‘Yes, but it worked. Maybe she did it because he was already married. Anyway, after that my mother didn’t want to know any more.’
‘But you do?’
‘Yes. I think back then the war was still recent enough that Nana thought she was doing the best thing. I don’t know why. Perhaps to protect his family. But it is a long time ago now. I want to know the truth. There’s so much I don’t know. When I discovered all this I also found that I had a whole set of relatives in London. Nana’s estranged brother and his family. They own a restaurant in Camden. My mother told me that when she was little Nana was ill once and hadn’t been able to work so she went to ask her brother for help. My mother never even knew about them before then. A man came to the door and Nana spoke to him in Greek. He looked at them both for a long time and he didn’t say anything. But my mother said she never forgot his eyes. How full of hate they were. In the end he slammed the door on them. Nana never mentioned him again.’
‘Nice guy.’
Alex made a face. ‘He’s still alive actually. And he’s still horrible. His name is Kostas. I think after that Nana decided it would be better for my mother not to know about her Greek side. She brought her up as English, and my mother brought us up the same way. I suppose we all have different ways of dealing with these things. My mother’s was to bury it all. When I knew that I had relatives I hadn’t even heard of I wanted to meet them, though my mother tried to persuade me not to.’
‘I gather it didn’t work out.’
‘No. They still own the restaurant and so, of course, I went there. That’s where I met Dimitri.’
‘Dimitri?’ I thought she was referring to some relative or other.
‘He was working there. He’s from Ithaca. He’s the other reason I’m here.’ She paused and looked out across the bay for a few moments. After a while she turned back to me and smiled ruefully. ‘Anyway, things haven’t worked out in that department either. But since I’m here, I want to try to find out more about my family.’
I was curious about Dimitri, but I didn’t want to ask any more questions. I assumed that he was the cause of her unhappiness. It was clear when she mentioned his name that the wounds were still raw, but it was getting late by then, and Alex reminded me that she had to get back to the place where she had rented her scooter so, after I’d paid the bill, we left.
During the drive back to Vathy she was quiet, though she asked me a little about myself. I told her my father lived on the island and that I had come to see him, and she was interested when I said that he was an archaeologist. I didn’t tell her that he had died because I didn’t want to introduce a maudlin note. Instead we talked a little about Homer, whose work she had read when she was at school. She knew the story of the Odyssey much better than I did. She was surprised when I told her that my father had spent the past twenty-five years or so looking for Aphrodite’s Temple.
‘I didn’t know Odysseus really lived,’ she said. ‘I always thought he was a mythological figure. Our teacher taught us the Odyssey was a metaphor for life. She said Odysseus’s travels and struggles to return home were a search for the truth about what was really important. Family, home and so on.’
‘Maybe Homer blended fact and fiction,’ I said. ‘But some experts believe Odysseus really existed.’
When we arrived back in Vathy I drove her to the rental shop tucked away in a narrow street behind the main square and I waited outside while she went in to talk to the owner. I could see her through the window. I gathered the owner’s English wasn’t that good and she was having difficulty getting him to understand where she had left the scooter. He kept scratching his head and shrugging. Eventually she drew him a map and he smiled and nodded vigorously.
When she came back outside she said, ‘You needn’t wait. He’s going to give me another one.’
There was a moment of awkwardness as I realised this was my cue to leave, but I knew I wanted to see her again even if my reasons were less clear. ‘How long will you be staying on Ithaca?’ I asked.
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Maybe we can meet for a drink or something,’ I suggested.
‘To be honest …’ she broke off and whatever she had been about to say seemed forgotten. ‘I’d like that. But …’
‘I understand,’ I assured her, guessing what she was about to say.
I couldn’t have put into words exactly what passed between us. Some recognition perhaps that we were both in our own ways adrift. I think then my overriding emotion was one of protectiveness towards her, and possibly she felt safe with me. But there was more to it than that, even though it was tempered with uncertainty and caution on both sides. We were both caught unawares by the moment.
When I drove off I looked back in the rear-view mirror and she was still standing outside the scooter shop watching me. I waved and she raised a hand in return.
SIX
By the time I reached the house Irene was home. She told me that she had spoken to the priest at her church and that the funeral would be in two days’ time. Later we were having a drink on the terrace, watching the sun go down over the hills of Kephalonia across the strait when a white Mercedes raised a cloud of dust as it drove towards the house. When it pulled over the driver opened the passenger door for another man who looked up to the terrace and raised a hand in greeting.
‘Kalimera, Irene.’
He was tall and thin with a fringe of white hair around his otherwise bald head. He regarded me with interest before his features creased into a friendly smile. ‘You have the look of your father about you. Kalos-ton Ithaca, Robert. Though I wish that I could welcome you under more happy circumstances.’
Irene stood to meet him as he climbed the steps. She held out her hands and when he grasped them in his own she turned to me. ‘Robert, I would like you to meet Alkimos Kounidis. Alkimos and your father were great friends.’
Kounidis kissed Irene on both cheeks then extended his hand to me. ‘May I offer you my sympathies? Your father spoke of you often, Robert. I hope you do not mind if I call you that? I feel as if I know you already.’
‘Of course.’
We shook hands and then he turned back to Irene. ‘And you Irene? Iste kala?’
‘Ime entaxi,’ she answered. I’m OK.
Kounidis joined us and Irene made him a glass of sweetened iced coffee, and one for his driver who remained by the car, sitting in the shade smoking a cigarette. Kounidis and Irene spoke about the funeral arrangements and then Kounidis began reminiscing about my father and the time they had spent together over the years. He told a story about a time they had gone to a nearby island after diving on a reef off the coast and had spent the evening eating and drinking in a taverna there.
‘Your father climbed up onto the table to sing us all a song, Robert. Even though many of us begged him to spare us. He would not listen and he sang a traditional ballad in its entirety but when he came to the most moving part at the very end, he lost his footing and crashed to the floor.’ Kounidis shook his head and chuckled. ‘There was much applause, though I do not think it was in appreciation of Johnny’s talent as a singer.’
I had difficulty reconciling this gregarious image of my father with the one I carried of him. ‘It sounds as if you knew a side of him that I didn’t, Mr Kounidis,’ I commented.
‘I came to know him quite well I think. He spoke of you often, though of course I am aware that your relationship was not always close,’ he added tactfully.
‘That’s one way of putting it I suppose.’
‘Unfortunately this sometimes happens between fathers and their sons I think. Your father liked to remember happier times. He talked of when you were very young. I believe that you used to go with him on his archaeological digs in England.’
‘That was a long time ago.’
‘Time changes many things. Your father regretted that living here meant that he did not know you better. Even though he loved Ithaca.’
I snorted derisively. ‘If he t
old you that, I’m afraid he misled you. The reason we didn’t know each other had nothing to do with the fact that he chose to live here. It was because after he left England he conveniently forgot that he had a child. I didn’t hear from him for almost two years. That’s a long time for a boy, Mr Kounidis.’
‘Robert, please,’ Irene interrupted.
I held up my hands in mock surrender. ‘I know I don’t sound like the grieving son, but the truth is that my father had a talent for glossing over certain things.’
‘What happened to your father before he left England affected him very badly,’ Irene said. ‘It took him a long time to get over it.’
I knew the scandal had ruined his career but I had heard this excuse before and I always had the same answer. ‘It didn’t stop him marrying you while he was busy getting over it.’
‘Forgive me,’ Kounidis interjected hastily, ‘I should not have brought the subject up.’
Irene looked at me with a mixture of hurt and reproach, and I wished I hadn’t said anything. It was pointless going over this same old stony ground now that my father was dead and I knew it. I had never blamed Irene for any of it, though it had sounded as if I had, if only a little.
‘I’m sorry, Irene,’ I said. ‘You too, Mr Kounidis. Please accept my apologies.’
He made a gesture as if to dismiss any further thought of it and I tried to divert the topic of conversation. ‘How did you come to know my father, are you also an archaeologist?’
‘Please, call me Alkimos. And to answer your question, I am afraid that unlike your father I was never a scholar. I am retired now of course, but for many years I was a simple businessman.’
‘Alkimos is being modest,’ Irene said, seizing on the change of direction. ‘He owned a very successful shipping company in Patras on the mainland.’
‘I had an interest in a few ships. It is not such a big thing.’
I doubted that. I hadn’t seen too many people on Ithaca who drove around in large, nearly-new chauffeur-driven Mercedes. ‘Then you’re not from Ithaca originally?’
‘As a matter of fact I was born here, but I left when I was a very young man, after the war.’
I was surprised. According to my quick calculation that meant Kounidis had to be at least in his late seventies, though he didn’t look it.
‘I went to sea,’ he went on, ‘and over the years I saved a little money. Eventually I managed to raise enough to buy an interest in a small freighter. I was fortunate to have a little success. Did you know that Ithaca has a great seafaring tradition, Robert? Some of the great Greek shipping families came from here. The Stathatos brothers and the Charalambis family to mention two. My own accomplishments were much more modest of course.’
‘You moved back here after you retired?’
‘Yes. I have had a house on Ithaca for many years. Like Odysseus I always longed to return home. You are familiar with Homer?’
‘A little.’
‘Alkimos helped your father with his work,’ Irene said.
‘I made small contributions towards the cost of some of his excavations over the years, no more. I was honoured to help. Unfortunately in Greece there is never enough money for such important archaeological work.’
‘Without Alkimos’s help, your father’s museum would never have been able to remain open,’ Irene said.
‘Irene exaggerates of course,’ Kounidis demurred. ‘I had great respect for your father, Robert. He was an educated and intelligent man, as well as being a good friend. If I was able to assist in some small way then I regard it as a privilege. You know of course about Aphrodite’s Temple? Your father always hoped that one day he would discover its whereabouts.’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you know that a man named George Dracoulis claimed to have first discovered it in the thirties?’
I was surprised. ‘I thought it had been lost since ancient times.’
‘And so it was. In fact scholars have always disputed its existence. But Dracoulis wrote a letter to his sister in which he claimed to have found the temple. Unfortunately this could never be proven because Dracoulis died during the war, and by the time the letter came to light the earthquake of 1953 had buried the site he had unearthed. At least that was the theory of some. Including your father.’
‘Though I gather from what Irene has told me that in recent years even he had given up any hope of finding it.’
‘This is true, of course. It was a great shame to see him become so despondent. Though he knew in the end that Dracoulis was proved right.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. Some of the artefacts that Dracoulis recovered from the site were discovered in a private collection last year in Switzerland. It was proof that everything he wrote in the letter to his sister was true. At least Johnny knew that the temple really existed. I am sure that someday it will be found.’
I wondered if that might have added to my father’s despair. To know that the temple was actually somewhere on the island, but that even after twenty-odd years he hadn’t found it and probably never would.
‘I recall that your father mentioned that you are in business?’ Kounidis said, changing the subject.
‘Property development, yes.’
‘Your father also said that you are quite successful.’
‘Prices have been going up,’ I said. ‘It doesn’t take a genius in those conditions.’
‘But it does take work, and commitment, I think. You have those qualities in common with your father at least. Will you be staying on Ithaca long?’
‘I’m afraid not. I’ll be leaving after the funeral.’
‘Then I hope you get to see some of our wonderful scenery before you return. As I’m sure you know, there are some beautiful beaches where it is pleasant to swim. And unlike our neighbour, Kephalonia, most of them remain unspoilt by crowds of holiday-makers.’
That much we agreed on, and I told him that I had been to Polis Bay that day.
‘Ah. You know about the cave there? It is very famous.’
‘Yes, I read about it.’
‘Did you also know that there is a sunken city in the bay? It was called Jerusalem. It is believed to be the remains of a town that sank during an earthquake centuries ago. There are some amphorae on display in your father’s museum that were recovered from the sea-bed. Have you visited there yet?’
‘Not on this trip,’ I admitted.
‘You should. There are some remarkable finds from an excavation he made at Platrithias several years ago. It was his last excavation in fact.’
Kounidis seemed to be knowledgeable about Ithaca’s past and I wondered if he knew as much about the island’s more recent history. It occurred to me that he might know something about Alex’s grandmother and I mentioned that I had gone to Exoghi that afternoon.
‘Ah yes, the views from there are excellent. Did you go inside the church? There are some wonderful examples of religious icons.’
‘I’m afraid not. Actually I gave a lift to a girl I met whose scooter had broken down. She wanted to see the house where her grandmother was born.’
‘A local girl?’ Irene asked.
‘Actually no, she’s from London, but her grandmother came from Ithaca.’
‘What was her name?’ Irene asked. ‘Perhaps I know her family.’
‘Zannas, I think she said.’
‘Julia Zannas?’ Irene and Kounidis exchanged quick glances.
‘Do you know the name?’
‘Yes,’ Kounidis said. ‘I am afraid that many people on Ithaca know the name of Julia Zannas. Though perhaps not so much the young. You say this girl that you met is her granddaughter?’
‘Yes. Her grandmother died last year. She wants to find out more about the Greek side of her family. From what she told me it was a bit of a taboo subject when she was growing up.’
‘I can imagine that it might be so. If you see her again, Robert, you should advise her to be careful who she speaks to. For some people the past is never f
orgotten.’
I was reminded of the old man we had seen in the village. I told them what had happened and about Alex’s resemblance to her grandmother.
‘As you see, Robert, it might be better for your friend not to go back there.’
‘She told me that her grandmother was involved with a German soldier. But surely nobody would hold that against Alex. Especially after all this time.’
‘Do not be so sure. For some people the name Julia Zannas brings back unpleasant memories. Many of them blame her for the deaths of members of their families during the war.’
‘Why? What did she do?’
‘It is a long story,’ Kounidis said, ‘and an old one, as you say.’
I gathered that he was reluctant to repeat it, and when he changed the subject I didn’t press the matter. He and Irene became involved in a discussion about her business and were soon talking about the company that handled her distribution, and how best she could address a problem she was having. They spoke in English out of deference to me, and it was interesting to note that Kounidis seemed well connected. He offered to speak to various officials both on Ithaca and elsewhere on Irene’s behalf.
Eventually he rose to leave and again he shook my hand. He invited me to visit him at his house near the town of Kioni before I left.
‘If you have the time, of course. My housekeeper is an excellent cook. I think I can promise you a good lunch,’ he said.
I thanked him and said I’d do my best.
‘Irene will give you my phone number.’
Irene walked with him to his car and when she returned I remarked that Kounidis seemed an interesting man.
‘And a very good friend, yes. I did not exaggerate before when I told you that he helped your father a great deal.’
‘It sounds as if he can help you too.’
‘Alkimos knows many people and he is very well respected.’
‘Because of his business days?’
‘Yes, but also because as a young man he was involved with the Resistance during the war. He was captured by the Germans. That is why he did not wish to talk about what happened. Although your father asked him about it many times.’
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