One Summer in Crete

by Nadia Marks

  ‘Of course not . . .’ he said, his surprise evident in his voice, ‘not if you don’t like it.’

  ‘It’s not that . . .’ she tried to explain. ‘I don’t know . . . it’s something about the aura of the place that makes me feel uneasy,’ she said, at the same time incredulous to hear the words coming out of her mouth: she sounded more like Maya than herself.

  7

  In the time that followed, despite the urge to confide in him and despite having plenty of opportunities, Calli decided she couldn’t talk to Michalis about her aunt’s secret; she had to honour her privacy. At the same time, Froso too had made a decision to refrain from continuing further with her story; the prospect of having to re-live the upsetting history she had buried once her sister arrived was sending her into a state of high anxiety.

  ‘I now realize I should have waited for your mother to come before starting to talk to you,’ Froso told a disappointed Calli. ‘Bringing back the terrible events of the past is not doing me any good,’ she tried to explain. ‘I need all my strength when our Eleni comes, I need to be well for her.’ As much as Calli’s curiosity and dismay nagged at her, she also understood and respected her aunt’s wishes. Eleni would soon be here and the story would continue. Then at least she would be able to discuss the revelations with her mother instead of being left to ponder and speculate on her own; she must just have patience and wait.

  ‘Besides, Calli dear,’ Froso told her, ‘you too need a rest. You have been through a good deal yourself. You need a holiday, you need to enjoy yourself – I’ve burdened you enough for now.’

  The time preceding Eleni’s arrival turned out to be more enjoyable than Calli could remember for a long time. If the weeks she had spent in Ikaria had revealed things about herself she had no idea she possessed, then her days spent on Crete were to recover aspects of her persona that she had apparently forgotten. She found joy in simply living for the moment instead of pushing herself into producing, planning and working towards the next project. A return to simpler pleasures, those she remembered as a child and then as a young single woman at her grandmother’s house before her career took off and before she allowed James’s needs to take up most of her free time. She should have listened more closely to Josie, she told herself, who seemed to be the only one to point out James’s failings. Everybody else, including her mother and father, took the discreet stance that it was her own life to do as she saw fit, but Josie pulled no punches. Besides, the two women had known each other since childhood and better than anyone, they were each other’s best friend; they were soul sisters and Josie had no inhibitions about speaking her mind. ‘What happened to you?’ she would protest to Calli if she witnessed a particularly petulant incident with James. ‘You never used to put up with shit from anyone, why are you putting up with his nonsense?’ Josie came from a long line of women who told it as it was, and she wasn’t going to tolerate any man’s bad behaviour when she saw it. But Calli, swimming in a sea of denial, had put Josie’s intolerance down to the fact that her friend wasn’t in a relationship and failed to understand compromise and negotiating life with another person . . . or so she told herself, ignoring the warnings and her inner voice.

  Evenings in her aunt’s garden were now filled not with confessions of disturbing events which had taken place long ago, but by visits from friends and relatives all determined that she should enjoy her stay with them in the Cretan way. There were still times when she toyed with the idea of calling her mother to have a discussion about what Froso had told her, but she suppressed the urge – it wouldn’t be long now until she arrived. If her decision not to discuss her aunt’s story with Michalis had been the right one, then her decision to be candid and open with him about her own life was even better and brought a more intimate connection between them. The better she came to know him, the more fond of him she became.

  ‘It’s hard to imagine how you managed to cope after losing everything you held dear and then losing your baby . . .’ Michalis said to her one evening as they walked barefoot on the beach.

  ‘It was unbearable, and I thought I would never recover,’ Calli told him. ‘But sometimes we surprise ourselves, don’t we? Perhaps we are all much stronger than we think.’

  ‘In my opinion, having someone you love who loves you back, and a family by your side, is all a person can want in life,’ Michalis replied. ‘Not everyone is lucky to have that . . . And then to throw it all away!’

  They had been to one of the tavernas along the seafront with some friends when Michalis suggested that the two of them take a stroll on the beach. The night was balmy, the moon was full and the evening breeze warm on their skin. Calli felt that if at that moment Michalis took her in his arms and kissed her, she would have gladly kissed him back.

  He looked down at her with an intensity she had never seen before, but as she turned her face up to him and their eyes locked, she was consumed by an unexpected and surprising wave of shyness. He smiled gently then took her hand in his and held it tight as they walked on.

  Earlier in the summer she had been involved with another man, and it was hard for her not to draw comparisons between the two, even without intending to do so. When she met Paolo, his appeal to Calli lay in his unfamiliarity, his otherness; his smooth lean yoga body and eastern philosophies excited and intrigued her. Michalis, on the other hand, with his sturdy earthiness firmly grounded in the Cretan soil, soothed and comforted her and touched her heart. When she was on Ikaria she had sought a carefree adventure and Paolo had wholeheartedly obliged; their attraction to each other had been sexual, full of curiosity. He was exotic, sexy and spiritual while Michalis, she was discovering, was staunch, solid and straightforward. What she saw in Paolo was new, while her response to Michalis was one of recognition: he was reminiscent of other good men she had met over the years on this island. Perhaps he was even a little like Keith, she thought, a man who could be trusted, relied on – real.

  ‘You are lucky to have had the opportunities to travel so much,’ Michalis told her one day, producing a world atlas he kept in his car so that she could point out all the places she had been for her assignments. Chrysanthi had been right when she told her that Michalis had more books than anyone she knew; he was always bringing something or other to show her. Travel journals seemed to be his favourite.

  He was admittedly much less travelled than herself, yet he possessed a curiosity for the world and a simple philosophy of life that appealed to her.

  ‘You’re right, I’m very lucky,’ she replied. ‘But no matter how many places I’ve visited for work I have always longed to share the experience with someone. When you’re alone it’s never the same.’ It was true that much as Calli loved her job and revelled in the privileges and richness of her experiences, she always felt a pang of loneliness when she found herself in a place that touched her but had no one to share it with.

  ‘Of all the countries you have visited, which one did you love the most?’ Michalis asked eagerly.

  ‘Africa!’ Her reply came without hesitation. ‘The little I saw of the continent moved me to tears at times.’

  Michalis looked down at the map and pointed to Crete. ‘Look how close to Africa Crete is. I’ve often thought that this island could almost have been a small piece of land that drifted away from there.’

  ‘Strange you should say that’ – Calli turned to look at him with surprise – ‘because when I went to north Africa and beyond, I had a strong feeling of familiarity. The earth in the parts of Africa I’ve seen is like the earth in Crete, copper red as if the same blood runs through the veins of both lands.’

  ‘I don’t know about African soil, perhaps it’s rich in copper,’ Michalis replied, ‘but in Crete it’s probably because of all the blood that has been spilt on it over the centuries. This island has had more than its share of bloodshed,’ he said, sending a shiver through Calli’s spine.

  Evidently Froso was very much liked in the village, and Michalis along with her cousin and frie
nds would often join them with their musical instruments to sit under the olive trees and play, sing and drink raki. Invariably Froso would have prepared some mezethakia – little dishes of food to accompany their drinking – and was more grateful and happy than ever to have her girl there and see her enjoy herself. For her part, Calli, now that she had seen her aunt with fresh eyes, was delighted to spend time with her remarkable thia and to help her in any way she could.

  For Froso’s next hospital appointment, Calli borrowed Chrysanthi’s car and insisted on driving her to Heraklion.

  ‘This is a lot more comfortable than Bappou’s car ever was,’ she told her aunt as they both recalled with amusement those airport pick-ups of long ago, squashed into her grandfather’s Morris Minor. In the past, when Calli had visited Crete with James, the only people they came into contact with were her relatives; other than her young cousins there had been no opportunities to meet and get to know anybody of her own generation. So these new friends she was meeting now through Costis and Chrysanthi were making her feel at home. Her friendship with her cousin’s wife was also blossoming, and spending time with her and their family was providing Calli with the warmth and home comforts she always encountered with her own family in London. Their children too, little Katerina and Giorgos, took a great liking to the auntie from London; and although at times she felt a pang of regret that she had no family of her own, the pleasure she received from them was greater than the melancholy it sometimes induced.

  ‘You’re still young and there is plenty of time to start a family,’ Chrysanthi told Calli, contrary to what her older relatives had repeatedly told her, to her irritation, a decade ago. Although she knew this was so, time was passing; it was one thing for Chrysanthi to insist there was plenty of time when she already had her family around her, and another for Calli who knew that her childbearing years were flying past all too quickly.

  ‘We’ll see . . .’ Calli replied, feeling a pang of regret in her heart. Although, when she had found herself unexpectedly pregnant, she had been prepared and willing to raise her child alone, she now knew that if there were to be a next time for her it would have to be with a man who loved her and wanted the same things as she did.

  Things always happen for a reason – she kept hearing Maya’s words – and perhaps being a mother was never meant to happen to me.

  8

  August was by far the hottest month on the island; Eleni believed July was worse, but Calli disagreed and maintained that August was when the thermometer rose highest and stayed highest, day and night. The advantage of this, in her view, was that by then the sea temperature was even balmier than in midsummer. Calli continued her daily early morning swim and walk on the beach, which she would often share with Michalis; although normally he would start his day even earlier than she did hers, he tried to orchestrate it so they would meet and spend a little time together before he drove to work. She was glad that she hadn’t rushed into anything physical with him yet. Their relationship was blossoming into a warm friendship and she couldn’t wait to spend time with him; his presence made her feel happy and secure. She found him thoughtful and receptive in talking openly on all manner of subjects, including her own personal worries and concerns.

  ‘I sometimes feel that I think too much about everything, which stops me from being spontaneous,’ she confessed.

  ‘Overthinking can stop us acting from our heart,’ he replied. ‘I should know, once or twice when I followed my head instead, it didn’t end well.’

  ‘I’m learning . . .’ she said and let out a sigh. ‘It takes time to shake off old habits.’

  Michalis’s spontaneous expression of his love for Crete was infectious and seductive, and Calli needed nothing more than his encouragement to explore with him and, always taking her camera along, drive out to places where she had never ventured before. On past visits she had stayed well within range of her family’s village but as Michalis was willing to show her around, she accepted his offer with pleasure.

  ‘There is a little convent dedicated to the Holy Virgin, some way to the east from here, by the sea,’ he told her one evening while stopping for a drink with some friends in her aunt’s garden. ‘You might like to see it. It’s very small – just a handful of nuns live there. We can go on Sunday. They say that once or twice a year on certain dates, real tears run from the Panagia’s eyes, and whoever kisses the icon during that time will be cured of any ailments of the body or soul. When I was a boy my mother used to take me with her when she visited.’

  ‘It’s a really beautiful spot,’ Chrysanthi said, overhearing Michalis’s suggestion. ‘I’m not from these parts but I’ve heard of this phenomenon.’

  ‘I too used to go there with my grandmother,’ their friend Katerina added. ‘In fact, I remember going with her on pilgrimages to visit the icon of the Archangel Raphael as well as the weeping Panagia, because he too performs miracles.’ At the mention of Raphael, Calli sat bolt upright to hear more.

  ‘Some generations ago,’ Katerina continued, ‘my great-grandmother believed she had witnessed a miracle and afterwards she pledged to light a candle every year on this anniversary. So all the women in my family would make the journey to the convent and take me with them.’

  ‘What sort of miracle was that?’ Chrysanthi asked, intrigued by this new information.

  ‘Something about saving a baby’s life a long time ago. It was one of my ancestors . . . I think it was my grandmother’s sister, I’m not so sure . . . but what I do know is that my mother and aunts still make the pilgrimage every year.’

  ‘But of course!’ Michalis exclaimed. ‘How could I forget that? The women in my family also prayed to him as much as to the Panagia. What’s more, my mother gave the archangel’s name to my brother after he was cured from some baby illness or other – I can’t remember what.’

  ‘You have a brother named Raphael?’ A wide-eyed Calli turned to look at Michalis.

  ‘Well, yes, kind of . . . His name is Nicos, Raphael was added as a second name; you know, a sign of thanks and respect, but no one ever calls him that.’

  ‘Where is he? Does he live in Crete?’ she asked again.

  ‘He lives in Athens, he moved there a few years ago. But he visits quite regularly and a couple of times a year I go and spend some time with him too.’

  ‘What’s he doing there?’ Calli’s surprise and curiosity ignited further. She couldn’t imagine why anyone would choose to leave the Cretan paradise for the mainland, especially the noisy capital, unless they had to.

  ‘He sells our olive oil there,’ Michalis replied, ‘and he wants me to join him – but I would never go!’ He laughed. ‘I’ve tried living in the big city and it didn’t suit me. I make do with visits once in a while, that’s plenty for me. I’m trying to convince him to come back, we need him here.’

  ‘I like your brother, he definitely should come back,’ Chrysanthi agreed with her wide friendly smile, before turning to Calli. ‘You’ll love the trip to the convent,’ she added. ‘I only wish I could come with you.’

  The convent, perched at the far end of a small peninsula, gleamed white as a dove against the blue of the sky and sea. From a distance it looked as if it was floating above the water. Michalis parked the car in a field and they made their way up the rocky hill.

  Inside the wall surrounding the nunnery they found a small, well-tended garden; as they entered the gate, they were greeted by the cheerful ringing of bells and the aroma from a pair of jasmine bushes that stood on each side of an arched entrance leading into a cobbled courtyard. Following the sound, they walked through another archway towards a chapel where they could hear chanting voices. Was this Sunday morning mass, Calli wondered, or another form of service? Her religious knowledge was limited, neither of her parents having been particularly pious; whichever it was, she found it beautiful. They walked further into the courtyard, around which the nuns’ cells were situated. A young novice was watering pots containing basil, scented geraniums and ros
emary, all lined up in neat rows outside each door.

  ‘Kalimera!’ she greeted them and looked up with a sweet smile. ‘Have you come to pay your respects to our Lady of Sorrow?’ she asked cheerfully. ‘The chapel will be empty shortly . . . or, if you like, you can go in now and hear the hymns.’

  By the time they made their way to the chapel the service had ended and the nuns were leaving, making their way across the courtyard. As they glided past, cloaked in their black habits, Calli fancied they resembled a flock of black swans.

  The little chapel was dark and fragrant and the smell, a mixture of wax and incense, was calming and comforting. The icon of the Holy Virgin stood out among the others on the iconostasis partly because of its central location and also because it was covered by a white lace curtain which the faithful had to move to one side in order to kiss it. Calli reached out and pulled gently at the cloth to reveal the image of the Holy Mother holding her baby boy in her arms. Unlike the other icons, her tunic and headdress as well as the baby’s garments were clad and intricately carved in silver, only allowing painterly visibility, in the Byzantine iconic fashion, of their two faces. Both mother and child looked serene and sublime.

  Calli made the sign of the cross and brought her lips to the cold silver as she looked up into the Panagia’s eyes. For a moment she thought she saw them glistening with moisture; she pulled back, made the sign of the cross again, and smiled. ‘I want to believe in miracles,’ she whispered and kissed the icon once more. She stepped back and looked around her, this time her eyes searching for Raphael.

  She located the archangel’s icon in a position of prominence, propped on its own on a wooden stand at the edge of the iconostasis beside the candle holders. She made her way towards him and stood for a while, gazing at the image of her guardian angel. On the right-hand corner of the icon the angel’s name was written in the Greek script, ΡΑΦΑΗΛ; his wings were a fiery orange and his garments a combination of red and green. His halo framed a tranquil and benevolent face; with his right hand he held an open box and with his left a spoon; perhaps a medicinal offering, she thought, or the holy communion. After all, didn’t Maya tell her that Raphael was the angel of healing?