He shook his head. ‘You’re very lucky we discovered the growth this early. If it hadn’t been for the laryngitis, it might have been another story. I doubt it will affect your speaking voice a great deal, but you’ll have to accept that it’s the end of your singing career. Your vocal cords will be weakened by the surgery, and they’ll be prone to further damage should they come under any strain. If this happens, in a worst-case scenario you may lose your ability to speak completely.’
‘What . . . no voice at all?’
Markos squeezed my hand.
‘They say Mouskouri only has one vocal cord,’ Spyridon said.
‘Stop it, Papa!’ Markos shouted. ‘It’s over – get used to it! Find yourself another singer!’
‘Gentlemen,’ the specialist said. ‘Sofia needs our support. I’m going to admit her now and operate tomorrow.’
I clutched my throat, imagining the scalpel. One slip . . .
‘I’m frightened.’
‘There’s no need to be frightened. It’s not a difficult procedure. With rest, and the right care, you’ll be fine.’
‘I’ll stay with you,’ Markos said. ‘You won’t be alone.’
When we arrived home to pack my things for hospital, I pulled Markos towards me. I had longed to be on my own with him, and I needed all the comfort he could give me now.
‘How long will it take for your ribs to heal? Are they terribly painful?’ I asked.
‘Six weeks, but they’re not too bad now so long as I don’t make any sudden movements.’
‘Perhaps you should lie down while I put some things together.’
He took my hand and led me into the bedroom. ‘Rest with me for a short while?’
He lifted my chin and kissed me.
I looked at him, the man I loved. We had wasted years already, and who knew what would be the result of my surgery?
I followed him into the bedroom.
CHAPTER 25
MEGAN
Crete, present day.
MEGAN FOLLOWED THE OTHER passengers queuing at passport control, showed her documents and was frisked by security. She’d slept on the plane and arrived at Chania airport just after 3 a.m. Greek time. It was a comfort to be part of the crowd. Here she was just like everyone else – not a runaway, not a thief, just a young woman going on holiday.
To arrive in Crete at last was her greatest achievement. She had dreamed of it for a long time. Megan thought of Granny Anna’s surprise when she would turn up in the little village of Kissamos, just to the west of the city. Megan imagined hugging her frail body. She would buy her grandmother a small gift, and maybe she would make enough money to take her out for a proper Cretan meal, cooked on the coals and served by a fat, grinning taverna owner. Her priority would be to get a regular job. She’d try at the theatre first, then at the tourist office. She could do these things in the city, and also busk to make extra cash if things didn’t go to plan.
When she’d first started performing in the streets of Manchester, it had felt daunting. People had rushed past Megan and hardly glanced her way. If she tried to observe the commuters, she usually ended up dropping her balls. Now, her concentration had shifted. She knew what she was doing. She could juggle without thinking about it, focusing on the passers-by. Women with young children and old folk were the most generous and appreciative. She found that the more she smiled, the more money she received. Each day was a challenge she rose to, and apart from when the worst weather struck, her daily profit increased.
Occasionally, she had been heckled by shopkeepers, or asked to move by the police, but in general, street arts were welcomed in Manchester. However, it would be another thing altogether to perform on a real stage, or even before the camera, with an audience that had paid to see her.
Megan had juggled in the departure lounge while they waited for boarding and made a tidy sum. At first, she’d noticed the ground staff put their heads together for a discussion, glancing her way. But what was the worst that could happen, she thought to herself? They could ask her to stop, and she would. Despite her fears, everyone seemed to appreciate her, especially when the smallest children stopped chasing each other around the stark seating area and sat before her, captivated.
It wasn’t just the money she got from busking; she loved it when people clapped. Something deep inside her seemed to rise, and she always made a bow, grinning to herself.
*
As she boarded the coach outside Chania airport, the dawn sky brightened in the east. Her excitement rose when the coach stopped and dropped her, along with a couple of lads, outside the apartment block, Rent Rooms Maria, just outside the city walls. The rep got off the coach with the driver to lug baggage onto the pavement.
‘Mine’s the orange and blue backpack,’ Megan said – and then, because this was her new start, her opportunity, she asked if there were any jobs going as holiday reps. ‘Where would I apply?’
The rep ticked Megan and the two lads off her clipboard list and laughed.
‘Are you completely mad? It’s the worst job in the world.’ Nevertheless, she handed Megan a card. ‘That’s our office phone number. Give them a call. I’ll bet there’ll be a vacancy or two by the end of the month. You’re room eight. Key’s in the door.’
Megan lugged her backpack into the first-floor apartment. A spotless room, the whitest sheets and an immaculate tiled bathroom, all to herself.
*
The chirruping that filtered through Megan’s fly screen woke her. She lay naked under her clean white sheet, enjoying a moment of luxury before she opened her eyes. Food, a bus timetable, a walk around the harbour and a visit to the travel rep’s office were on her agenda for the day.
A knock sounded on the door.
‘Who is it?’
‘Gary and Jeff, from the airport coach last night.’
Megan grabbed a T-shirt and shorts from her backpack, pulled them on and opened the door.
‘Hi, what can I do for you?’ she said to the two good-looking guys.
They were clutching a paper carrier with ΨΩМІ on the front. Megan didn’t speak or read Greek; her mum had moved to England so young that she’d never learned to read in Greek and though she could speak a little Greek, she always felt more comfortable using English. Granny Anna hadn’t taught her either; she always said that speaking Greek made her sad, made her think too much of her past. Still, Megan had been to enough bakeries on holiday to recognise the Greek word for ‘bread’.
‘I’m Gary. We’ve bought some fresh cinnamon rolls. Care to join us?’
Even as he spoke, the sweet spicy aroma of the buns filtered into the room.
‘And I’m Jeff. You brought a kettle?’
Megan shook her head. ‘Didn’t think.’
‘Take milk and sugar?’
Megan nodded, smiling.
‘Then join us for breakfast on the roof in ten. Okay?’
*
Gary and Jeff were all smiles. The chunky, good-looking pair were from Brighton, and both seemed friendly. They had also come to Crete to look for summer work. Gary was taking travel, tourism and ancient history at uni, and Jeff dreamed of working in a London theatre. He had helped, via the internet, to design floats for Chania’s upcoming carnival. Megan liked them immediately.
From the top of the three-storey building, they looked out over the rooftops and enjoyed the view of Koum Kapi beach.
‘You coming to the beach later?’ Jeff asked. ‘We’re planning to learn snorkelling.’
Gary’s eyes widened as he pulled his chin in. ‘That’s the royal “we”, Megan. I’m absolutely terrified of putting my face under water!’
She laughed; they were like a double act.
‘I wish I could,’ she said, ‘but I’ve got to get a bus timetable, and go to the travel office today.’ She explained that she was trying to get a job.
‘We’re in Chania for the carnival,’ Jeff said. ‘I’m dying to see the floats. Then next week we’ll start looking for
work.’
‘Sounds like fun,’ Megan said. ‘I’m hoping to perform in the carnival, too. I’m longing to see the parade, but my priority is to find my granny and get a job.’
And call my mum, she thought, but didn’t say. That was far too long a story.
CHAPTER 26
SOFIA
Athens, 1967.
MARKOS TOLD ME ABOUT EVERYTHING that had happened to make him set off the dynamite under the theatre. One moment he was shearing sheep with his father; the next, he was helping to pull his dead mother and sisters out of his bombed house. I cried when he described their burial in a nearby field. Spyridon had been a simple family man once, and Markos an innocent boy. Their lives were changed forever by the actions of a distant government.
I knew what it was like to lose everyone you loved at a tender age. If I had had the chance, just after my parents’ deaths, to kill the people responsible, who knows what I might have done? If I had been older when it happened, still a child at heart but old enough to act, or if it hadn’t been for Mr Zacharia, who knows what I might have been driven to?
Although it was hard at first, although I could not forgive him straight away, I did come to understand his actions. That fourteen-year-old child that I had come to love so deeply needed to blame someone, and needed balance in the scales of justice. He had acted out of an overwhelming desire for retribution. He had believed then that what he was doing was right, and knew now that it was wrong.
*
Spyridon, although disappointed I could no longer sing, found himself another soloist. She blossomed under his promotion and earned him plenty of money. We still met every Friday night at El Greco’s. Markos kept his word, determined to show me he could change. He found a proper job working for a section of the agriculture administration, travelling to various islands, counting goats and olive trees that were eligible for government subsidies.
I went back to work at Mr Zacharia’s bakery. I’d missed him, and he was glad to have me back.
Every weekend, I accompanied Markos to his favourite kafenio, where the Andartes gathered. They often sang dissident songs, or quoted rebellious mantinades, the older ones banging their sticks on the wooden floor to keep the rhythm of the four-line poems. I joined in these vibrant verses of protest, softly. But I missed singing so much!
Sometimes, when I was alone at home, I would play one of my old records and stand in front of the mirror and mime. ‘Life’s Sweet Song’ was my favourite, of course. It brought back all those old memories of my mother and her last rendition. I even found myself curling my fingers around Big Yiannis’s barley sugar, and wondered what had happened to that great bear of a man. Inevitably, I would end up in tears.
To compensate for not being able to perform, I wrote defiant songs for Markos’s communist friends, testing the tunes on an old piano before Markos played them on his beloved lyra. Sometimes, the kafenzies locked the door and his young grandson would come out and play his long-necked baglama, too. The men drank, and sang, and railed against the government. When feelings escalated, tables were pushed back and the men would vent their emotions by dancing. Arms across shoulders, they would stamp and leap to the beat as passions rose.
Markos and I talked about getting married, about having children together. We made plans to be wed the following spring. Spyridon gave us his blessing, and for the first time, a kind of harmony developed between the three of us.
*
Zacharia and I started to work shifts. One week he would start at 1 a.m., kneading, rising and baking, and I would come in at 7a.m., open the shop and serve the customers while he slept. The next week we would reverse roles. One morning, at 7 a.m., already late for work, I hurried towards Syntagma Square, thankful that the city seemed quieter than usual. In fact, there was nobody about at all. No pedestrians, no traffic on the roads. It felt strange, almost dreamlike.
As I walked, the ground stared to vibrate, and a great roaring and clanking filled my ears. I remembered the Kefalonia earthquake of ’53 and looked up, terrified, expecting to see the buildings swaying. The noise grew, until a great tank rolled right in front of me.
The monster was followed by an armoured car. A soldier leaped out of the vehicle and yelled at me. ‘You, stop! Papers, ID!’
Shaking, I delved into my purse and handed him my ID card.
‘Hands against the wall!’ he ordered, roughly turning me around. He snatched my handbag and rummaged through it. ‘Where are you going in such a hurry?’
‘I work at the bakery. I’m late, sir.’
His glare frightened me. A bully for sure. Arrogant and in authority: a dangerous combination.
‘Raise your hands above your head, I’m going to search you. Resist and you’ll be shot!’
‘Shot?’ I squeaked.
My tormentor was a man you wouldn’t cross. My insides curdled and a pulse throbbed in my temple. He patted me down, squeezing my breasts, cupping my mound and stroking my buttocks with unnecessary fervour. My face burned.
‘Go!’ he said. I was shaking so badly I couldn’t move for a moment. ‘Go!’ he repeated.
I picked up my handbag from the kerb and ran. More tanks were rolling into Syntagma from all four corners of the square. The military were lined up outside the tomb of the unknown soldier and parliament buildings. I seemed to be the only citizen on the street. I was desperate to continue running, to get out of there as soon as possible, but I did not know what might happen. Though I held my head high and marched with an air of authority, my insides were quaking.
Mr Zacharia stood in the shop doorway, his face a mask of concern.
‘You’re late, Sofia!’
‘Sorry,’ I sobbed, still feeling the soldier’s hands all over me. ‘They searched me, the military. Touched me all over. I’m so shaken, so ashamed.’ I pushed past him, covered my face with my hands and wept. ‘What’s going on?’ I asked when my composure returned.
‘Don’t you listen to the wireless, Sofia? Not that you can now. We’ve got a media blackout and a military coup. You need to go to the police station and get a special pass to be on the streets at this time of the morning. I’ll come with you. The constitution has been suspended. Those malakas out there can arrest anyone they like . . . or shoot them if they resist. They’ve arrested the army’s commander-in-chief. As a country, we’re powerless, crippled.’
I stared at him, wishing I’d paid more attention to the political situation, but it all seemed so complicated.
‘They’re rounding up the communists, shipping them out like the Jews in wartime. Parliament and the royal palace are in military hands. They’re arresting people. Flour-man Fannes told me they’ve commandeered his boat and packed it with communists, shipping them off to the prison islands – Makronisos, Gyaros, and the like. It’s another holocaust! Holy Mother, haven’t we suffered enough?’ He slapped his forehead, leaving a floury handprint. ‘The country’s in the grip of the Colonels. The prime minister’s disappeared! Some say he’s been assassinated – others claim they’re holding Kanellopoulos captive, or he’s run away. Who can know? Malakas!’ He blew at the ceiling. ‘Anyway, get the bread into the shop, then put the paximathi into the ovens to dry out. People will want rusks to hoard – they always do when crisis threatens. Quick as you can, Sofia.’
Markos was in Kos, counting goats. Would he know what was going on?
‘What about Markos? Do you think he’ll be all right?’
Zacharia frowned. ‘If anyone knows he’s a commie he’s in danger. The powers that have this country in their clutches are shooting renegades or shipping them out to God knows where. Prison islands. You should warn Markos to hide, and you must stay away from him.’
‘But who’s behind it all? Why is this happening to us?’
‘The Yanks – think they can rule the world. I suspect the British are secretly behind it, too. Afraid of the Russians, see. Desperate to stamp out the reds.’ He shook his head. ‘If Markos phones, tell him to be very careful.
More than three men together are counted as a subversive group and liable to be shot on the spot! I’m going to turn on the radio in the back of the shop so we can keep up to date with what’s going on. Only the military channel’s broadcasting, but at least it’ll keep us informed. What malaka hell has this country turned into?’
Markos was due home later that day, and the overwhelming need to protect him filled me with panic. Both Zacharia and I worked in silence all morning, concentrating on the radio. The military music stopped every hour to publicise the latest list of rules for the general public. We were both shocked to hear: Army Decree number 13: playing or listening to music that is not broadcast by the military is forbidden.
I swallowed. Music was so great a part of my life. Even when I could not sing, I loved to listen to it. And poor Spyridon – it was his livelihood. What would he do?
*
When my work at the bakery was done, I rushed home, only to find my door broken open and the contents of my apartment scattered. Afraid, I rushed to the kafenio where I knew I would find Markos’s friends. But it was empty and locked. I peered through the window, and there, painted on the white wall, was the quote from Che Guevara that had become the group’s slogan: If you tremble with indignation at every injustice, then you are a comrade of mine.
I hurried back towards Syntagma Square. By this time, the sun had gone down and the street lights were out. In the twilight, I heard a terrible wailing that somehow seemed familiar. Filled with dread, I turned in the direction of the voice. There was Aphroditi, chained to a lamp post in the centre of the platea. She clutched her husband’s severed head.
Unable to breathe, I almost collapsed. After a second, I rushed towards her, but a guard stepped in my way and grabbed my arms.
‘Leave, or it’ll be the worse for you,’ he said.
‘She’s my friend!’
‘Woman! I’m telling you, get out of here. I’m just doing my job!’ Although he held himself stiffly, his eyes were wild and sparked with fear. ‘This is a friendly warning, daughter. If you’re seen showing compassion towards her, you’ll succumb to a worse punishment yourself. Go now, vamoose, scoot – remove yourself!’
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