(from Stephanos Lepouras book : "Tales from the island of Tzia")

The bells of St. Dimitris church rang in mourning.

• Someone’s bitten the dust…
• Old lady Frango, who else ? She had one foot in the grave already, she didn’t need no pushing.
• God forgive her, a good woman she was. She’s gone, too.

As the two ladies who are neighbors crossed themselves asking forgiveness for Old Lady Frango, they looked in shock at the very same old woman walking by them, hunched over, holding in one hand her little cane and in the other a small water jug.

• Who died, Aunty Frango ? Did you find out ?

She turned and looked at both of them and as if reading their minds, she said :

• So you thought it was me, eh ? Well, I won’t give you the pleasure of eating pasteli over my body. I’ll bury all of you. There, old Pot Belly who guzzled down all that pasteli at funerals, his time sure has come now. A real shame, isn’t it…

The old lady moved along and the two neighbors, who had finally learned the news, started talking about the deceased.

• Pot Belly !

A regular beast he was. His stomach stuck out in front of him like a goatskin and that was the reason they named him Pot Belly. He had conned some people, but he displayed himself to be a good and happy man. Open-hearted, with a boisterous laugh and a loud voice, which when he spoke could be heard from St. Lefterios to Messada. He also had one weakness. He liked the delicious pasteli from Tzia. At funerals and memorial services, where it is common in Tzia to serve pasteli, he always took a front seat.

Sociable and obliging, he consoled the relatives who mourned and always had a kind word to say about the deceased. But the corner of his eye would be fixed on the tray full of pasteli. At the doors of the cemetery, where the pasteli would be handed out after the funeral procession, Pot Belly sat near the mourners and ate with pleasure his little bits of pasteli, licking his fingertips from time to time. The satisfaction in his face was quite evident.

• If I die, others will eat for me, he’d say over and over as if wanting to justify his gluttony.

In fact, he gave instructions to his wife that when he died there was to be tons of pasteli served. For everyone to eat well, get full, to forgive him and so that he could pay back his debt.

When the bells rang and word got round, all of Chora was buzzing about Pot Belly and the pasteli. The weather looked like rain, but no one had any intention of missing this funeral. As if everyone had been waiting for him to die, so they could eat pasteli !

Despite the fact that it had already begun to rain, everyone gathered to send off the deceased, Pot Belly. The promise of abundant and unlimited pasteli had a psychological influence on the crowd. And thankfully there were many, because he lived up high and the road up to Kourendi is very steep. His huge body was impossible to lift in the rain.

Consistent with the wishes of the deceased, who had himself told the pastry-maker, as soon as the news of his death came, a huge pan of pasteli went right in the oven. And the next day for the funeral the pastry-maker, who used all his special talents and the most pure ingredients, honey fromTzia and sesame seeds, had made the most magnificent pasteli. He filled the largest tray and said to his helper, Vasili :

• Come here you, could you take this here on your own, or do you figure we oughta bring it together ?

Vasilis thought that if the boss came along he wouldn’t be able to nibble on the road.

• I could manage, sir, sure I can. This is nothin’… ppff…

He covered the tray with a towel so the pasteli wouldn’t get wet, balanced it on top of his head and started for the cemetery. The road was straight and at that time deserted because everyone had gone ahead.

Vasilis would shove his hand under the towel, he’d take a piece or two and was munching the whole way. He took a look at St. John’s, before coming into view and being seen by everyone from up there, he thought he would put a few pieces in his pocket too. No one would notice if he did it, because this much pasteli had never been taken to one funeral. As he was trying to fill his second pocket as well, the tray slipped from his hands and the worst happened.

Meanwhile, the funeral was over and the people were starting to head for the door. Everyone was expecting to see mountains of pasteli. Along with grief which inevitably accompanies these moments, anxiety and curiosity had seized them. Was Pot Belly’s promise going to be carried out ? How much pasteli would there be ? Certainly his soul was going to be happy to see so much pasteli at his own funeral. But the first people to reach the door didn’t see anything they stood there a while peering out towards the road. Nothing is sight. Everyone gathered now at the door and waited, but where was the pasteli ? The widow was in shock. Such a horrid thing… And she had ordered it from the first minute.

They sent a boy to run for the pastry-maker, but he soon came back out of breath.

• At St. John’s the road is covered in pasteli !

The more curious ones ran to see what was going on. Indeed they saw the pasteli plastered in the mud and the tray flat on the ground. Vasilis was nowhere to be found.

• What a shame, all those appetites …

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