Cartes Postales From Greece

by Victoria Hislop

  He then felt obliged to state the obvious, simply to accentuate the misery of the situation.

  ‘And there are clearly no petrol stations in this town.’

  ‘Let’s try and be positive,’ said Sylvie, taking her husband’s hand. ‘It might be lovely under the stars …’

  It wouldn’t be too bad, she thought. The evening was still warm.

  This out-of-the-way community clearly economised on street lighting, and the moon was new so it did not light their path.

  Despite the darkness, Sylvie realised that they had passed the same pastry shop more than once.

  ‘We must be going round in circles,’ she said in frustration.

  They continued on for a few more minutes.

  ‘Why the hell didn’t you check the petrol gauge …?’ she suddenly said.

  He did not respond for a moment.

  ‘Me?’ he retorted, implying that he regarded it as his wife’s responsibility.

  Trying to calm down, he changed his tone of voice. They had got married only two days earlier, after all.

  ‘Look, let’s keep looking for somewhere to eat,’ he suggested.

  The village was a complex network of small streets and they turned a corner and, without expecting it, found themselves in a square. Sylvie noticed that the doors of a nearby church were open and, as they approached, they could see that it was full, with the congregation almost overflowing on to the street.

  ‘At last!’ said Sylvie. ‘A sign of life!’

  ‘What’s going on?’ she whispered, as they stood at the door.

  Jean-Luc was tall enough to see over the heads of the congregation. At the far end of the aisle he could see several priests and a crowd of people standing around a large, flower-covered coffin. All the blooms were white.

  ‘It looks like a funeral,’ he said quietly.

  They both backed out, feeling that they might be intruding. Hunger was beginning to get the better of them both now. There had to be some restaurants.

  At the end of the next street they spotted a shop with a light on. It was a general store, the pantopoleion.

  ‘I forgot to bring any toothpaste from the car,’ said Sylvie. ‘They’re bound to sell some here.’

  Ignoring her husband’s protestations of hunger, she pushed open the door. Jean-Luc stayed outside. Although the shop front was narrow, the shop itself went back further than they could see. She started perusing the shelves at the front of the store to see if they sold what she was looking for.

  The pantopoleion had a bizarre range of goods on its shelves, and it was hard to tell if things were new or second-hand. Some of them must have been sitting there since the 1970s – everything from hair-ties with plastic bobbles, cassette tapes, eyeshadows in bright blues and greens, cotton bras for old ladies (one size only) and brown plastic shoes (one style only). Sylvie was bemused by a range of faded coats and handbags and an odd selection of jewellery. There were even some tattered German–Greek phrasebooks and an old Nokia phone. She noticed everything from Tippex to flat-packed doll’s clothes. Every shelf was filled from front to back, and there were things hanging from the ceiling.

  From the gloom, a deep, nicotine-tarry voice asked, ‘Ti theleis? What do you want?’

  Sylvie jumped as a broad, imposing figure emerged. Assuming the owner might only speak Greek, Sylvie did a mime of cleaning her teeth with her forefinger.

  ‘Toothpaste?’ the woman answered gruffly. ‘No. No toothpaste. Try the pharmacy.’

  The shopkeeper was rattling some keys, indicating that Sylvie should leave. She was only too happy to do so, though she imagined that the woman knew as well as she did that the chemist’s was closed.

  Before she was ushered out, Sylvie managed to ask her why it was that everything was so quiet.

  ‘Megali Paraskevi! Good Friday,’ she hissed.

  Outside, Jean-Luc had lit a cigarette and was pacing up and down.

  ‘Well, she wasn’t very helpful,’ commented Sylvie. ‘No toothpaste.’

  ‘Allons-y,’ said Jean-Luc irritably. ‘Let’s go. If there’s nowhere to eat, you won’t need to clean your teeth anyway.’

  As they walked, Sylvie told him what the shopkeeper had said.

  ‘But Easter was in March. And it’s now nearly May,’ said Jean-Luc. ‘She was making a fool of you.’

  The couple had not understood that the date of Greek Orthodox Easter was different from the Catholic one. The only person they had spoken to since landing was the monosyllabic car-hire man, and he had not mentioned it. He had certainly not pointed out the additional premium charged by the company for holiday weekends.

  Jean-Luc spotted a small taverna not far from the general store. He grabbed Sylvie’s arm and led her there.

  ‘Have you booked?’ asked the owner.

  The tables were all empty, both inside and out, so the question surprised them.

  ‘No,’ said Jean-Luc. ‘Did we need to?’

  ‘It’s Easter,’ said the man coldly. ‘You should always book at Easter. Especially on Good Friday.’

  Sylvie and Jean-Luc looked at each other. Sylvie could see that Jean-Luc was going to protest.

  ‘You can have a table just for an hour. Until the epitafios has been taken round the streets and back to church. Then you will have to go. That’s when everyone will arrive.’

  They asked for no further explanation and took one of the tables on the pavement.

  ‘So it is Easter,’ said Sylvie. ‘The woman in the shop was telling the truth. It must be why the church was so full.’

  The waiter brought a number of dishes. There was no menu. No choice. They were served with squid, octopus and taramasalata (none of which they would have ordered) and drank water only. Jean-Luc was fussy about his wine and it was only available from the cask here.

  ‘I could really do with some meat,’ said Jean-Luc. ‘Or even some decent fish.’

  ‘I suppose it must still be Lent,’ said Sylvie, chewing on some kalamari.

  While they were eating, Sylvie got her phone out and looked up ‘Greek Orthodox Easter’. Briskly, she paraphrased:

  ‘So, tonight they parade the icon of Christ around the town, tomorrow they burn an effigy of Judas and on Sunday they celebrate that Christ is risen. According to this, the Greeks eat only seafood tonight. On Saturday it’s some kind of soup made from lamb guts and on Sunday it’s lamb on a spit.’

  ‘Well, I don’t plan to stick around for the roast lamb,’ said Jean-Luc grimly.

  As they were finishing the meal (the dishes had come in quick succession), they heard the sound of a band. They looked over towards their left and saw a procession. At the front, four men carried what looked like a funeral bier. It was covered with thousands of white flowers and the frame on which it was borne was also adorned with flowers and foliage. It was the ‘coffin’ that Jean-Luc had seen in the church. Behind it processed a dozen or so clergy, followed by altar boys, then a band (thirty-strong) who played a doleful funeral march. After that followed various people in military uniform, some sailors, boy scouts, girl guides and then the people of the town. They moved at a slow, dignified pace. A few people who had come to stand not far from the taverna threw petals in the road in front of them. Everyone then began to sing a hymn. As the bier passed, Sylvie and Jean-Luc caught the sweet scent of lemon blossom.

  ‘That must be what he meant by the epitafios,’ said Sylvie.

  The waiter put the bill down on the table in front of them.

  ‘I think we’re expected to leave,’ she said under her breath.

  Jean-Luc pulled a fifty-euro note from his wallet and slammed it on the table.

  When the waiter returned with five euros change, Sylvie enquired about hotels.

  ‘There aren’t any,’ he said bluntly.

  So far, this town was showing them none of the Greek hospitality they had experienced on their previous trips.

  Sylvie and Jean-Luc’s table had been completely cleared. The waiter had even removed
the paper cloth that covered it. He could not have made it more obvious that he wanted them to go.

  ‘Come on,’ said Sylvie quietly. ‘I hate this place.’

  ‘What about a petrol station?’ Jean-Luc fired a final question at the taverna owner.

  ‘There’s one about twenty kilometres from the junction with the main road. Back towards Athens.’

  ‘Let’s just go, Jean-Luc.’

  They could see that this man was determined to be unhelpful, and the congregation from the church was now arriving en masse to take up their tables. Sylvie noticed how sombre everyone seemed. Nobody was smiling or talking.

  ‘I suppose Good Friday is quite melancholy,’ she said. ‘If you’re religious.’

  ‘So what’s our plan?’ said Jean-Luc, as they got up and made their way back up the street.

  Sylvie noticed that the general store still had a light on.

  ‘Why don’t I ask the woman there if she knows of any rooms – or even if she has a can of petrol she could sell us,’ she said hopefully.

  The owner was sitting at the till when Sylvie walked in. It was as though she was expecting her.

  ‘Do you know of anywhere we could spend the night?’ asked Sylvie.

  The woman glanced up from her crossword puzzle.

  ‘We’re stuck, you see,’ said Sylvie. ‘The car has run out of petrol and there is nothing we can do about it until tomorrow.’

  The woman’s eyes passed from Sylvie to Jean-Luc.

  ‘There is a room up at the police station,’ she said, still looking at the young man. ‘It’s all I can suggest.’

  ‘The police station?’ repeated Jean-Luc. ‘Where you went earlier, Sylvie?’

  ‘It’s just for a night,’ said Sylvie, appealing to her husband. ‘Anywhere will do. I am so tired.’

  ‘Efharisto poli!’ she said enthusiastically to the woman, not wanting the invitation to be rescinded.

  ‘My brother is the local policeman. I am sure he won’t mind.’

  Jean-Luc looked uncomfortable.

  ‘I can’t believe we’re spending the night in a gendarmerie,’ he said so only Sylvie could hear.

  ‘We don’t have an option,’ said Sylvie, and they followed the woman’s ample bottom through the streets.

  When they got to the police station, the shopkeeper led them up the stairs.

  The first room was as Sylvie remembered, but she had not noticed the door at the back. This led into another room.

  ‘It has two single beds,’ said Sylvie brightly when they walked in. ‘And, look, there’s a sink in the corner.’

  Jean-Luc didn’t speak. He hung back resentfully.

  Sylvie threw her bag on to one of the beds as if she were in a smart hotel. Jean-Luc poked at the mattress of the other with his finger.

  ‘The first night of our honeymoon …’ Sylvie laughed.

  ‘I suppose when you’re this tired, a filthy blanket won’t stop you sleeping,’ he said, assuming that anything they said to each other in French would not be understood by the Greek shopkeeper.

  Sylvie looked round to thank the woman, but she had already gone and the door had shut behind her.

  ‘We must go and thank her in the morning,’ said Sylvie.

  Sylvie cleaned her teeth in the sink (without toothpaste), splashed water on her face and then lay on her bed. Jean-Luc was already asleep. Within seconds, so was she. It had been a long day. Exhaustion had overcome them.

  The following morning, Sylvie woke first. The room was windowless, so it was not the light that stirred her but a raging thirst. The squid had been very salty. She had a small bottle of water that she had picked up in the restaurant, and she refilled it at the sink.

  Jean-Luc was still fast asleep. She glanced at her mobile and saw that it was already midday. Coffee would be nice, she thought, so she decided to pop out and see if there was anywhere that did a takeaway.

  The door handle seemed stiff. It would not move more than half an inch up or down. She rattled it, tried it gently, then more forcefully. It would not move.

  Jean-Luc slept on. Sylvie could feel anxiety rising in her. The high-ceilinged room suddenly seemed claustrophobic in a way that it had not on the previous night. And now it felt airless, too.

  She tried the door handle one more time, then turned back to the room, breathless with panic.

  ‘Jean-Luc, Jean-Luc!’ She was shaking his shoulder now. ‘It won’t budge, Jean-Luc. We’re stuck in here. We can’t get out!’ she screamed.

  Jean-Luc rubbed his eyes.

  ‘What …?’ he asked sleepily.

  ‘We’re stuck in here,’ she repeated tearfully.

  Jean-Luc calmly swung his long legs over the bed.

  ‘Let me try,’ he said. ‘I don’t suppose it is actually stuck.’

  He grasped the door handle firmly and pushed it down. Then did the same a second time with more force. The whole thing came off in his hand.

  ‘Jean-Luc! Look what you’ve done!’

  ‘It’s not my fault, Sylvie!’ he snapped.

  His wife had begun to weep.

  ‘We must stay calm,’ he said. ‘We won’t get anywhere by panicking.’

  He walked over to the sink, drank thirstily straight from the tap and patted his face with water.

  As he did this, Sylvie began to hammer on the door with her fists.

  ‘Au secours! Au secours! Help! Help!’ she cried out.

  Taking Sylvie’s hands, Jean-Luc made her sit down on the bed next to him.

  ‘Do you have any charge on your phone?’

  Sylvie reached out for her handbag and removed her phone. There was some charge, but no signal. Jean-Luc discovered it was the same with his.

  ‘So we just sit here? Until someone comes to the police station? Supposing nobody does?’ said Sylvie.

  ‘Somehow, because it’s Easter, it seems less likely, doesn’t it?’ said Jean-Luc.

  ‘So … what now?’

  ‘Do you have a nail file?’

  Sylvie fished around in the bottom of her bag and produced a metal one.

  ‘I am just going to see if I can do something with this.’

  For an hour and a half, Jean-Luc fiddled around with the file and the mechanism. Sylvie lay on her bed staring at the ceiling, nervously fiddling with her wedding band, rolling it round and round, as if this would help pass the time.

  Suddenly, she heard the crunch of the mechanism and sat up. The door was opening!

  ‘Jean-Luc!’ she cried, leaping up with excitement as it swung wide.

  Her pleasure turned to dismay when she saw what lay on the other side of the door. Bars. They must have been flush with the wall and been quietly slid across after the door itself was shut.

  ‘We’re in a cell,’ said Jean-Luc quietly. ‘And look …’

  Sylvie walked forward.

  ‘Look at this padlock,’ said Jean-Luc. ‘We’re not supposed to get out of here.’

  Someone had locked them in.

  Sylvie was visibly shivering.

  ‘Why?’ she said faintly. ‘What did we do wrong?’

  ‘I just don’t think we were meant to come here,’ answered Jean-Luc.

  To the frustration at being confined was now added an almost paralysing fear.

  For a moment, they just held on to each other, then Jean-Luc looked around the room and up to the ceiling. There was an air-conditioning vent high up in the wall.

  ‘There is no way of getting through these bars, but maybe one of us can get through that,’ he said, pointing upwards. Jean-Luc was tall and lean but had very broad shoulders. It was obvious that only someone more petite would fit. Sylvie.

  The only way of reaching the vent was to turn the metal bed frames into ladders. One on its own would not give enough height. With huge difficulty, using all his might, Jean-Luc heaved the second bed into position on top of the first and lashed them together with the dirty blankets.

  He could see the fear in his wife’s eyes.

&nb
sp; ‘It’s our only hope of getting out of here,’ said Jean-Luc pleadingly. ‘Here. Take the nail file. You’ll need it up there.’

  Sylvie silently put the file in her jeans pocket and began to climb. Once she reached the vent, she began to work on the screws, eight of them, that held the grid in place. They had all rusted.

  ‘I can’t shift them,’ she said, in a small, terrified voice.

  ‘You have to keep trying, darling …’

  After almost three hours, the grate clattered to the floor. Now she had to try to crawl through the hole.

  ‘Jean-Luc …’ she said, looking down at her husband. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Please, ma chérie. Please. For both of us, please try.’

  With all her strength, Sylvie hoisted herself up into the narrow space. Her feet disappeared and Jean-Luc was left alone in the cell. He called up towards the dark hole, but there was no reply.

  On the other side of the wall, Sylvie had tumbled head first on to a balcony. Two plastic chairs had slightly cushioned her fall, but she was winded and bruised.

  Slowly, she got up and looked around her. Jean-Luc was relying on her so she told herself to be brave. Darkness had already fallen and, in the gloom of the street below, there was not a living soul. The houses were unlit. Sylvie worked out that she could climb along a row of balconies and then down into the street. From there she could find her way back to Jean-Luc.

  Ten minutes later, stiff with bruises, she was ascending the stairs inside the police station once again. This time, the solid outer door was locked. She banged on it and called, hoping that her husband might hear her and know she was safe.

  Inside, Jean-Luc sat on the floor, fruitlessly trying to get a signal on either his or Sylvie’s phone. Both told him that it was now nine in the evening. His hunger from the previous day was nothing compared with what he was feeling now. Outside, fear was driving Sylvie on. She needed to find help to free him.

  She wanted to avoid the pantopoleion. It must have been the owner who had locked them in. Perhaps if she got to the seafront there might be some other tourists who could help her. Perhaps even someone French.

  The streets were winding and did not seem to follow any logic, but she knew that, if she followed any gentle downward incline, sooner or later she would reach the sea.