by Tamar Hodes
‘And did they?’
‘Yes, they did, and the longer I stood still, the longer they stayed. And we collected white shells, and I carry them with me to this day, wherever I go.’
‘And Axel? Where did you meet him?’
‘At a party. He was so handsome and charming and had so many ideas for the books he wanted to write. I was working in an attorney’s office and then as an au pair and I was bored with my life when in came this interesting, angry young man. He had read Jung and books on philosophy and the symbolism of dreams. He asked me to go to Greece with him. My parents weren’t happy. I was young and we weren’t even married. We rented a room in Athens but then on a boat we met Papadopoulos.’
‘The candy millionaire?’
‘Yes. He told us to travel round the islands and disembark at Hydra, the most beautiful of them all. So we did.’
‘So like me you have fallen upon it by chance?’
‘Yes, maybe everyone on Hydra has done the same. They have stumbled on its beauty and do not want to leave.’
‘And do you? Want to leave?’
‘I don’t know. We married and like it here but Axel and I, we are rocky. He has lovers. At the moment it is Patricia who he has brought to live with us.’
‘That must be painful for you?’
‘Yes, it is, but it does help Axel to write if he is happy and it is good for our little boy to have his father around.’
‘I can understand that. My father died when I was young and it has left a scar.’
They paused, comfortable in silence.
‘Would you like to see where I write?’ he asked.
He led her down to his study, a cool white room with windows deep-set in thick walls. The desk was simple, a green Olivetti typewriter and several sheets of paper and that was all. In a raffia wastepaper bin, she saw crumpled balls, discarded poetry, she imagined. A guitar leant its shoulders against a fireplace, dormant in the spring.
‘It is so tidy.’
‘I have to have order if I am to create.’
He moved her through to another room, where again it was simple: a bed covered in a white cotton spread; a table piled high with books; several fat candles, squatting in a hollow alcove.
Leonard eased her onto the bed and then he kissed her: first her high cheekbones and then her mouth, releasing the band from her hair so that it fell free like a bird fanning its wings in the sun. She was all softness and light, kissing him back with a mixture of gentleness and passion. He slipped the sleeves of her blue dress over her shoulders and saw that her eyes were the colour of cornflowers.
Beneath her dress, she wore no underwear and he lifted the skirt and felt her skin, warm and receptive beneath the material. The more he kissed her, the more he wanted to, needed to, and she responded, undoing the buttons on his white shirt, then unzipping his trousers and feeling him stiffen at her touch. He took a dark nipple in his mouth and heard her cry out and they lost all sense of time and place as they immersed themselves in each other. When he entered her, it was as if this was what they had waited for all their lives. They could not tell where one flesh ended and the other began: the silkiness of her, the smell of him, the hair flaying on the bed, her legs, his skin, their mouths. They cried and licked each other’s tears from their faces.
Afterwards they lay naked in the cool room and rejoiced in the discovery of the other: stroking, kissing, caressing, blessing their union.
Leonard recited Yeats to her:
Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
They saw ribbons of light slip in through the gaps in the shutters and heard the chapel ring its hourly bell. Leonard ran his fingers over her smooth skin.
‘Set me as a seal upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm; for love is strong as death,’ whispered Leonard, as he lifted the Star of David on a chain from around his neck and hung it around Marianne’s. ‘That is from the Song of Songs. I am deeply happy that I have found you, Marianne. Please never leave.’
vi
For days, the islanders had been preparing for Easter. As Marianne wheeled her son’s pushchair towards Leonard’s house, for the Passover meal, women white-washed their steps. Men with buckets scrubbed the quayside. Even the donkeys had new canvas bags on their flanks. Everything seemed polished: the almond blossoms and the marble sky looked cleansed, as if they, too, recognised the significance of this holy day.
And then the procession began, the papos at the front. Marianne walked at the side of the road as trails of people traipsed down the paths: little girls dressed in white with peonies crowning their hair; boys carrying sacred banners, and adults holding candles. Gifts were offered: slaughtered lambs and calves threaded on spits; loaves of bread; paper lanterns; and a trailer on wheels bearing an effigy of Christ’s bleeding body through the crowded streets.
She waited for the procession to pass and watched it vanish into the hills.
On Leonard’s terrace, he had set out two tables and covered them with cloths. Around them was an assortment of chairs; one from his study; a few from his kitchen; collapsible ones from the storeroom. The Silver family arrived with presents of fruit and wine and everyone hugged. Esther was in a new pale pink dress especially for Pesach and her mother had threaded gardenias on string around her head. Esther was so pleased to be with Axel Joachim and she cuddled him and his wooden giraffe on her lap. Gideon stood by the balustrade, gazing out at the view.
Seated at the table, Leonard welcomed them all. Gideon joined them, reluctantly.
‘Where better to have Pesach,’ he began, ‘than with Mount Elijah behind us? And here is the cup of wine for Elijah should he join us at any point.’
Marianne was fascinated by the rituals. She had never been to a Passover meal before and wanted to learn.
Leonard looked more handsome than ever, his dark hair capped by a white kippah and he had a silver-tasselled shawl around his neck.
‘This is called a talit,’ he told Marianne, ‘a prayer shawl that belonged to my father Nathan, who died when I was nine.’
‘How sad,’ said Frieda. ‘So he missed your bar mitzvah?’
‘Yes, and strangely he always had a premonition that he would not be there.’
They read from tiny books, Haggadot, which Leonard’s mother Masha had sent him. For the Silver family, it was all familiar: the books opening from right to left, the Hebrew writing the same, and the moving back and forth between English and Hebrew, but for Marianne it was new. Leonard helped her. They read aloud around the table, Frieda worried that Gideon might not want to take his turn in front of others but he did, quietly and fluently.
‘Well done, Giddy,’ she said, holding his hand beneath the cloth. She was surprised when he pushed it gently away.
They learned about the Jews being slaves in Egypt under the Pharaohs and how God led them out of bondage into freedom. Although Esther could not read yet, she sang Mah Nishtana, the song the youngest child sings, helped by her parents when she stumbled on the words.
‘And now we come to the symbols,’ said Leonard, pointing for Marianne’s sake to the plate at the centre of the table. ‘This is the matzah, the unleavened bread, as the Jews did not have time for the yeast to rise. The hard-boiled egg represents the universe in its wholeness.’
‘Why is it burned?’ she asked, noticing the black smudges across its shell.
‘To represent the sacrifices made at the temple. The shank bone is the Paschal lamb; the bitter herbs, and maror, which is horseradish, represents the tears shed by the Israelites when they were slaves. The parsley symbolises hope, spring. And this is called charoset: it is a
mixture of nuts, apple and wine and symbolises the mortar used by the slaves when they built the Pyramids. Masha makes a wonderful one with dates as well. There are many different versions of it.’
Marianne was impressed by Leonard’s ability to move between Hebrew and English, between spoken prayers and sung ones, taking command, including everyone in the evening. He thought of his father, hoped he would be proud of his son, leading the service.
‘So we have here the water and the wine,’ explained Leonard, ‘the bare essentials of life and also the magic, the mystery.’
When it was time for the meal, Kyria Sophia brought out the hard-boiled eggs in salt water and then fasolatha soup, made from cannellini beans and local vegetables, fresh oregano and thyme. The main meal, roast lamb with artichokes, was delicious, the food shiny and glazed. Afterwards, they drank coffee and ate baklava and halva, and the children had sticky hands and faces. Axel Joachim fell asleep in Marianne’s arms and she laid him carefully on Leonard’s bed.
They sang songs, clapped and cheered, Jack’s voice particularly strong and his energy never flagging while they watched the sun dunk itself into the sea.
Walking home, Frieda said to Jack, ‘I think that Leonard and Marianne are lovers. Did you notice that at the end, she stayed when we left?’
‘I keep telling you,’ said Jack, ‘this is a bohemian, free community. The bourgeois rules don’t apply here.’
Frieda fell silent: why was it that they got on quite well when in the company of others but as soon as they were alone again, the old conflicts and accusations immediately resurfaced as if they had been there all along?
When Axel and Patricia went away, Marianne found a kind of peace. She loved the silence of the house and time spent with her baby, thinking about the way ahead. Increasingly, Leonard came to see her and would sing Axel Joachim lullabies and rock him to sleep.
Then they would sit on the terrace and watch the cool evening draw its glimmering screen over the harbour. The once-busy boats were still now, the velvet sky studded with stars. The night was furry, wrapping them in its softness.
‘Today a man came from an American magazine and photographed me in the harbour,’ she said.
‘Why would he not?’ said Leonard. ‘You are the most beautiful woman in the world.’
Sometimes when they were sure that the baby was asleep, they would go inside and make love, their hot bodies writhing on cool sheets, and then they would share a joint and read poetry.
One evening, Leonard and Marianne were on the terrace, smoking and talking. The cow bell at the front door rang and Marianne, in her bathrobe, went to answer it.
Nick Katsikas handed her a telegram. ‘For you, Marianne,’ he said.
‘Thank you. I’m sorry you have had to come all this way.’
He nodded, went back to his donkey, and she closed the door.
Up on the terrace she read Axel’s message aloud to Leonard: ‘PATRICIA IN ACCIDENT. HOSPITAL ATHENS. PLEASE COME.’
‘What should I do, Leonard? He has treated me so badly but he sounds desperate.’
‘If you need to go, I will stay here with Axel Joachim. He knows me now and I can give him a bottle.’
‘Really? You would do that?’
‘My love,’ said Leonard in his gravelly voice. ‘Life sends us tests all the time. This is yours. Go.’
She left the following morning. All along the journey – a donkey to the harbour, the boat to Piraeus with Mikalis and Spyros, and then the bus to Athens – Marianne was in turmoil. She still felt some fondness for her husband but also fury at the way he had treated her by taking other women, making her feel that she was not enough. She had gone from one writer to another. What was it in her, she wondered, that was drawn to trouble?
But Leonard was different. He was gentle and good. She liked the way he devoted himself to his writing, to her, to her child. He would not let her down: she was sure of that. On the last part of her journey, she peered down at the dark waters where the sun had only stroked the surface and she hoped and prayed that all would be well.
Marianne was shocked by the hospital in Athens. Steel beds side by side, with thin sheets, and the walls were bare. The only sound was of patients moaning in pain. She gasped when she found Patricia, almost completely bandaged and with Axel by her side. He jumped up when he saw Marianne and she was surprised at the state he was in: unwashed, unshaven, dark circles under his eyes.
‘Oh thank you, Marianne,’ he sobbed, welling with tears. ‘I hoped that you would come.’
He pulled up a chair and she sat beside him. Patricia did not stir.
‘What happened?’ He looked into her blue eyes and felt that an angel had come to rescue him.
‘There was a party at the military base. Drink, you know. Patricia said we should drive the guests home and as we were on the way back to the base, she collided with a farmer on his donkey and cart. They were on the bridge. She swerved the car to avoid them and crashed into the wall. She was thrown from the car and into the riverbed full of cement and debris chucked there from a workshop. Most of her bones are broken. She was the only one who was seriously injured.’
‘Oh, that is terrible.’ Marianne’s heart went out to Axel and all her anger seemed to dissipate.
‘The nurses were supposed to put antiseptic on to stop infection but they haven’t done so and now she has gangrene. One of her thumbs has been amputated. I am without hope. I haven’t slept for three nights, just sitting here watching her.’
‘You need to go and wash and sleep,’ said his wife.
‘Will you stay with her? You have to apply antiseptic in the gaps between her bandages every hour. You’ll do that?’
‘Yes, Axel, I will.’
So Marianne sat there all night and the following day. She did as Axel had told her and every hour she dabbed antiseptic on any gaps that she could find. All the time, Patricia did not stir. Her eyes remained closed. The tanned colour had drained from her face and her long black hair was tucked into a nest behind her neck.
It felt strange for Marianne to tend to and touch the woman who had stolen her husband. She wept as she sat there, fuelled by jealousy and rage and compassion and confusion. She thought of when she and Axel had met at the party in Oslo and how their lives had seemed to glisten with possibilities. When they had arrived on Hydra, she thought that they had reached paradise, the island gleaming under an optimistic sky, the deep, emerald sea striped beneath a gentle sun. How could anything go wrong? And yet it had, their love crumbling and their dreams turning to ash.
She fingered the Star of David and thought of Leonard. It was a blessing that he had come into her life, but moving between two writers: how would that work? She trembled at the thought that he would leave her. She had never loved anyone the way she loved him and she wanted to stay on the island with him for ever, lock the gates, build walls around the shore, drain the sea of water and boats, and focus on their love.
She thought of Momo and how she would bring a plate of crispbread and brown goat’s cheese on a ceramic plate and hold her and love her, trying to replace the family that she had lost.
On Hydra, Axel Joachim woke in the night, sweaty from a bad dream. Leonard rose and went to him.
‘It’s alright, little one,’ he said. ‘Your mummy will be home soon. I am here with you.’ He sang softly to the child and, soothed by his voice, Axel Joachim slipped easily back to sleep.
After several days in the hospital, sitting by Patricia while Axel rested, Marianne started the long journey home. On the bus from Athens to Piraeus and then the boat back to Hydra, she searched the depths of the water and wondered: how do we all move forward? Are there any answers? And if so, where?
vii
It was wonderful to be back with her lover again. They woke in the gentle morning, Leonard and Marianne in her bed, the shuttered light upon the walls. Leonard had picked wild anemones and let them fall loosely in a crockery vase. The flowers’ subtle scent perfumed the room. Someti
mes he read her poetry, leaning on his elbow in bed, facing her, his other hand holding the book:
Of the Dark Doves
Through the laurel branches
I saw two doves of darkness.
The one was the sun,
the other one was the moon.
I said: ‘Little neighbours,
where is my tombstone?’
‘In my tail-feathers,’ the sun said.
‘In my throat,’ the moon said.
And I who was out walking
with the earth wrapped round me,
saw two eagles made of white snow,
and a girl who was naked.
And the one was the other,
and the girl was neither.
I said: ‘Little eagles,
where is my tombstone?’
‘In my tail-feathers,’ the sun said.
‘In my throat,’ the moon said.
Through the laurel branches
I saw two doves, both naked.
And one was the other,
and both were none.
‘That’s beautiful. Who is it by?’
‘Lorca. A Spanish poet. It was actually written as a song and in the instrumental score, the notation is cleverly circular to represent the sun and the moon.’
‘That could be us,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ Leonard agreed. ‘One was the other and both were none. You know, Lorca said he had the blood of gypsies and Jews. Like me. And he was a dreamer in a world of material preoccupations.’
‘I am so happy to be back in your world,’ she said and they kissed slowly, hard, as if time did not exist in that room.
‘I missed you, Marianne, my Nordic turtle dove. When you were away, I struggled to write but now that you are back, my muse, I know that the words will flow again.’
‘Which part of the novel are you on?’
