Greek Island Escape

by Patricia Wilson

  *

  ‘Come to the Igloo Club on Fokionos Street,’ asked Antonis, handsome editor of the Athens News. ‘They’re playing the new Chuck Berry and Rolling Stones music, you know? There’s an amazing guitarist . . . Eric Clapton, they call him. Plays the blues. You’ll love his riffs. So intense he’s always snapping guitar strings.’ Antonis laughed. ‘Makes the audience wait while he replaces them. Cool, baby! You ever heard of him?’

  ‘Of course,’ I replied, indignant, though I rarely went to clubs. I had no time or money for a social life.

  We went to the Igloo, which was packed. Antonis had phoned the manager ahead, and he met us at the door and ushered us to an empty table near the stage. We had hardly taken our seats when Spyridon joined us.

  ‘Ah! Here you are!’ He grabbed my hand. ‘Sofia, I have news for you. You’ve been shortlisted for the Eurovision Song Contest! This is it – I feel it.’

  I grinned, pleased. I was very well known in Greece, but the idea of being an international star excited me.

  A woman had come onto the stage and sang ‘The White Rose of Athens’. The audience joined in, many linking arms and swaying to the music.

  As they sang, Spyridon glanced around, his eyes sparkling.

  ‘Look what the Eurovision did for Nana Mouskouri. I hear she’s cutting this one next.’ He nodded at the stage. ‘I’m betting there’s a gold disc at the end of it. That competition made Mouskouri into a worldwide star!’

  Two young women came over. Flushed and nervous, they thrust ornate little notebooks and a pen forward and asked for my autograph. Smiling, I complied.

  When the song ended, the singer recognised me and bowed, holding her arms out. I closed my eyes and the past rushed towards me. The smell of cigarette smoke, thunderous applause, and then the white vacuum of the explosion sucking me in.

  When I opened my eyes, Spyridon and the club owner had their heads together. They seemed to reach an agreement, shook hands, then Spyridon turned to me.

  ‘You’re on in two minutes, Sofia.’

  ‘You’re joking! Spyridon, I’ve just finished a show. Give me a break!’

  He leaned and whispered into my ear, ‘Do it!’ He rubbed his thumb against his fingertips. ‘He knows someone who can pull strings for the Eurovision!’

  ‘But my throat’s sore. I put everything I had into the concert, but it’s never enough, is it? You go too far!’

  ‘Just this once, Sofia, I promise. Clapton and his band seem to have disappeared. There’ll be a riot if the spot isn’t filled.’

  ‘Damn you! How much is he paying you?’

  Spyridon looked sheepish and hesitated, so I leaned across and spoke directly to the owner.

  ‘How much is he getting for this?’ At that point, Spyridon made a choking noise, but I told the owner, ‘I’m not setting foot up there until I know!’

  After a heated discussion, I agreed to sing three songs on condition I received the entire fee. The only way to get through to Spyridon that my time was my own was to hurt his pocket. He’d taken me for granted and overworked me for too long.

  I was into the third song when my voice broke on a high note. I struggled to the end. The burning in my throat was unbearable. Spyridon, realising I had a problem, had a glass of iced water waiting for me. He ordered Antonis to take me home.

  Poor Antonis – he’d been trying to get me to go out for months.

  *

  The next day, feeling wretched, I could hardly speak. Spyridon had me gargling with salt water, and then olive oil. Eventually, he called the doctor.

  ‘Acute laryngitis,’ the doctor told us. ‘Total rest for your voice, and plenty of fluids. You’ll be fine in a week or two.’

  Spyridon, who was pacing like an expectant father, stopped in his tracks.

  ‘Total rest! A week or two! She’s got a show the day after tomorrow!’

  The doctor shook his head. ‘If she performs now, she’ll do permanent damage to her singing voice. I’ve seen it happen to Callas. Her voice was never quite the same after she went on stage too soon. It’s not worth the risk.’ He turned back to me. ‘Plenty of fluids, avoid cigarette smoke and smog. Don’t talk unless you have to. No humming or whispering. Definitely no singing.’

  *

  Spyridon came round every day. He had searched for a temporary replacement for me, but with no luck. Shows were cancelled. He was not a happy man.

  ‘Sofia, you’ve had a week – you must be okay by now. I need you back on stage, and your fans need you, too, in these troubled times.’

  Athens was still in political turmoil. George Papandreou was ousted as premier by King Constantine, and the students were organising a massive protest. On 21 July, when the city was thronged with holidaymakers, more than ten thousand rioters clashed with the authorities. Steel-helmeted, club-swinging police tried to keep control. Many people were injured, and one student died.

  I knew all this, but I shook my head, not wanting to speak unless necessary.

  ‘I’ll get the doctor and see what he says.’

  ‘I don’t want to risk it,’ I said quietly.

  Spyridon squared his shoulders. ‘I don’t want to risk it either, but the doctor said you’d be better in a week! What am I supposed to do?’

  ‘He said, “A week or two”, remember?’

  ‘Come on, Sofia, give it a go. Just do the Friday-night concert. You can stop if you feel any discomfort. Sing the songs you’re comfortable with. The longer you put it off, the harder it’ll be to get back to the top, and you don’t want to be labelled as unreliable.’

  ‘All right, all right, no need to get dramatic. I’ll do one concert – if, and only if, the doctor thinks it’s okay.’

  His shoulders dropped and he rubbed his forehead. ‘Thank you.’ He glanced around the room. ‘Have you eaten?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘I’ll fetch something from El Greco’s. Sofia! Are you listening?’

  But the TV behind him had caught my eye.

  ‘Spyridon, look at the news!’

  He turned and stared at the screen. Another protest reared in the city. People scattered under a fierce baton attack from the riot police. What poleaxed us both was the leader of the insurgents in the unfolding scene.

  ‘No!’ Spyridon cried. ‘Markos!’

  I clasped my hand over my mouth. Markos, wild-eyed like a trapped animal, was quickly surrounded. He was trying to break out of a tightening circle of aggressive men in uniform. The police charged. He seemed so powerful one moment, then utterly vulnerable, overcome by six baton-wielding police thugs. His wet vest turned red and stuck to his chest as they hammered into him. For a moment he was hidden. Batons were raised and flailed. Then, satisfied, the police stepped away.

  Markos lay curled on the ground, hands over his head. The police laid into him with heavy boots, kicking so hard they almost unbalanced themselves. Markos grabbed a foot that was heading for his face and pushed. The uniformed thug fell back, instigating a shocking retaliation by the riot police. Indignant, their truncheons hammered down again until Markos’s body lay limp on the road. Although he was clearly unconscious, one of the police ran at him with a final kick of revenge to his chest.

  My heart was bleeding.

  ‘Sofia!’ Spyridon shouted. ‘Did you catch where it was?’

  ‘Omonia Square.’

  ‘Not again! Damn it, how many times do I have to go through this? He’s all I’ve got left, and he has no regard for his own safety or my peace of mind. That boy will be the death of me. I’ve got to go!’

  ‘Spyridon, I . . . Oh, God!’

  He glanced at me, sympathy flickering over his face for a second.

  ‘Believe me, I know it’s hard for you too, Sofia. I’m sorry for you. I’ll get back to you before the night’s out.’

  He rushed away, leaving the door open.

  Should I follow him? I hesitated. Damn. My heart hammering, I snatched my cardigan and raced out. Spyridon always parked
his beautiful car in the alley behind my building and he was pulling out when I caught up. He braked, and I clambered inside.

  ‘I shouldn’t have come,’ I muttered. ‘I must be crazy. Where are you going?’

  ‘Police station. Let’s hope I’ve got enough money on me.’

  ‘Money?’

  ‘It’s the only way I’ll get him out.’

  A youth rolled across the bonnet and disappeared down a side road. Startled, Spyridon slammed on the brakes and my head hit the windscreen. I fell back heavily onto the seat.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  I rubbed my head and nodded.

  Before he had a chance to pull off again, another young man, pursued by two policemen, ran across the road.

  ‘Virgin Mary! I wish they’d give it a rest, malaka thugs.’ I didn’t know if he referred to the protesters or the police. He was already searching his pockets. ‘I’ll have to call back home to get more cash.’

  We drove across the city. In all the time I’d worked for Spyridon, I’d never been to his home. When we pulled up at a block of apartments, I was shocked.

  ‘You live here, in a small apartment like mine?’

  ‘Yes, of course. What did you think – a mansion?’

  ‘But the suits, the car, flashing the money . . . I thought, you know . . .’

  ‘That I was filthy rich? No, Sofia. The fact is, people think that if you’re a success you have big money, so I keep up a front. Most of my money goes on getting Markos out of trouble over and over again, and keeping up appearances. Stay here, I won’t be a minute.’

  *

  Outside the main police station, Spyridon took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He let his hand fall over his face, wiping away the frantic father, replacing it with a look of wealth and power. He squared his shoulders and walked purposefully into the police station.

  I watched him shake hands with the man on the desk, who I noticed immediately slid his hand into his pocket.

  ‘My son is in here?’ Spyridon asked, squaring his shoulders again.

  The desk sergeant confirmed he was.

  ‘Then let’s speak to the chief superintendent.’ He jerked his thumb at me. ‘You know who this is? Sofia Bambaki.’ He turned. ‘Sofia, give this fine young man your autograph.’

  Spyridon was shown into an office. Half an hour later, he reappeared and said, ‘Come on, we’re going home.’

  ‘But what about Markos?’

  ‘Never mind about Markos. They’ll let him go in an hour. You’re sworn to secrecy about this, okay? I don’t want him to know I bailed him out.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘End of subject!’

  His brusqueness shocked me. ‘Is he all right? He took a severe beating.’

  ‘Perhaps a couple of cracked ribs, but he’s alive. Theo was not so lucky.’

  ‘You don’t mean Aphroditi’s son? That’s why she didn’t turn up for piano practice. Blessed Virgin! Poor Aphroditi, she must be going crazy.’

  ‘He was killed today. Just remember, I don’t want you telling anyone about this, Sofia. All right?’

  *

  The following Friday, I waited in the wings, even though I still had doubts about my voice and hadn’t sung a note since the onset of my laryngitis. In the dressing room, I had hummed my favourite warm-up exercise and left it at that.

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ Spyridon assured me. ‘Just take it easy – don’t push it.’

  The compère introduced me: ‘And now, the moment you’ve been waiting for . . .’

  All the familiar emotions gathered in my chest. An adrenaline rush that whipped up my heart rate, a ripple of anxiety and such a heightened sense of self, I was even conscious of my blink rate. I placed my hand flat on my middle, closed my eyes and calmed down.

  Everything will be fine.

  From the audience, there was thunderous applause as the band played the introduction. I started with a gentle love song, and by the third song, my fear had gone. I sang in full voice, projecting across the theatre and loving every moment. The audience clapped along and the thrill of performing erased every other concern. I could only see the front row; the rest was darkness, apart from the pop of an occasional camera flash. I glanced over the theatre, then returned my attention to the front.

  Markos!

  I stared at him, conscious of his black eye and bruised cheekbone. I hadn’t seen him for over a year, and he had changed dramatically. Now, gaunt and wild-looking, he had a haunted air about him. Lost in the memory of our love, I stopped singing and gazed. I was only looking at Markos. He gave a sharp nod.

  I took up the song again and put everything I had into it. My throat and neck began to burn. Then tears pricked the backs of my eyes.

  The song became so poignant that I struggled not to cry for my lost love, my dearly departed family and Aphroditi’s poor son.

  The rhythmic clapping stopped and my mood seemed to ripple through the theatre. My voice became hoarse, and my neck felt as if I had swallowed a sea urchin. At the end of the song, I wiped my tears away and bowed. The auditorium was silent for a moment, then the applause broke out and I swear I felt the vibration of those clapping hands in the air around me. I bowed to the left, the centre and then to the right, disappointed to see Markos’s seat empty.

  I bowed again and exited the stage. The lights went up and my audience were crying out: Encore! Encore! to a slow handclap. Spyridon grabbed my wrist and tugged me back on stage. The pain in my throat was so intense, I could not voice a protest.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Sofia is not well,’ Spyridon said into the microphone. ‘But rather than cancel the show, she insisted on coming here to perform for you tonight.’

  The audience went wild. I clutched my throat and nodded. It was then I saw Markos standing at the fire door. I wanted to sing to him, pour my heart out, perform my mother’s song. Tears of sadness, for all the wasted years, rolled down my cheeks.

  I shooed Spyridon away, acknowledged the audience again, nodded at the band and said, ‘“Life’s Sweet Song”.’

  They struck up the melody and I sang directly to Markos.

  At that moment, I knew – it was like a light going on – that I had to have this man by my side for the rest of my life. The past did not matter. I loved him too much. Despite my burning throat, when I came to the end of the song, I held onto that last note just as my mother had, holding my arms out towards the man I loved.

  *

  That night, Markos ate with us in El Greco’s. His eyes hardly left me. Although euphoric in the theatre, I felt shy in the taverna. Spyridon was in the worst mood ever and we ate in silence.

  ‘I can only manage the soup, Spyridon,’ I whispered. ‘I’ll have to see the doctor in the morning, my throat’s killing me.’

  ‘Get a good night’s sleep and then we’ll see,’ he said.

  Markos frowned at his father. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Papa. Clearly there’s something wrong with her throat. Don’t you ever think of anyone but yourself?’

  Spyridon gave me a warning glance, so I kept my mouth shut.

  ‘She’s got an audition for the Eurovision in three weeks. We’ve got the song, but it’ll be hard graft to be ready on time!’

  My heart did a little skip. ‘You should have told me, Spyridon. That’s exciting news!’

  ‘You need to trust me – both of you!’ He threw some money on the table. ‘Get some rest, Sofia. I’ll be round with the doctor in the morning.’

  He got up and marched out of the door.

  Markos watched him. ‘I don’t know how you put up with his bullying. Anyway, I thought your boyfriend would have joined us.’

  ‘Boyfriend? What boyfriend?’

  Markos seemed confused, then frowned at the empty doorway.

  ‘Malaka!’

  *

  Markos walked me home. We stood on the doorstep and he stroked my hair.

  ‘I’ve missed you. It’s been ten years since I stood here last.�
��

  ‘Ten years. Can it really be so long? What a waste of time.’

  ‘I thought you were with somebody else.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I love you.’

  Oh! It was all I wanted to hear. In a moment of overwhelming joy, I threw myself into his arms. He cried out, toppled back and cracked his head on the doorpost.

  ‘My ribs! My head! Ouch!’

  ‘Sorry! Your broken ribs, I forgot.’

  ‘I’d better lie down right away, in case one of them punctures a lung.’

  I stepped back, hands on my cheeks, horrified for a second that I might have caused such a thing. Then I saw the old twinkle in his eyes.

  ‘You’d better come in then, lie down for a while.’

  He nodded. ‘Mmm. I might need some support.’

  ‘You can lean on me, Markos. You can always lean on me.’

  ‘Likewise,’ he whispered.

  *

  ‘You’ve got nodules on your vocal cords,’ the doctor said. ‘I’m sorry, Sofia.’

  ‘What do you mean, you’re sorry? How long should she rest her voice?’ Spyridon said angrily.

  The doctor smoothed his moustache.

  ‘For a good while, at least until we’ve seen the results of the tests. One of her lymph glands is swollen. I’m a little concerned. We’ll send her for a biopsy this afternoon.’

  *

  Frightened of what the future held, frightened for my life, I tried to put on a brave face. Markos stayed with me, holding my hand, his big brown eyes bathing me in calm while the biopsy was carried out. This protocol was not usually allowed and I wondered if Spyridon’s pocket was a little lighter as a result.

  Two days later, we received the result, the three of us sitting in the specialist’s office.

  The doctor cleared his throat, his reluctance to speak quite clear.

  ‘There is no easy way to say this. You have a tumour, Sofia. I’m sorry.’

  Stunned, I stared at the specialist. He glanced at his notes.

  ‘Luckily, we’ve found it in the early stages. We’ll operate to remove it and then give you a bout of radiation therapy.’

  ‘You mean I’ve got cancer?’ I whispered. ‘Oh my God, am I going to die?’