by Sara Alexi
She turned on her side and looked at the picture on the wall, a print of some tropical beach, with palm trees and hammocks. That was new. Outside, a dog barked, another returned its call and a third joined in. There was the creak of a rusty hinge and a wooden shutter slammed shut, creating a sanctum, within which was a lucky person whose house had not been flattened. She yawned, and as she lay there she wondered what might have been if the quake had happened the day she stormed up to Korifi. Supposing, in that quake, God forbid, Christos had been caught by a falling beam, a tumbling wall. Suddenly, all that control she thought she had over her life, over him, would have been shown up for what it really was: illusions, delusions. The belief that her life and his life were things that she could take for granted would have been gone. She is not the puppeteer: she is Aglaia, the wife, and she does not even have a central part to play. Her role has always been to remain unseen but forever nagging her Karagiozis from behind the curtains, for the twenty-nine years of their marriage, wittering away about his shortcomings. Ha! Shadow plays, a paper world kept alive as long as the candle is not snuffed out.
But it didn’t even take an earthquake for her to see this; in the end it was Christos who showed that she was powerless. Why was it so easy to see, now, that her storming out of their home could easily have been the last act he needed to decide that their marriage was over? How often had she hinted at her discontent in the months, or years even, up to that point? Little digs at his shortcomings, little reminders of all he was supposed to do but never did. The drawer he was meant to fix the bottom of, the chair he was supposed to bind together and glue, the washing line he was meant to hang. And how, over coffee, Harris had convinced her that she had a point, that she was right. How tired he must have been of it, repeated day after day, when she was quite capable of doing many of these jobs herself. Of course, she never intended him to take her walking out to mean that their marriage was over. She had reacted to what had sounded like his accusation that she was having an affair with Greg for money! But maybe he was just sick of … Of what? She didn’t need to ask herself twice. He was sick of her not showing her love for him. That’s what!
The orange hammocks in the picture on the wall were hanging from palm trees; balanced on the bamboo table in the foreground were two cocktail glasses with cherries on sticks across their tops. The colours were all too strong. It was unsettling in its unreal plasticness.
She turned around to look at the opposite wall, to stare at Eleftheria’s grandmother’s chest of drawers. Eleftheria must polish it every day, judging by the way it shone in the moonlight.
Full moons always take her right back to the early days of her courtship with Christos, when the girl from Corfu was still on the island! Rallou had returned from London and, without a thought for anyone else, she had claimed her prize. The best-looking, tallest boy in the village – on the island! It just felt like a continuation of all the excitement life was bringing her. She did not spare a thought for the girl whose place she took. Or for Christos and how he saw her, even. Everything was from her point of view.
She yawned again, tired but unable to sleep.
The island’s clock strikes six and thoughts of the night before fade as she looks up to the hands that have not moved. Four twenty-three. Someone nearby chuckles. The bells are not truthful either.
Maybe, back then, Christos saw her like she sees the Americans now, as people with the keys to foreign places. Is that possible? This feels like a new thought. If that was the case he would have no idea that in those first few years it was she who was waiting for him to whisk her away to the faraway places they had talked about. But from his point of view, didn’t it make more sense that she would be the one who would have initiated their travels? Why had she not taken action? Why was he supposed to do all the work?
The cargo ship that serves the island’s daily needs appears at the entrance to the harbour and slowly slips into its mooring spot. Donkeys and men are gathered beside it. No doubt there will be a full cargo today, with building materials and all manner of household items. The mayor put a notice up outside his offices yesterday evening, stating that essential repairs could be carried out immediately, without planning permission, which would take too long to process. The notice went on to say that checks would be made in due course to make sure that the traditional character of the island was maintained and that no one took advantage of this amnesty to build additional rooms that were not there before the earthquake struck. To Rallou, the notice seems pointless; the people would have started to renovate their houses anyway.
With the sun on the water casting ripples of light along its length, the cargo ship ties up to the pier and the heavy metal bow gate lowers onto the quay. There is the high-pitched scrape of metal against stone, grinding another day’s work into the grooved marble blocks of the harbour wall. The sound brings more donkey men and their beasts, ready to help with the unloading. But there is no Yanni. He will no doubt be here in a moment and she will tell him about Dolly before she leaves the island.
Costas Voulgaris promised her he would ring Tolis at the boatyard and ask him to let her baba know that she will not be back immediately. Costas smiled that smile of his, but with a twist to it, a reminder that perhaps he still thinks he could have made her happy. The flattery of his interest made her feel young again for the briefest of moments, but she knew that to act on such a thrill would be irresponsible, and likely a short route to a great deal of pain for everyone. First she must sort out where she is, and then decide where she is going.
But is just chasing after Christos any more responsible, or logical come to that? Is she just kidding herself that by taking such an action she is in control of her life again? The truth, is she has completely lost control of everything.
‘Yeia sou, Rallou,’ a voice says quietly and kindly, and she looks up. The speaker is silhouetted by the brightness of the sun. ‘I hope you slept all right. I was relieved to hear that your baba is fine.’ The extravagantly soft tones can only be Harris’s husband.
‘Yeia sou, Stephanos. Thank you, he is well.’ She blinks the tiredness from her eyes as best she can. ‘How is Harris?’ Really she should have gone to see her but all her instincts are saying ‘hide’.
‘And what brings you to sitting here today?’ He always speaks with such genuine concern. He responds to Harris in the same way, softer even, almost as if she is someone who needs extra-special treatment.
‘Oh, I was planning to go to Corfu but actually, perhaps …’ Rallou stands, her cheeks growing warm. Her plans and lies seem grandiose and rather embarrassing now she really thinks about it. She will go back up to her baba’s and wait to see if Christos returns to the island. If he doesn’t, then she will decide what she will tell everyone. Realistically, what else can she do?
‘Ah, of course, you were going to Corfu. You don’t think you might be too late, do you?’ His tone is even quieter, even kinder. But the ‘too late’ throws Rallou completely and unexpected tears well and blur her vision.
Chapter 20
‘Ah, Rallou,’ he says, ‘please, there is no need to cry. Oh, I can be so tactless sometimes. But please, she will still want you to go. I mean, you know, even if you are too late. Well, it’s not too late, is it, I mean, life goes on. And Christos will still need your support.’ He is stammering and stumbling over his words and now Rallou knows for sure that she has no idea what he is talking about. It seems most unusual that Christos would confide in Stephanos. And who is this ‘she’ he is referring to? Surely he does not mean Christos’s teenage girlfriend? But who else would the ‘she’ be?
And what on earth has the phrase ‘life goes on’ got to do with her situation? Her own lie about Christos’s aunt flies through her thoughts, and for a moment she half believes it. Maybe he has heard it too and believes it? Or does he know Christos has left her and is he therefore suggesting that she just get on with her own life and leave Christos to his? And if that is the case then why is he encouraging her to g
o and give him her support? He must have heard the lie about his aunt. It is the only thing that fits.
‘Yes.’ She can only hope that her agreeing makes sense to him as she feels so lost, mixed up with lies and truths, her perceived worries and realities. She feels suddenly very awake.
‘Ah, look,’ says Stephanos. ‘Here, a taxi boat. Not one of your brothers, but as safe a ride as you will find. Enjoy Corfu. It is a simple journey, no? The bus up to Patra and the boat straight there!’ He is talking fast, trying to take his leave on a jolly, upbeat note. ‘Oh, and don’t forget to turn right where the boat lands you.’ He chuckles. She frowns. This seems a very odd thing to say indeed. ‘But above all, don’t be afraid.’ Now she really is lost; she has no idea what he is talking about. He ushers her to the taxi’s side before marching away rather abruptly.
‘Hello, Rallou, you going across?’ It is a new water taxi man, who has recently inherited the job from his father. He looks like his baba but for the life of her Rallou cannot remember his name.
‘I – er …’ She looks down at her bag; she has been to the bank and withdrawn all the money she can. Then she looks over the water, to the mainland, hazy in the sun. Behind her, the house they called home has gone. Christos has gone. Yiayia’s lace-edged pillowcases are buried. Her children’s paintings from when they were four and five and six are crushed. Natasa’s medals from when she was into running in her teens, the bills she worried over, their wedding photographs, grandfather’s komboli – everything entombed under tons of dust and rubble. Maybe she should have stayed and sifted through the stones to salvage what she could?
She has never felt more alone. There is just her and her handful of euros.
‘Shall I wait longer? The mainland is not going anywhere, it can wait.’ Is the boy trying to be funny? The world waiting for her – now that is a silly concept. But then what else is the world doing? It has always been waiting. Just as she has always been waiting too. For what? For the right time, the right day, the right moment? Well, there is only now. And with this thought, and not another word, she climbs aboard and pays her six euros for the short crossing.
It does not surprise her that no one else joins her in the taxi boat. Everyone is cleaning and rebuilding and trying to restore some sort of order in the aftermath of the disaster. The shouts of one worker to another echo all over town but there is a subdued tone to their calls.
The new driver casts off the ropes. The engine roars into life, and the whole structure shudders into movement and then quietens to a putter as they negotiate their way out of the harbour, hitting the squashed buoy that Rallou noticed earlier as they go. Across the water the world that is waiting for her seems a very big place and she is suddenly unsure about why she is going. To try to restore a life that is no longer hers to lead?
As it passes between the harbour walls the taxi boat gains speed, its hull slapping on the waves. The noise is very loud and the movement rather uncomfortable. Rallou grips the edge of the seat as the taxi boy increases the speed and with it the intensity of the buffeting. The stern look she gives him is intended to suggest he slow down, but instead he grins and goes even faster. She hangs on and watches the water behind them break into froth, curling into outward spirals and rippling away, line after line.
When she was expecting her first child and she and Christos were making the town house habitable, they would go down to the sea at the end of the day to swim the dust and the dirt away. Under the water, she would smooth a hand over the bump that was to be their child and he would look into her eyes as if he would love her forever. Then, with no warning, he would flick over backward and swim away, leaving her to float, the sound of the sea cracking and pinging in her ears, the chill of the water cooling all her senses, her limbs waving and loose in the water. Then he would return with treasure for her: a starfish that he would later release, the shells of sea urchins in green and purple and sometimes orange, and, on more than one occasion, a shell coated inside with mother-of-pearl. These he took home with them; he would drill a tiny hole in the edge of each of them, to hang them on a thin chain he bought for the purpose, for her. She hasn’t worn that in ages. It is now under the rubble that used to be their house, under her collapsed life. She puts her hand to her throat, to feel where it used to hang.
She is relieved when the engine cuts and they idle towards the dock at the other side, but the boy-captain has not mastered the art and it takes him two attempts to tie up alongside the pier.
‘Kalo taxidi,’ he wishes her as he offers his hand, before looking around to see if he has a return fare. No one is waiting to go back with him and his disappointment shows on his face; it is the eagerness of youth taking the first of many, many discouragements he will be bombarded with in his life.
‘Oh stop it,’ Rallou tells herself.
With a big sigh she turns and begins to walk up the track that leads to the main road. Corfu seems a lifetime away, and almost certainly a place that holds humiliation and rejection for her. Maybe she does not need to go, and she could just stay off Orino Island for a day or two, regain her composure, work out her position? She could go to Saros town. Christos has a distant cousin in a village near there. Theo, wasn’t it, who runs a kafenio? Maybe Christos has been in touch with him, or stopped off on the way.
‘Don’t be silly,’ she tells herself. There is no way she is going to walk into a strange village up to a strange man and ask if her husband has left her. Wasn’t a hotel built on the edge of that same village by a friend of this second cousin? Maybe she could stay there, find out casually if Christos has been around or in touch.
‘Oh!’ she exclaims. In all this planning and scheming, she has completely forgotten about the Americans. How could she have forgotten! But then, they probably have no expectations of her right now. They have probably not even given her a thought. Her house is gone, theirs is substantially damaged. Everything is in chaos.
She stops walking. She should have let them know, nevertheless. She looks back across the water to Orino again. Is the correct thing to do to return, explain to Lori – but explain what? What is she doing? Surely she is just going for a day or two?
Rubbing her forehead it feels like she has a headache coming on. She doesn’t often wear sunglasses but just now they would dilute the intensity of the sun’s glare. But her sunglasses were on the shelf in the kitchen, and they are not there now, and neither is the shelf. A sob escapes her. ‘Damn you, Christo! Why now?’ She curses him out loud. She lets herself cry for a minute or two, the sun beating down on her head, her salty tears drying before they reach her chin. Then she tries to recall what she had been thinking about. Sunglasses, Theo, hotel … Oh yes, Lori! She shakes her head; she should at least have let her know that she would not be around for a day or two.
She must send them a postcard, from the first village she passes through. Her feet begin to move again, up the track to the road. She will send two cards, one to their poste restante address on Orino Island, and one to their house in America, just in case. Maybe they will return there if their house on the island is too badly damaged. She will thank them for their invitation and explain … But wait a minute! Everything has changed!
She stops walking again.
With no Christos around, she could take up their offer of a trip to America. She could go back and accept their offer and start planning immediately! She steps under the shade of an olive tree whilst she thinks, grateful that the mainland is not as hot as Orino town. There is more exposed earth here, and more trees, in contrast to the stone paving that covers the majority of the town. It is very pleasant – like Korifi, but less open. The olive tree has spread some of its branches over the road a little, creating shade, and a couple of upturned barrels and an old plastic chair have been placed by its trunk. One of the legs on the plastic chair is cracked right across. She sits on the upturned barrel to think things through. The edge digs into her legs but it is not too uncomfortable. The cicadas are deafening.
If s
he were to return immediately, where would she go? Back up to Korifi?
She puts her hand under the edges of the barrel and shifts a little, deeper into the shade.
The whole point of going back immediately would be to talk to Lori, accept her invitation to America – but then she would get involved in cleaning and sorting and rebuilding their house. Is helping them with the mess their house is now in a part of her job? No, probably not. So, if she were to go back and find somewhere to stay they might pay her extra if she helped, which would increase her resources if she were to take them up on their offer to take her back to America with them. Of course, they didn’t mean for her to go and live with them forever, but would she have to tell them at the outset that she was thinking of extending her stay? Would it be possible for her to stay permanently in the States?
One cicada, right above her head, is singing so loudly it is hurting her ears. It is hidden amongst the leaves, and she cannot see it. How often Christos used to catch then, chase her with them, even as recently as last summer, to scare her, pushing the insects’ little blunt faces and goggly eyes at her. Laughing, she would push his hand away, both of them ducking when the insect took wing so it would not be caught in their hair.
She smiles at the memory but her vision blurs with tears. She cannot face going back to Orino Island. Not alone. Not immediately. Maybe she could just take a little holiday. It is most likely that Lori will organise everything perfectly well. Everyone on the island will be sorting out their own houses. It is easy to imagine that Lori and Ted will get a team of builders from another island. Piros, or Syglos, maybe. That’s what she would do if she was them and she had their money. It might have been helpful to them if she had been there to translate, but they will manage. Perhaps she will get back after the building work, when they just need someone to help clean.
