Naked in Dangerous Places - Cash Peters [43]
“Why is nobody in the bars today?”
“Well, it's still early,” she explains, but with a worried look that tells me this probably isn't the whole story. “Also, our …”
I knew it!
“… numbers are way down because of the Games.”
Ah yes, the Games.
The Olympic Games.
After lesbianism, cheese, and ouzo, they're the biggest thing Greece ever gave us.
The event of Summer 2004, though, turned out to be disastrous for some of the islands. Drawn by the celebrations, thousands of tourists were sucked away to Athens, ripping a great hole in the local economy. Hopefully it's only temporary, but right now Joanna's not so sure. Her business is still suffering.
“Some people, they come back to us year after year. But new people,” she sighs, “they are not coming. And we need them to come. That's why your show will be so good for us. It'll bring tourists back.”
Er … well, you might want to watch an episode of it before you go leaping to crazy conclusions like that.
As she talks, she stares with undisguised lust toward the ocean and two athletic young guys mindlessly tossing a white beach ball back and forth in the surf.
“Okay, Cash,” Director Mark says. “Here's what's happening. You've arrived in this bar, you've been given a drink, and you see a woman at the table over there. So you sit beside her, the two of you get talking—chat chat chat, whatever you want to talk about about—and she invites you to a restaurant for dinner.”
“She does?”
“Yup.”
“So … I just run into her, and she immediately invites me out to dinner?”
“Yup.”
Hm, okay. Nothing unnatural or forced about that.
“Action.”
When I next turn around, by the magic of television, the cabana is no longer empty. There's a solitary barfly sitting at one of the tables, sipping a beer and staring lustfully at the two muscular guys tossing their ball. The woman's name is …
“Oh … hello.”
… Joanna. Our Joanna!
Joanna is now also doubling up as a colorful local character, apparently, since this bar is one of her regular haunts.
Caught off guard, I do my best to pretend I don't know her. “So are you a—” I begin.
“Yes.” She smiles before I can finish. “I am a—”
“—lesbian?”
“—local.”
“Oh.”
Joanna is most definitely not a lesbian, I can vouch for that, because I overheard her recounting her long, turgid life story to Tasha earlier, including how she's secretly in love with two men right now but can't decide which of her two paramours to run off with and which, by default, to make suicidal.
Rigid with nerves before the camera, she first pretends she doesn't speak English, which brings the scene grinding to a halt straight away. Then she starts bantering with someone off-camera and giggling. Finally, on the retake, she blows every last ounce of believability this chance meeting between two complete strangers might have had by saying, “Hello, Cash” before I've even introduced myself and by being far more friendly than she'd ever be in a bar to a man she's never met before. Or maybe not. Maybe if she were a little less open and friendly to men in bars, she wouldn't be in the trouble she's in now, paramour-wise. Just thinking aloud.
Anyway, a special event is being held tonight at a restaurant nearby, she explains woodenly in her thick accent. “It's a very nice Greek night—a bouzouki night.”
“What's a bouzouki?” I ask.
“It's the most fun instrument in Greece.”
Remember the lyre? Well, you hollow out your tortoise in much the same way, only this time you give it a longer fret board. Played correctly, it sounds like a grand piano being thrown down two flights of stairs. Very traditional.
“We drink ouzo,” she continues, “we dance on the table, we dance under the table, we smash plates. Do you want to come?”
Not really. But our show is desperately short of material and I've always wanted to see someone dance under a table, so yes,