses of ouzo.

The girls sat with Mr Costa on the hard ground and ate their food, nodding and smiling appreciatively as they chewed. Mr Costa spoke no English, and the girls spoke no Greek. They had tried to communicate via his French/Bulgarian dictionary, but only having a smattering of schoolgirl French, and no Bulgarian, they soon gave up. They contented themselves with his food, and the sight of the intense blue Mediterranean sky and sea, which winked at them from beyond the waving carnations. One day, they even had a quick swim after lunch.

So the girls laughed as they worked, even though their backs were becoming sore and their fingers blistered. Mr Costa didn’t understand why they were so happy and, excited by their laughter and unable to contain himself, he raced between the carnation rows and gave each girl a hearty whack on her bottom.

‘Mr Costa!’ they jerked upright. ‘What was that for? Mr Costa!’ they admonished, looking down at the small man in his 50s who had little tufts of grey fluffy hair sticking out from either side of his cap, giving him the appearance of a koala. Mr Costa drew down his mouth, and scurried away.

The girls rubbed their bottoms, and raised their eyebrows at each other, wondering what to do. Yiannis from the youth hostel had told them Mr Costa would pay them today. Maybe it was time to move on.

They didn’t laugh so much, and when it was time to go, they told Mr Costa they wouldn’t be back, and asked him for their money. He widened his eyes and cocked his head to one side, questioningly. They reached into their bags, and pulled out their few remaining coins. ‘We’d like to be paid now,’ they said. Mr Costa blinked. ‘Ahh,’ he slowly nodded. ‘Bank,’ he said. And with that, he hopped on his scooter, parked nearby, and scootered off.

The girls waited for his return, alternating between sitting and standing, and kicking protruding rocks in the soil. They waited as the bees tired and their hum slowed. They waited as the sun moved over the Mediterranean and the light dimmed. And they waited as a light breeze picked up. They waited, and waited, and waited.

There was no sign of Mr Costa. The girls walked to the road. There was no sign of a bus. Finally a red convertible sportscar came into view. The girls stuck out their thumbs. The car stopped, and they asked the driver to take them to the village. After they had travelled a couple of kilometres down the road, they were amazed to see Mr Costa pop out from behind a bush, and scooter back towards his carnation farm.

The girls shook their heads. The man in the red sportscar overshot the village, and the girls started to yell: ‘Stop, stop’. Finally he did, and the girls jumped out, thanking him crossly.

As they trudged along a lane towards the youth hostel, they heard laughter and music. It was coming from the small square, on which the ‘chair shop’ sat. As the girls rounded a corner, they saw a mass of people. The ‘chair shop’ was open—and empty—as its old, rickety contents ringed the square, providing seats for many. A large group of people surrounded a man and a woman, seemingly bathed in golden light, standing in the centre of the square. Despite feeling sore, tired and annoyed, the girls were drawn into the celebratory throng as huge platters of food weaved in and out, sometimes stopping under their noses, inviting them to taste. The music swelled, the crowd clapped and swayed and the girls became part of the rhythmic mass. They forgot their sore backs, blistered fingers and empty wallets, and they danced, and swayed, and stayed. Tomorrow would bring something new.

Adapted for performance by Barbara Campbell from a story by Dee Prichard.