One August Night

by Victoria Hislop

  As he drove, he asked himself the same questions, over and over again. Would Maria look like that now? Would she be without a nose? Without hands? Without hair? He struggled in vain to stop his mind from imagining her this way.

  The following day, knowing that Andreas was in Iraklion, he paid Anna a surprise visit. For the first hour or so, she sustained a furious sulk with him for having neglected her for so many days. They sat opposite one another in the drawing room and she would not look him in the eye.

  ‘Don’t be angry with me,’ he pleaded.

  He got up and went over to her, kneeling at her feet like a supplicant and taking her hand. She snatched it back immediately.

  ‘You know how much I love you,’ he persisted.

  She said nothing for a moment, and then a playful smile crept across her lips.

  ‘You’ll have to prove it,’ she said coquettishly.

  Sofia had been taken out by the nursemaid, so for the next hour at least they knew that the house was theirs.

  Even with the windows wide open, they did not hear the sound of Andreas’s car arriving and then leaving again.

  Anna was happy and chatty that evening over dinner. Andreas, on the other hand, snapped at everything she said.

  ‘Why are you being so disagreeable?’ she asked.

  Sofia came into the room just as they were finishing dessert and ran towards her father, expecting to be lifted onto his lap. She was finding it difficult to sleep during these hot nights, and often came downstairs while her parents were eating.

  ‘Go back to bed!’ snapped Andreas, pushing the child away. ‘Now!’

  ‘Babá!’ Sofia cried out, dropping to the floor. ‘Babáaaaaa!’ Anguished by the rebuff, she began to wail.

  ‘Andreas!’ exclaimed Anna. ‘What the hell is the matter with you?’

  She picked Sofia up and cuddled her, but the child was inconsolable, and the sound of her sobs filled the house.

  Andreas left the room and slammed the door behind him. It took another few hours before Sofia calmed down, and that night she slept in her mother’s bed. Andreas had gone to sleep in another room at the far end of the house.

  For the rest of that week, he was mostly absent from the house, and on the estate he was particularly bad-tempered with the workers. Manolis had several encounters with him when he was castigated for not meeting targets and for not tending some of the olive groves diligently enough, and he was stung by the harshness of his cousin’s criticisms. Clearly he should keep out of his way for a while, but the reason for this change in attitude preyed on his mind.

  Andreas’s rudeness, combined with the lurking unease over Maria’s return, made Manolis unusually withdrawn. All the workers on the estate noticed it and teased him. In spite of his kinship with the boss, he had always been considered one of them.

  ‘Not coming out with us, Manolis?’ Antonis asked towards the end of the afternoon.

  ‘He’s quenching his thirst elsewhere!’ joshed one of the men.

  ‘Aah . . . a woman,’ said another man under his breath.

  ‘Love . . . he’s in love,’ whispered yet another.

  Manolis’s silence was not denial. Of course he was in love, but even Antonis, who was closer to him than anyone, did not know the identity of the woman. Years back, rumours of a liaison with Anna had been rife, but if they had ever been true in the first place, Antonis imagined the relationship must now be a thing of the past.

  They all thought they knew Manolis. Most Saturday evenings he would join friends and fellow workers in Elounda, where there were more than a dozen bars and as many tavernas. It was a sprawling fishing village and a very lively place to pass the time, and Manolis flirted with the local girls as enthusiastically as the rest.

  The Manolis they saw today was not the one they recognised. It was not the Manolis who shared their happy banter, and they all knew to leave him alone.

  He turned his back on them and continued banging in a new fence post, applying more force than needed. The others carried on with their labours.

  During recent days, it had been impossible to avoid hearing the words ‘lepers’, ‘cure’, ‘drugs’, ‘Spinalonga’ endlessly repeated. They filled the summer air as densely as the honey bees. The final plans for the evacuation of the island were unrolling, and in the towns and villages of Lassithi there was talk of little else.

  At dinner one night in their grand Neapoli house, Eleftheria and Alexandros Vandoulakis raised the subject with their son and his wife.

  ‘We don’t feel it necessary for us to go to the . . . er . . . the event,’ said Alexandros tentatively. ‘But you should be there to represent the family.’ He was referring to the celebration that was going to take place in Plaka.

  ‘And with the family connection especially . . .’ said Eleftheria supportively.

  Anna sat in silence.

  ‘Yes. Of course we’ll attend,’ said Andreas curtly. ‘Won’t we, Anna?’

  His wife stared vacantly at her plate of untouched food and managed a nod. She did not look up, so nobody could read her expression, but her taut shoulders said everything about her state of mind.

  Chapter Four

  AFTER FIFTY YEARS of being bystanders to the tribulations of the sick, 25 August would be a historic moment for the villagers of Plaka. Almost everyone wished to mark it. There had been fear during those decades, but there had also been empathy and even economic gain from the existence of the leper colony opposite. The whole region of Lassithi, a substantial area of eastern Crete, had both benefited and suffered from the proximity of the island. They willingly sold goods to the patients while at the same time fearing potential contamination from them, sometimes wondering whether infection could be carried across the sea.

  Giorgos was not the only local person who had been personally connected with Spinalonga. There were many others whose lives had been altered by the diagnosis of a relative, and the dreaded words that would change their lives: ‘We regret that . . .’

  In Plaka itself, the brothers of Dimitris Limonias, who had gone to Spinalonga at the same time as Giorgos’s wife Eleni, waited anxiously. It was almost twenty years since his departure, and their own lives had steadily progressed and improved since then, with wives, children and a successful local business. They were nervous about how Dimitris would fit into their lives.

  There was a couple in the village whose only child had been diagnosed with the disease fifteen years before. She had been nine years old at the time and her parents now waited to meet her. Not only would she be a fully grown woman, but she might be facially disfigured. Time and disease would have transformed her into a virtual stranger.

  Other families, such as Apostolakis’s, lived in Elounda, and there were plenty in Neapoli too, the biggest and most important town of the region. For patients with families from faraway towns such as Iraklion and Chania, and even Athens, there might be no one waiting for them. There were some who had been disowned by everyone who knew them on the day they were diagnosed, and in many other cases, leprosy patients had outlived their relations.

  Whether it was fear or joy, as the day approached there was nobody whose feelings were not stirred by the impending event. This panegýri was going to be the biggest the area had ever seen, marking a moment that would never be repeated. For everyone who was there, it was to be an evening of celebration, reunion, repatriation.

  As preparations for the mass return of the patients from Spinalonga were under way, Manolis, in spite of everything he had told himself, was having some moments of disquiet. How did he actually know that Maria was not expecting him to be there for her?

  He knew that Antonis’s sister, Fotini, had been brave enough to visit Spinalonga from time to time, and wondered if Maria might have said something to her. Shortly before the day of evacuation, when they were inspecting the vines together, he tentatively mentioned the subject to Antonis. He hoped his voice did not betray the anxiety he felt.

  ‘Apparently she is excited about l
eaving,’ said Antonis.

  ‘She must be,’ responded Manolis blandly.

  ‘Fotini says that she has hardly changed at all. It sounds as if she’s had only the mildest form of leprosy.’

  ‘That’s good to hear,’ Manolis replied with nonchalance. The information did nothing to allay his nagging fear. If Maria was unchanged, there was all the more reason that she might imagine they could resume their engagement.

  He drove through the village on the morning of the celebration and saw men hanging lights in the trees and trailing bright flags between them. Children were carrying chairs from the school to the square and women were laying long tables and tying flowers into posies. He saw Fotini and her husband struggling along the street with huge dishes of cooked food, and others with armfuls of hórta, picked fresh from the hillside. The baker was unloading trays of golden loaves from his van.

  When the day’s work was done, Manolis had a quick drink in Plaka. He had missed the spectacle of the flotilla that had sailed across from the island during the afternoon, but he could see all the boats now, crammed into the small harbour, vessels of all different shapes and states of seaworthiness, moored side by side, almost too many to count.

  By the time he had gone home to shower and returned to the village several hours later, he had to park some distance away, as many other vehicles had arrived. It was around nine. He had not hurried. It was curiosity that brought him there, rather than enthusiasm.

  He had never seen so many people in Plaka. Everyone was oriented in the same direction, watching the dancing that had already begun. The music was loud and joyful and those who did not dance clapped the rhythm. Nobody noticed Manolis. Normally he was the centre of attention – and wanted to be – but tonight he stayed in the background.

  He spotted the friend of Apostolakis whom he had met in the kafeneío and saw that an elderly woman took the stump of his hand without hesitation and led him to the dance.

  There were many strangers there. Some were lame and others were disfigured, but they were outnumbered by those who were whole. Children weaved in and out between the dancers and ran about on the edge of the circle, which moved first one way and then the other. It was a scene of great joy and serenity.

  Manolis had a flask of raki in his pocket and sipped it as he observed. The well and the newly well mingled and merged until it was hard to tell which was which. During any other panegýri, he would have grabbed his lyra from the wall of the nearby kafeneío and played. Tonight his blood was stirred by the music but he had no desire to move forward to join the party.

  All the while, he was looking out for one person. It did not take him long to find her. First he made out Antonis, then he saw Fotini and knew that Maria would not be far away. Finally, amongst the hundreds of faces, he spotted her. There was no mistaking her. She was totally unaltered and yet there was something about her that he did not recognise. Every few moments, as the dance completed a circle, she was illuminated by a light that was brighter than the rest and he could see her more clearly. He did not remember ever noticing her smile in this way. It was both broad and radiant.

  After a while, there was a break in the dancing. Manolis kept watching. Maria sat down on the far side of the square, and above the heads of the crowd he could see that she was sitting between her father and a man in a smart suit with neatly cut grey hair. Manolis remembered spotting him on a few occasions in Giorgos’s boat. The old man had mentioned that he was a doctor. He and Maria were engaged in conversation, heads bent inwards. Something then happened that he did not expect. The grey-haired man got up and, followed by Maria, disappeared from the square.

  Noticing the direction they were taking, Manolis skirted round the alleyways behind the square and glimpsed them passing along the street that led up towards the church. They stopped inside its entrance.

  He crept closer, but remained carefully hidden behind some trucks, fifty metres or so away. The music had struck up again, and even from this distance it was enough to muffle the sound of their voices. He saw the man reach out, put his hands on Maria’s shoulders and draw her close. Then he kissed her.

  Manolis felt a shiver go down his spine. Only the day before, Maria had been on Spinalonga. A leprosy patient. And now a man – a doctor! – was touching her lips with his own.

  The kiss was brief but enough to fill him with a mixture of shock and disgust. Soon the couple were retracing their steps to the square.

  For a while Manolis stayed where he was. He was almost overcome with a sense of relief, knowing for certain now that Maria had no expectations of him. Leaning against a tyre hub to roll some tobacco, he was careful to ensure that nobody would spot the flame as he lit it, or the glow as he smoked.

  The knowledge that Maria might have found love gave him courage. Once he had finished his cigarette, he would make an appearance at the panegýri to welcome her back, and perhaps he would then fetch his lyra and play through the night.

  Taking a swig of raki from the flask in his pocket, he stood up. He was ready to celebrate now. At last Anna would have to believe that her sister was no threat.

  Suddenly the sky was bright with fireworks and everyone was looking upwards. It was the perfect moment to blend unnoticed into the crowd.

  As he stepped out of his hiding place, he saw a familiar black car approaching.

  Manolis was astonished. He had never imagined that Anna and Andreas would come. He knew Anna well. Taking the hand of a stranger to join a dance was the last thing in the world his haughty lover would ever do, and it was even less likely when that hand was misshapen by leprosy. What he had expected was that she would make an appearance to greet her sister in a day or two. That would be more her style.

  As the polished limousine passed, he caught a glimpse of dark hair, pale skin and red lips. Anna was laughing, her head tilted back. He saw an open mouth and the flash of white teeth. Even though it had been a fleeting moment, this was not an expression of Anna’s that he knew. There was something ghoulish about her rictus smile. She looked like a second-rate actress feigning happiness, and he felt a stab of unease. It was clear that neither she nor Andreas had noticed him.

  Andreas was driving past the square to park, so Manolis strolled slowly towards the crowd. Every face was still turned skywards. Beyond them, out to sea, a deserted Spinalonga was illuminated by a million sparks that brightly lit the sky.

  He stayed back in the shadows. It was perverse, but he wanted to be a spectator at the reunion of Anna and her sister. From where he stood, he could see the panegýri as well as the back of his cousin’s glossy car. He waited for the passenger door to open.

  Rockets went off into the sky, one after the other. Then there was a pause, and what seemed like an almost supernatural silence after the huge barrage of sound. A few laoútos struck up again. Everyone gathered around to recommence the dancing.

  A moment later, two bangs cracked through the air. They were short and sharp. People looked up into the sky, expecting the light show to resume, but there was nothing. Some gunshots had been fired into the air earlier to mark the beginning of this happy occasion, just as happened for weddings and baptisms, but those made a different, duller sound. A few people recognised the latest ones as pistol shots and left the crowd to search for the source.

  The musicians could only hear the sound of themselves playing, and for a few macabre moments, they continued. Eventually there was frantic nudging, but one of them, an old chap deaf and oblivious to what was happening, carried on strumming. Finally someone pulled the laoúto out of his hands.

  Manolis had heard the sound too. He hastened forward, still keeping in the shadows, and when he was less than twenty metres away, he saw Andreas scramble out of the car and run in the opposite direction, away from the village. In less than a second, he was out of sight.

  Manolis froze.

  People began to converge on the car. Someone opened the passenger door, but Anna did not emerge, smiling her vain, pretty smile and patting down her dr
ess as he had pictured. There were shouts and gasps, and screams from some of the women. Then the dense mass parted. They were letting someone through to the front. It was the silver-headed man he had seen with Maria. A space was cleared around the Cadillac as people shrank away, some of them turning their eyes from the sight of a body being lifted from the vehicle.

  Manolis was taller than most of the men, so he could see over their heads. As people crowded towards the car, Manolis saw six men, Antonis among them, running away from the crowd and down the street. One of them must have spotted Andreas and observed the direction he had taken. In this small village it would only be a matter of time before they found him.

  Many of the women dispersed, sobbing quietly in huddles, their arms wrapped around each other for comfort. It was the children who remained curious, ghoulishly interested in what they were watching, craning their necks to find out who was being laid out on the blanket.

  Anna.

  Manolis watched Maria approach, and then her father, who dropped to his knees next to his daughter’s body.

  He saw a pale blue dress stained crimson with blood, and dishevelled dark hair. Maria was kneeling next to her, holding one of her sister’s hands and stroking it. She was muttering something under her breath. Giorgos was being supported by two men as he rocked back and forth.

  ‘Theé mou . . . Theé mou . . . Oh my God,’ he repeated loudly over and over, crossing himself.

  The man with the silver hair held his fingers over Anna’s eyelids and gently closed them. Manolis was incensed. Who was this man to touch her?

  He was desperate to get close. Every bone in his body yearned to grab hold of her and take her into the mountains, away from this place, away from these people. Anna was his woman. How many times had she told him that she was his and only his? Anna, his beautiful Anna. He had never felt more possessive of her.