by Tamar Hodes
‘Charmian and George are kindly putting me up,’ said Leonard.
‘Or you’re putting up with us!’ George laughed.
‘I’ve been doing that for years, sweetie,’ Charmian quipped. ‘Why shouldn’t he?’
‘Shut the fuck up, Charm dearest, in the nicest possible way.’
‘I’ve just bought a house in Kala Pigadia,’ said Leonard, trying to improve the mood, ‘and I’m waiting for the sale to go through. Where do you live, Marianne?’ Just saying her name made him happy.
‘In Kala Pigadia, also.’ Marianne blushed. ‘It is beautiful, near the communal wells and the monastery. You can see the whole of Hydra spread out from there. I think you will like it.’
‘Marianne has a husband, Axel, who is an arsehole,’ laughed George, too loudly.
‘Well, we all know how that feels,’ Charmian couldn’t resist. ‘Believe me.’
Marianne noticed that Leonard was drinking water and that he had written in a notepad and even on the paper tablecloth. She sensed his discomfort at his friends’ public spats.
‘You’re a writer?’
‘Trying to be. I’m not in the league of my friends here though.’
‘Nine books in ten years. Forty-three countries covered when I was a war correspondent,’ boasted George.
‘Shame we can’t find a forty-fourth one for you to visit, darling.’
‘How’s your novel going, George?’ Marianne asked.
‘First in the David Meredith trilogy done. He’s my alter ego. Bill Collins is going to publish it. They’re getting Sid Nolan to do the cover. Sid’s great. We’re both sons of tram drivers. Did you know that? The man’s a wonderful painter.’
‘And Cynthia, his wife’s a good writer, too,’ said Charmian.
‘Oh yeah. Cynth. And it was Sid who introduced us to Clarissa Zander who first gave us the idea of living on a Greek island.’
‘No, we heard the islanders of Kalymnos singing on the radio,’ Charmian contradicted him.
‘Actually, Alex Grivas told us about taking Prince Philip round the nightspots.’
‘Well, anyway,’ Marianne interrupted them, ‘we’re pleased you’re here.’
‘It’s been great for my writing. I’m onto the second book of the trilogy,’ George looked at his wife. ‘That’s gonna be explosive.’
‘Just leave me out of it. Your novels are getting more uncomfortably autobiographical as the days go on, George, and I don’t fucking like it.’
‘What else is there to write about but real life, my darling wife?’ He poured himself more retsina. ‘You do it, don’t you? What’s Mermaid Singing? Fantasy?’
In the middle of another coughing bout, George drew a cigarette from the pack, threw it to his lips where it stuck, lit it and then blew a series of perfect smoke rings into the air. Charmian rolled her eyes at this much-performed trick.
‘If I’d wanted to be married to a dolphin, I’d have gone to the fucking aquarium.’
George laughed, coughed and clapped his imaginary flippers in the air.
‘Do you write about real life?’ Marianne asked Leonard.
He looked up from his notes. ‘Writing is at once the deepest connection and the greatest escape,’ he said. ‘When you write you are both at the heart of life and away from it. The writer is absent and present.’
‘Len speaks in riddles,’ said George. ‘Jeez, the man’s so deep, only a few people on the planet can understand him.’
‘Better than writing those potboilers that you churn out!’
‘Ouch, that hurt, Charm! That really did!’
‘Good. It was meant to.’ She downed her whisky in one and filled up her glass again.
‘At least my writing covers the bills.’
‘Almost.’
Marianne had had enough. She wanted to be alone with Leonard and find out more about him.
‘I need to go,’ she said.
As if understanding her thoughts, Leonard jumped up. ‘May I help you with your groceries?’ he asked and lifted her basket.
‘Bye George. Bye Charmian,’ they called. ‘See you soon.’
Outside the sky was brazen and it was a relief to be in the fresh air.
‘How do you stand living there?’ she asked, as they perched on the low quay wall and watched the red and blue boats settle after a busy morning. ‘People here call them The Hat and The Skinny Australian.’
‘It’s really hard,’ he said, looking out at the wrinkled water. ‘More than anything it is sad. They are both so talented and they had such a love story. He was married before.’
‘I know. To Elsie, and they have a daughter, Gae, back in Australia.’
‘But as soon as they start drinking, they can’t stop and they are so nasty to each other.’
‘I worry about the children.’ Leonard could see that she was compassionate.
‘Me too. Poor kids. I feel for Martin, the eldest, as he is very sensitive, a good writer himself, and he can see what is going on and he tries to protect Shane and Jason. But the strange thing is, no matter how ugly the night before, seven o’clock the next morning, they are sober and back at their writing again. That’s when I start writing, too, so the house lulls into serenity.’
‘I bet you can’t wait to have your own space.’
‘So true. Peace and quiet and time to write.’
‘Poetry? Novels?’
‘Yes. Both, and songs, too, although of course lyrics must stand on their own. I play the guitar. I was in a band, the Buckskin Boys, when I was at McGill. The name was chosen because we all had buckskin jackets; mine was my dad’s. We weren’t very good, Country and Western, but now I just sing on my own. I haven’t been on Hydra long but I sense something in the air which is creative and dangerous.’
‘Dangerous?’
‘Yes. As if it could both revive and destroy you.’
Marianne nodded. ‘I know what you mean. Axel and I came here full of idealism and hope and now our marriage has shattered on the rocks. He takes lovers.’
Leonard shook his head. Why would a man do that if he could have a woman like this by his side? The light caught her eyes and they shone bright blue, as if they had been cut from the same material as the sky.
‘He must be crazy.’
Marianne smiled modestly. Maybe she had disclosed too much but she felt so comfortable with Leonard, as if they had known each other for years.
‘Who knows?’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘Maybe I am to blame, too? Or maybe it is Hydra?’
They sat for a few moments, reluctant to leave the warm wall and each other.
‘I have to go now,’ she said, rising. ‘My son needs me.’
She picked up her basket.
‘Can you manage?’
‘Yes, thank you. You should come and join us. Most evenings, people gather at Douskos’ Taverna and discuss art and life. You would enjoy it. You could bring your guitar.’
‘I know about the evenings but I have avoided them. George and Charmian often go and the house is peaceful then. The kids do their own thing, I do mine, but if I know you will be there, I will certainly come along.’
Marianne blushed.
‘And do please come and see me in my new home. I move in hopefully next week. I have written my address and slipped it in your basket. Goodbye, Marianne.’
He watched her leave, saw how her dress floated about her legs as she walked, and knew that his life had changed.
She knew it too. As Marianne climbed the hill, she felt her heart flutter and all she could think about was Leonard. She dipped her hand in the basket and there, among the mud-encrusted potatoes, was a piece of paper. Beneath where Leonard had written his address, he had sketched a bird, its wings opened wide. Marianne smiled and rubbed her finger over the drawing. She could not stop thinking about his dark hair, his deep eyes, his chiselled face, the way the sun lit his skin when he smiled.
The island hummed with spring and surely there were more camellias open now tha
n when she had walked down to Katsikas’ only two hours before.
iii
Beneath the pine tree at Douskos’ Taverna, the friends sat in a circle, their faces lit by kerosene lamps. Loops of coloured light bulbs were draped between the branches like cheap necklaces. Terracotta bowls of shiny olives adorned each table. Some people drank retsina, others ouzo or wine. Most smoked. There was an atmosphere of warmth and animation.
Jack and Frieda felt shy as they approached the circle but to their delight Marianne stood up and beckoned them over.
‘Hey everyone, this is Jack and Frieda, just arrived from an Israeli kibbutz.’
There was a sound of welcome, chairs were drawn up and drinks poured for them.
‘Let me introduce everyone. This is Charmian and her husband, George, from Australia. Writers also, like you, Jack. And John Dragoumis, a painter like you, Frieda. And Norman, Norman Peterson, the artist I told you about.’ Yes, Jack and Frieda recognised him from earlier: he was the man picking up litter at the roadside, presumably objets trouvés for his work. ‘Oh, and my husband Axel.’ They saw a thin, intense man with short blonde hair and glasses. He did not smile. Marianne scowled: ‘And Patricia Amlin, an American painter. Ah and here is Anthony Kingsmill, another painter.’
‘How many fucking painters does an island need?’ George shouted drunkenly through a smoky haze.
‘We can never have enough, surely?’ Charmian lit another cigarette. ‘We have to balance out the fucking writers here somehow.’
‘True, my dear,’ said George sarcastically. ‘The painters and the writers have to fuck. Just kidding. Hiya, Jack. Welcome, Fried!’
‘And, also, here are Chuck Hulse and Gordon Merrick,’ said Marianne. ‘Or as Axel always calls you, Chuckandgordon, whichever one of you he means.’
The men smiled. ‘We’re cool with that,’ said Chuck.
‘Author of The Strumpet Wind?’ said Jack, his eyes alight. ‘That was amazing. I read it three times.’
‘Thank you,’ said Chuck. ‘And are you the man who wrote that wonderful book about Buber?’
Jack smiled proudly. It was a dream come true to be surrounded by creative people. He saw copies of books by Robert Graves and Yeats on the table, presumably lent and shared among the community.
‘I loved the part about the existential test that all individuals face at some stage of their lives and how we are never the same again,’ said Gordon.
‘Not only individuals are tested but also nations,’ added Chuck.
‘And what he has to say about responsibility and truth and the I-Thou relationship as opposed to the I-It.’
‘Thank you,’ said Jack, flattered. ‘I am so pleased that you enjoyed the book. Buber was a wonderful man.’
‘And this is Leonard Cohen,’ said Marianne, trying not to appear too pleased that he had, at last, joined them. He looked up and smiled before bending his head back to his guitar which he strummed quietly beneath the conversation.
John Dragoumis beckoned for the young couple to come closer. Newcomers were sometimes fought over on Hydra. ‘Have you heard of the I Ching?’
Jack was interested. ‘Heard of it but never seen it in action.’
‘It’s a way of discovering who you are using ancient Chinese philosophy,’ said John. He was plump and friendly with a white beard, open leather sandals and dirty toenails.
‘That’s my copy,’ said Marianne proudly, ‘with an introduction by Jung.’
George said, ‘The I Ching insists upon self-knowledge throughout.’
‘We know that, thank you, George.’ Charmian scowled. ‘Throw the coins, would you? You said it was my turn to have my question answered. Here we go. Is Hydra the right place for me?’
‘Jeez, Charm. Take it easy.’ George tossed the coins and let them fall onto the table. After six turns, he drew the hexagrams while everyone gazed on with interest. ‘Right, let’s look at the pattern. Okay. So unbroken lines. Chien. The creative. Light-giving. Strong. You need to best develop yourself so that your influence can endure.’
‘What damn chance have I got of that, with you and your bloody books and three children to care for?’
‘You asked me to look it up, Charm, so will you let me finish?’
‘Maybe we should leave it,’ said Marianne nervously. ‘Let’s talk about something else.’
‘No!’ Charmian swung her bottle in the air and it smashed against the taverna wall. The red wine stained the white bricks. From the bar, Douskos and The Gardenia Dwarf looked up but ignored it. They were used to these foreign artists and their fiery tempers. They would sweep the glass up later. ‘It’s my turn to have the limelight, do you understand? I want my damn question answered.’ She belched. ‘Should I remain on Hydra? Is it doing me any bloody good?’
‘Right,’ George continued. ‘Cool it, Charm. The Chinese dragon is dormant in the winter but in the early summer it is active again and is creative and a force for good. So just be patient, will you? Your time is coming.’
‘Well, I wish it would hurry up and arrive. I’m sick of being a nobody.’
Frieda noticed how thin Norman Peterson was, his ribs visible through his creased, batik shirt. ‘I think we saw you by the roadside,’ she said. He turned politely to answer.
‘Yes, probably. I collect objects. Bottles, paper, wire, string. I make sculptures and try to sell them.’
‘I like the randomness of it,’ said Jack. ‘Buber believed, of course, that whatever or whoever we come into contact with is significant.’
‘Even wire?’ Norman smiled modestly.
‘Of course,’ Jack said. ‘It is the little encounters that nourish the soul. I’ll lend you some books about him and also about the founder of eighteenth-century Hasidism, Baal Shem Tov. I think you’ll find him interesting.’
Norman nodded gratefully.
‘We’ve been reading John Cage’s book, Silence,’ said Gordon, breaking his. ‘He also uses the I Ching, in his compositions. He is fascinated by chance and randomness but in a paradoxical way he puts a lot of planning and structure into his work in order to make it random.’
‘Yes,’ said Chuck, ‘do you remember the talk in New York that we went to?’
‘What was that?’ John put his hands on the table to try and steady them: his tremor was bad this evening.
‘At the Artists’ Club on Eighth Street and what he said was dependent on chance. That meant that there could be – and there was – a lot of repetition and Jeanne Reynal stormed out saying that she loved John, but she couldn’t stand it.’
‘He’s interested in Zen as well, isn’t he?’ George said. Charmian was sulking.
‘Sure.’ Chuck and Gordon always seemed to agree with and listen to each other.
‘Thanks,’ said Norman. ‘I didn’t know my picking up of scrap had such deep philosophical roots. I thought I was just a cheapskate and a thief!’ And everyone laughed.
The conversation rolled along easily: philosophy, art, politics. Norman said he was pleased to read about how President Johnson was trying to end segregation in America.
‘It’s very noble,’ said John, ‘but is it achievable?’
Back at home in the early hours, Jack checked on the children and saw that they were asleep.
‘What fascinating people,’ he said to Frieda, his eyes shining. Below them, Hydra had settled itself for the night, its houses low in the unremitting darkness.
‘It was so stimulating, having interesting people to talk to. I really missed that on the kibbutz, that intellectual debate. So much of our time was focused on how many avocados we’d picked or which goat was dying or whether we should replace the tractor part. All my life I’ve wanted to be among people like these. It’s wonderful. I’m thrilled that we came to live on Hydra, the best decision we ever made. It will be so good for us.’
‘Well, for you, it will be.’ Frieda was unpinning her plait, letting her crinkled hair fall.
‘What do you mean?’
‘No-on
e asked me my opinion. I couldn’t get a word in, you were all so full of it: Jung, Cage, Buber. The men dominating, as usual.’
‘Rubbish, Frieda. You could have said whatever you wanted to. No-one makes a gap for you in life. You just have to join in. Marianne and Charmian did.’
‘You never gave me a chance. Look how Chuck and Gordon treat each other, with respect. But it’s all about you and your books and never about my painting. Did you mention me? Did you include me? Of course not. The bottom line is that you don’t take my work seriously. You never have. You think I’m just a nice girl from the Cape who paints fruit and flowers as a hobby, but that you are the serious artist in the marriage.’
‘When have I ever said that? You have such an inferiority complex.’
‘You wonder why? Because you don’t admire me. You don’t value what I do.’
‘You’re talking crap, Frieda. You need to discover who you are yourself. You can’t expect me to validate you all the time. Leave your bourgeois past behind. Shed it like a skin.’
‘My bourgeois background, Jack? What was yours – bohemian?’
Frieda suddenly felt a deep longing for her mother and her childhood home: the pale irises and dovecote in the garden, the mulberry trees whose leaves they picked to feed the silkworms.
She thought of Kibbutz Timorim, where she and Jack had met, located on rough terrain in Galilee. There was little there, just fifty young people from all over the world, bursting with enthusiasm and idealism. Together, they started to create a community. The buildings were small and primitive and in those days the youngsters lived communally. They had some goats, cows and chickens and a large terrain. They grew oranges and lemons in shaded groves, avocados and dates, clustered like jewels at the top of palm trees.
It was easy to see why they had fallen in love. They had come from similar backgrounds whose traditional codes they had both rejected. Five years between them, they craved excitement and believed deeply in the state of Israel. Neither was religious: their Judaism was more cultural, social, a strong part of their identity. As the kibbutz thrived, their marriage struggled. They hoped that a year on Hydra would, like the well in the courtyard, refresh and restore them.
