Out of the Blue

by Belinda Jones

  Alekos gives me a dubious look. ‘Isn’t “harrowing” a word usually reserved for war zones and places of extreme poverty?’

  ‘Well, perhaps I should say eventful. When I was five I nearly drowned—’

  ‘A wave washed over you,’ he tuts.

  ‘No, my family was travelling to the island on a boat and a storm blew in so they battened down the hatches which basically left my dad all cosy downstairs having a brandy with my sister – well, obviously she wasn’t having a brandy—’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘And I was left up on deck thrashing around with my mum. There was nothing either parent could do – they couldn’t let him up or her down for fear of the ship filling up with water and well, sinking, I suppose.’

  ‘But you survived.’

  ‘Yes, but that wasn’t the worst of it,’ I tell him gravely. ‘I fell in love for the first time.’

  ‘Aged five?’

  ‘Yes, and to look at our holiday snaps you might suspect it was the little blond boy from Yorkshire with the pudding-bowl haircut and velour hoodie but in fact it was a middle-aged hotel manager called Dimitri. He said I was the daughter he always wished he’d had and I took a massive shine to him. Even now I still feel a bond. My mum says that when we left I said nothing but I had tears streaming down my face.’

  Alekos smiles knowingly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You were destined to love a Greek man, even as a child.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know about that,’ I snort. ‘My teen romance wasn’t so successful.’

  Alekos’ face darkens and his worry beads take on all the menace of numchuckers. ‘Who was he?’ he growls.

  ‘I don’t remember his name,’ I answer truthfully. ‘He was one of the hotel waiters – naturally – but the romance wasn’t the big hoo-har of the trip. The real disaster was the intake of the local firewater.’

  ‘Oooohh.’ Alekos cringes.

  ‘Zohhh,’ I confirm. ‘I’ll spare you the details . . .’

  ‘Thank you,’ he says, sounding genuinely grateful. ‘Though if you feel another episode like that coming on you would feel at home in this next town.’ Alekos nods to the sign for Malia. ‘A lot of drinking here. A lot of English.’

  ‘In the eighteen to thirty age bracket?’ I make a daring supposition.

  He nods confirmation.

  ‘I went on one of those holidays once,’ I confess. ‘Bodrum, Turkey.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That was the first word that sprang from my lips when my friend Roxy revealed the details of the trip. Can you believe there was actually a couple there on their honeymoon? I can’t think of anything less romantic. I didn’t drink a drop the whole time – getting yelled at to do shots at breakfast made me all contrary and I went teetotal.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘The whole week,’ I reply as I spy a series of frazzle-haired girls lurching down the road with linked arms and strappy stilettos, serenaded by the lewd hecklings of three shirtless, scorch-chested boys. ‘Thank god we’re away from all this.’

  ‘Well, not entirely.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I feel a chill to my core.

  ‘You’ll see soon enough.’

  He won’t say any more. Probably afraid I’ll hurl myself from the speeding car, though obviously not immediately or I’d be stranded right in the thick of it.

  ‘So what happened on your third trip?’ Alekos prompts me to complete the Greek trilogy.

  ‘Oh no,’ I swipe away his interest. ‘It’s just another catalogue of crapness.’

  There’s no denying I’ve been talking too much, desperately trying to cover my realisation that I’m about to spend a week sleeping, waking, eating and working under the same roof as a man I typically go out of my way to avoid. But despite my protestations, Alekos won’t let it go. It’s as though he feels entitled to know everything that has happened to me in Greece simply by virtue of it being his homeland.

  ‘Besides, you have to tell me so that I can ensure none of the bad things are repeated on this trip,’ he wheedles.

  ‘They couldn’t be. It was almost all down to my own stupidity.’

  ‘Tell me anyway,’ he insists.

  I heave a long sigh. This was not my finest hour.

  ‘Well, first I have to mention that a week before I left I met a man. It was all very intense, he even cried when I left for the airport.’

  ‘Cried?’

  It was true. I’d never experienced anything quite like it before. I suppose it was quite emotional parting so soon after finding each other, plus we hadn’t slept because we wanted to savour every last moment together. It was only when I got back that I discovered just how poignant the farewell was for him. Anyway, basically the plane was delayed, twice. Once they even boarded us and then discovered a fault and disembarked us again at which point I did wonder if the universe was offering me multiple opportunities to turn back, but I continued on regardless, arriving in Athens in the middle of the night and thus unable to get the required ferry to Poros. Half the other passengers kipped right there in Arrivals, heads on luggage, but as I was alone I didn’t dare sleep so that was night two. By sunrise I was delirious and decided I couldn’t wait another hour for the bus to Piraeus so I got a taxi. I remember the driver looked like an escaped convict and had a bloodied bandage unravelling from his wrist. When he announced that the fare was roughly half the money I had brought for the whole week, I didn’t argue. I was just grateful to get out of his vehicle alive. It was then a stray dog (along with his flea posse) attached himself to me – wherever I dragged my suitcase, he would follow. I would have appreciated the company had he been able to speak Greek – I remember going into one café but all the food was completely alien to me and I felt so self-conscious I left empty-handed. Much to the dismay of the dog.

  Finally it was time for the ferry. The sea air felt good but I spent the whole time watching a canoodling couple thinking, ‘I could be doing that right now if I’d stayed home,’ and wondering about the wisdom of breaking our romantic flow. When I arrived on the island I discovered there wasn’t a single room to be had. I hadn’t booked anywhere because I had naively decided to be spontaneous and see which way the wind blew me. Not a smart decision in July. The neighbouring islands of Spetses and Hydra were also chock-a-block. It was nearly a hundred degrees and I was unwashed and overheated and so I put down my case and walked into the sea, fully clothed, and then walked out again, changed my clothes, counted what was left of my money, and realised I had just enough to buy a flight back home.

  ‘So you just turned around and came back?’

  ‘Tried to. I got to the airport, sat down to wait the three hours till the flight and fell asleep.’

  ‘Please don’t tell me you slept through the departure,’ Alekos despairs.

  I nod. ‘Well, at least I would have done had it not been delayed.’

  ‘So you made it?’ He looks relieved until he adds, ‘And back you went to the arms of your beloved.’

  ‘Well, that was the idea . . .’

  Alekos shoots me a concerned look.

  ‘I went directly from the airport to his house, all “Surprise!” on his doorstep, and he bundled me around the corner and revealed that he actually lived with his girlfriend.’

  Perhaps that’s the origin of me never doing follow-up romance – however keen I am on the fellas I meet on board, I never look beyond our time on the ocean wave: I’d rather be thought of as the one that got away than the one that showed up again at an inconvenient moment.

  ‘I don’t like that story.’ Alekos frowns, looking more than a little disgruntled.

  ‘I’m not so keen on it myself.’

  ‘So we must rewrite it,’ he decides.

  ‘What?’ I laugh.

  ‘Here’s what I think happened . . .’ he says, swiftly conjuring an alternative. ‘Selena is sitting on the beach with her suitcase. Alekos is on his uncle’s yacht, bored. They both decide t
o go for a swim, her wading in from the shore, him diving in from the deck. About halfway between the two points, they turn on to their backs and float, squinting up at the sun. For a brief moment they feel contentment and then their heads collide. They swirl around and face each other . . .’

  ‘What happens then?’ I gasp, rapt.

  ‘The rest is up to you.’ He shrugs. ‘But I have a feeling that he takes her to his brother’s watersport base in Crete . . .’

  I chuckle. ‘Wouldn’t it be nice if we could wipe out the grizzly bits of the past just like that?’

  He nods, looking serious for a moment, and then reaches to give my knee a comforting squeeze. ‘Nothing bad will happen to you this time – I will be your guardian angel.’

  I can’t help but emit a sigh – I’ll say one thing for charmers like Alekos, they sure know what women want to hear.

  Five minutes down the road I tell him, ‘You can let go of my leg now!’ in response to which he swerves into a gravelly lay-by, throws open his car door and bounds out into the night.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I call after him. I find it hard to believe it’s the rejection, he’s already had so much of it from me.

  ‘I always stop here on my way home,’ he finally reveals.

  Oh. I sit and drum my fingers on the dashboard. I really know nothing of Greek customs other than the ritual smashing of plates on the dance floor. I try to rack my brain for insights from My Big Fat Greek Wedding but the only thing that springs to mind is the dad spraying Windex on every ailment from psoriasis to burnt fingers. The fact is, he’s probably just having a welcome-home wee.

  ‘Are you coming?’ Alekos startles me as he leans in my window, seemingly bemused that I am still in the car.

  ‘Coming where?’ I ask. I can see nothing but blackness for miles.

  ‘To the monastery.’

  It’s only now that I see a set of broad flagstone steps leading up to an open courtyard. As I follow Alekos, pacing heavenward, I am momentarily distracted by the stars – I don’t remember the last time I saw such a dusty diamond scattering – and when I tear my eyes away I find him gone.

  ‘Aleko!’ I hiss, tiptoeing forward, a little unnerved.

  I check each archway of the galleried arcade to my left, and every outsize plant pot bursting with peek-a-boo foliage, but there’s no sign of him.

  It’s then I spy a small chapel to my right with the door ajar. ‘Are you in here?’ I whisper as I peer tentatively inside.

  As my eyes adjust to the darkness I begin to make out the most incredible religious art – striking, stylised images of saints and sinners, painted directly on to the walls and over the domed ceilings in flat, matt terracottas, burgundies and grey-blues, branded with Greek lettering in white. To me, the tiny room has the feel of an ancient treasure box with its chandeliers of dark, jewel-coloured glass, incense-wafters in tarnished gold and a wooden altar intricately carved with long-tailed birds and grapevines, inset with gilded panels.

  Alekos is indeed here, facing the centrepiece, holding the pendant around his neck with one hand and crossing himself with the other as he murmurs a prayer. I feel mildly in awe of the understated mystique of the scene, not to mention the unexpected revelation of humility and faith – I didn’t expect Alekos to stand in reverence of anything except his own reflection.

  ‘This is St George,’ he introduces me to his pendant in hushed tones. I step closer to peer at the coin-size metal disc. I’ve never noticed this on him before, probably because I’ve never seen beneath his officer’s uniform. Incredibly, after all these hours of travelling he still smells good.

  As we step back out into the courtyard, I sense a figure moving in the shadows and freeze wide-eyed as its form is revealed – it’s a monk! A real-live monk in a long, brown hooded robe! While I continue to behave like I’ve just spotted an aardvark on a night safari in the Kalahari, Alekos nods polite acknowledgement to him and then guides me on my way.

  ‘Is that allowed, what we just did? Are we trespassing?’ I hiss as I scurry along beside him.

  He doesn’t even bother to reply, just gives me a ‘don’t be so absurd’ tsk as we return to the car. As if the great Alekos is governed by any rules!

  ‘That was wonderful,’ I can’t help but enthuse as he starts the engine. Something that I would never have experienced alone. Perhaps I might even enjoy myself from time to time this week, who knows!

  We’re just about to pull back on to the main road when a woman driver screeches into the lay-by, cutting off our exit route and barking at us in fraught Greek. So much for serenity. I start winding up my window and brace myself for some defensive driving but Alekos surprises me by responding in a masterfully calm, firm manner before waving her on.

  ‘What was that?’ I puff relief, still a little shaken.

  ‘She was asking if we had a cigarette.’

  I look incredulous. ‘You’re kidding?’ My jaw gapes further. ‘She pulled off the road like that to ask for nicotine?’

  He nods.

  ‘Do you know her?’ I ask.

  ‘No.’ He pauses then adds, ‘You don’t smoke, do you?’

  ‘No,’ I confirm, wondering if he’d suggest we chase her down if I did. It’s a good thing I’m travelling with a local this time, these Greek foibles are going to take a bit of getting used to.

  There’s just one more stop en route, though with my nerves still jangling, I’m not thrilled that it involves standing at the unfenced edge of a rocky jut.

  ‘This is it,’ he says, breathing in, all sparkly-eyed as he makes an expansive gesture with his good hand. ‘This is Elounda . . .’

  I’m sure I’d be filled with wonder too, if I could make anything out. To me there’s just a mass of blackness dotted with limpid blue swimming pools. I have to dig my heels in to avoid following a few displaced stones down into the Jacuzzi where some rock star is no doubt enjoying the view with a pair of complimentary night-vision binoculars.

  ‘I take it that’s the sea there.’ I motion to the empty expanse of jet, trying my best to join in.

  He nods, still transfixed. It’s then I feel a pang of envy – he’s got that coming home feeling, I can sense it. For weeks he’s been sailing the Pacific Ocean but this, the Aegean, is his sea.

  As I continue to study him surreptitiously, I wonder if it’s possible to get homesick for a body of water and if so, what would you call that, other than seasick?

  ‘Come on, nearly there now.’

  Rolling down the hill we pass roadside tavernas named Ariadne and Andreas and shops adorned with bejewelled flip-flops and intricate shell wall-hangings. Every boutique and bar appears to be individually owned. Remember what that was like? Life before Starbucks. The large town square has a pretty domed church and infinite cafés and bars with terraces overlooking a cute collection of moorings but zero gin palaces. It’s almost a relief not to be dazzled. I’ve seen too many sights lately, I’m pleased that there will be very little here to distract me from my editing.

  Pausing to let some contentedly ambling tourists cross the road, Alekos points out a restaurant called Ferryman. He tells me it was made famous in the Seventies TV series Who Pays the Ferryman, and looks pleased as punch that nothing more notable has occurred here since that era. I do enjoy a bit of national pride. I spend so little time in England now, I don’t particularly feel British any more and rarely brimmed over with patriotism when I was resident, but that’s part of the Brit charm, isn’t it? Self-depreciating to the point of ridiculing and despairing of our dear nation.

  ‘You’re surely not lost?’ I can’t help but notice that Alekos is making a second circuit of the square.

  ‘I thought we might stop for a drink!’ He nods to one of the chicer establishments.

  ‘Now?’ I gasp, gawping at my watch. ‘It’s one a.m.!’ Not to mention the travel exhaustion factor!

  He gives an all-too-relaxed shrug as he pulls into an oceanview parking spot. ‘We’re on holiday now!’


  5

  ‘A woman who sleeps alone puts shame on all men.’ – Zorba the Greek

  It’s alright for men, isn’t it? Travel doesn’t mar them in the same way. Alekos’ shirt may be crumpled, his face stubbly, yet, if anything, he looks even sexier dishevelled. Personally I could do with a good spritz and change of clothes – it really is such a warm night – but I can’t let my hygiene concerns stand in the way of the homecoming of Elounda’s favourite son. So many people call out to him from bars and doorways I expect children to start clustering around his kneecaps waving flags.

  ‘Popular fellow,’ I mumble.

  He shrugs. ‘I have been coming here for thirty years. I know everyone,’ he says, before stopping short to chat to a man in a dusty truck. They speak darkly, conspiratorially, intently. It sounds like espionage. Then just as suddenly they bid a cheery goodbye and he picks up where he left off, inviting me to select one of the stylish seating options at a bar called Friends.

  ‘I used to work over there,’ he tells me, pointing across to a younger-looking joint. ‘It’s where I met my first English love.’

  And no doubt his first Italian, Swiss, Bahranian, yada yada . . .

  ‘Well?’ After all my stories in the car, I expect details.

  He speaks of falling madly in love one summer, exchanging letters with this girl for a year and then excitedly styling the bar for her return, filling the otherwise minimalist surfaces with fresh flowers and writing ‘Welcome Back, Sweetie’ on the window using the owner’s wife’s lipstick!

  ‘Wow! What did she say to that?’

  ‘She didn’t turn up.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Not until the following summer.’

  ‘Was there some misunderstanding about the year?’ I reel – twelve months is a long time to keep someone waiting.

  ‘That wasn’t the bad bit,’ he tells me. ‘When she came back we started up again and this time she invited me to spend Christmas with her family in England.’

  ‘And you went?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Please tell me she was there when you arrived!’

  ‘Just long enough to dump me.’