Page 12 of Deep Blue Lies
I point towards one. “Um, can I have a bottle of Mythos please?”
“You most certainly can.” He spins around and pulls the bottle from the fridge. With a practised flourish he prises offthe cap and puts it down in front of me. I don’t seem to be getting a glass, so I take a swig.
“Thanks.”
He nods once by way of acknowledgement, but doesn’t move away.
“English?” he says, a moment later.
“Um, yeah. How did you know?”
“I saw you earlier. Walking past. You looked English.”
“Oh.” I’m not sure what to make of that.
“Are you Hans?” I ask instead.
He seems surprised by this, like somehow I’ve beaten him at some game by guessing his name.
“That’s right.” His eyes narrow a little.
“I’m Ava,” I say, holding out my hand, then I go on. “The woman in the supermarket gave me your name.” Then, under the bar where he can’t see my hands, I cross my fingers. “I was asking if there was anywhere that might have any work?”
He doesn’t react at once to this, but after a while he says: “You spoke to Maria?” I’ve no idea who I spoke to, but I nod. Probably it was Maria.
“And Maria said I was looking for someone?”
“Yeah. She said she thought you might be.”
He steps away, places the glass he’s dried on a shelf, and takes another. He dries it carefully for a few moments, then glances around the very-much-not-busy bar.
“You have a work permit?”
“A work…?”
“That’s right. You’re English. You voted for Brexit. So now you need a work permit. Can’t employ you without one.”
I didn’t actually vote for Brexit. I was thirteen years old when the vote happened. But it doesn’t feel helpful to point this out. Either way, I do have a solution.
“I have dual nationality,” I tell him. “I was born here. I’ve got a UK passport and a Greek one.”
“OK.” His head nods to the beat a little more, as if this was the answer he was expecting.
“So you speak Greek?” he checks, after a moment.
“Um.” This is more of a problem. “I know a bit,” I say, exaggerating slightly. And immediately I wish I hadn’t, because he goes on, saying something in Greek, and I have no idea what it is.
“You don’t speak that much Greek.” He switches back to English, showing his teeth with a grin. I open my mouth to reply, but there’s little to say.
“You worked in a bar before?” he asks next, and I’m happier about this one.
“Yeah. Plenty of times,” I lie.
He tips his head on one side, like he’s actually considering this, which I take as a good sign.
“How long you here for? You’re no good to me if you’re moving on in five minutes.”
“I want to stay the whole summer,” I say. “But obviously I need a job first.”
