Aphrodite's Smile

by Stuart Harrison

  When we reached Frikes I pulled over. It was a fishing village built around a small harbour. A cluster of restaurants and tavernas huddled close to the waterfront sharing space with a few shops selling gifts for the tourists. The bay was flanked by hills and on the southern side, just beyond the village perhaps sixty or seventy feet above the road, stood a ruined fort made of stone. At the foot of the cliff directly beneath it was the plaque Kounidis had told us about.

  FROM THIS ROCK ON 13/9/1944 GUERRILLAS OF ELAS-ELAN ATTACKED WITH SELF-SACRIFICE AGAINST THE NAZI VESSEL ANTOUNNETTA, THUS WRITING ANOTHER PAGE OF GLORY DURING THE STRUGGLE OF OUR NATIONAL RESISTANCE AGAINST FASCISM.

  NEVER FORGET: EVERY STEP OF OUR LAND IS A HEROIC MONUMENT. EVERY FATHOM OF SEA, THOUSANDS OF DROPS OF BLOOD!!!

  The rock above the plaque was scarred with pockmarks and indentations, the visible effects of bullets perhaps. It was difficult to imagine the harbour as the scene of a battle. Frikes was picture-perfect, a pretty village nestled in the embrace of green hills. The tables and awnings of the tavernas clustered invitingly along the wharf beside deep clear water where a few brilliant white yachts were moored next to gaily-painted fishing boats. A line of ancient olive trees provided welcome shade. And yet sixty-odd years earlier the tranquillity must have suddenly erupted with the flash of gunfire and the blossoming heat of explosions, the air heavy with cordite and the screams of the dying.

  Beyond Frikes, the road to Kioni where Kounidis lived wound past a series of tiny, picturesque coves fringed with white pebble beaches. Eventually it climbed a steep hill and the views broadened to wide, open vistas of the sea and the islands in the distance. Close to the shore the water was aquamarine and crystal clear, the seabed clearly visible even from a great height, but further out the blues deepened to navy, flecked with splashes of white where the surface was whipped by the breeze.

  Below us was the town of Kioni; its small deep harbour hemmed in by hillsides so steep that no roads connected the houses which clung to them, only a series of steps and narrow walkways. The buildings were painted in muted yellows, pinks and blues. The occasional one painted simply white reflected an almost painful glare from the bright sun. Vivid purple bougainvillaea erupted from the edges of walls and terraces competing with splashes of scarlet geraniums like flecks of paint from a carelessly wielded brush.

  Following Irene’s map I took the road which traversed the ridge above the town before it dropped away to run parallel to the cliff. Several imposing properties, screened from view by belts of trees, had been built where they commanded unobstructed views over the sea. The house where Kounidis lived was hidden behind a dark row of cypresses. Wrought-iron gates and a high wall protected the entrance. When I announced our arrival into an intercom set in the wall, the gates swung smoothly open and, as I drove towards the house, the cypresses gave way to a manicured emerald lawn, a rarity on Ithaca. I could only guess at the cost of bringing in the water by tanker to maintain it.

  The house itself was large and square, built over three floors, painted white with a terracotta roof and dark-green window shutters. It was striking as much because of the simplicity of its design as because of its proportions. We were met at the door by the man who had driven Kounidis’s car.

  ‘This way please,’ he said in heavily accented English and led us across a hallway tiled in a pattern of fired reds and earth browns, past open doors that offered glimpses of tastefully and expensively furnished rooms. At the back of the house, folding doors opened onto a wide shaded terrace and steps led down to a lawn that ended at the edge of the cliff. For a moment we were transfixed by the view. Sea and sky merged in hazy blues on the horizon, one bleeding into the other.

  ‘It is beautiful is it not?’ a voice said, and we turned to find Alkimos Kounidis rising from a seat where he had been reading a book. ‘Kalimera, Alex.’ He shook her hand, holding on to it for a moment as he gazed at her, wearing the same slight, almost bemused smile he had the day before. ‘Forgive me. Every time I see you I think of your grandmother.’ He gestured towards some chairs. ‘Please, sit down. Would you like something to drink? You must be thirsty after your drive. The sun here is very hot this time of year.’

  As he spoke, a middle-aged woman dressed in black appeared carrying a jug of iced juice and some glasses, which she set down on the table.

  Kounidis murmured something to her then introduced us. ‘This is Eleni, my housekeeper. She takes excellent care of me.’

  The woman smiled and shook our hands.

  ‘You had no trouble finding the house, I hope,’ Kounidis said as Eleni left us.

  ‘No. Irene gave me a map,’ I said.

  ‘You certainly live in a lovely house, Mr Kounidis,’ Alex said.

  ‘Thank you, Alex. Later I will show you around if you would like. But please, you are both my guests. Call me Alkimos.’

  Alex smiled, obviously charmed by Kounidis. He turned to me and his manner became grave. He told me that Irene had already phoned and so he knew of the recent events.

  ‘I must say that I find it impossible to believe that your father was involved with anything illegal.’

  ‘He never said anything to you?’ I asked.

  ‘For the past year I did not see him very often,’ Kounidis said regretfully. ‘He did not wish to see his old friends. As you know he became increasingly depressed. Of course I tried to offer support, many people did, but it was difficult. After Irene left him, he became worse.’

  ‘You mean he was drinking more.’

  ‘That is part of it, yes.’

  ‘Do you have any idea what he was doing before his heart attack?’ I asked. ‘Could he have been looking for the Antounnetta?’

  ‘As I said, I am afraid I had not seen your father for some time. In other years he did not begin looking for the wreck until May or June, when the weather is warm. Before that he would be at the museum. It was closed for the winter, but usually he would be there cataloguing the finds from his digs the previous summer. But he had not worked on an excavation for two years. From what I heard, Johnny spent most of his days in the bars in Vathy.’

  ‘Supposing that for some reason he started looking for the wreck early this year. And this time he found it. What do you think could have been on it?’

  Kounidis shook his head. ‘That I am afraid I do not know.’

  Just then Eleni returned and she and Kounidis spoke briefly. She smiled and left us again.

  ‘I have asked Eleni to bring us some lunch. You have not eaten yet?’ We said that we hadn’t. ‘Good. Then we will eat and later I will tell you what you wish to know about your grandmother, Alex. But first, perhaps you would like to see some of the house.’

  ‘Thank you, yes,’ Alex said. ‘It is beautiful.’

  Kounidis inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘Of course it is much too big for one old man.’

  ‘Don’t you have any family, Alkimos?’

  ‘Unfortunately no,’ he said with a note of regret. ‘I have many relatives on the island, of course, but no immediate family of my own. Come, let me show you both something.’

  He led the way along the terrace to the southern corner of the house where he pointed through the trees to some cottages further down the hillside reached by a dusty unpaved track. Beyond them the land sloped toward the sea, dotted with olive trees and some rough cultivated land. At the bottom was a rocky cove where several wooden boats had been hauled up out of the water and fishing nets had been draped over the rocks to dry.

  ‘I was born in one of those cottages,’ Kounidis told us. ‘I grew up helping my father to fish and grow vegetables to feed our family. A long way from there, to all of this, eh?’ He chuckled and gestured to his surroundings. ‘And yet not so far. I bought this land many years ago so that in my retirement I could be reminded of where I came from.’

  ‘How long have you lived here?’ I asked.

  ‘I built this house thirty years ago to use as a summer home, but I did not move back to Ithaca permanently u
ntil I retired.’

  As we went back along the terrace I looked through a window and saw a room full of children’s toys.

  ‘For when the children of my relatives come to visit,’ Kounidis explained. ‘I was married once, a long time ago, but we never had children of our own. When I was a young man I worked very hard. Long hours every day. I was consumed with my business. There was no time for anything else.’

  For a moment he seemed lost in some inner reflection, and then he smiled and led us into the house. Our tour took half an hour, but I trailed behind for most of it while Kounidis and Alex went ahead. I got the impression that he liked her. She asked questions about the furnishings and the paintings on the walls, and he seemed happy to answer her. Now and then he would touch her elbow as they paused to admire something, or as he guided her through a door. His manner was courtly, old-fashioned even, and he constantly made subtle flattering remarks to Alex at which she laughed modestly though I could tell she was pleased.

  When we returned to the terrace we ate lunch at a table on the northern side of the house. Cold white wine made from local grapes was served in chilled earthenware jugs, along with fresh warm bread and bowls of salads made from fat juicy olives, chopped tomatoes, cucumber, onion and feta cheese sprinkled with thyme. Later Eleni brought out a lamb pie and a plate of grilled octopus. As we ate, Kounidis talked about the writings of Homer about which he appeared to be quite knowledgeable. He was interesting to listen to, even for me. He knew great sections of both the Iliad and the Odyssey by heart, and even recited parts to us in classical Greek. Though I didn’t understand a word of it I couldn’t deny that there was a certain lyrical beauty to the sound of the passages, spoken in the language in which they had originally been written.

  After lunch he apologised self-deprecatingly for having bored us, which we protested wasn’t true. ‘This evening,’ he said, looking at Alex, ‘I will tell you what I can about your grandmother. But for now I must rest.’

  He told us that there was a path down to a small private beach if we felt like a swim.

  ‘Please treat my home as your own,’ he said. ‘Eleni has made up rooms for you both. She will show you where they are.’

  After he’d gone Eleni appeared to clear the table and when she returned she showed us upstairs. Our rooms were next door to one another on the top floor of the house at the back. Like Alex’s, mine had two large windows which, when the shutters were opened, revealed a view across the sea. I thanked Eleni, who murmured some quiet acknowledgement in Greek and, when she had gone, I went to knock on Alex’s door.

  ‘Do you feel like that swim?’ I asked.

  ‘Give me five minutes. I’ll meet you downstairs.’

  I went to my room to change and fetch a towel and was waiting on the terrace when Alex came down. The path Kounidis had mentioned was steep, with steps carved into the rock leading down to the cove below. The water was deep and cool, fringed by a strip of pale stony beach. We swam out to the entrance and explored the rocks before returning to the beach to dry off in the sun.

  ‘What do you make of Alkimos?’ Alex asked, hugging her knees, her wet hair dripping rivulets of water. I tried not to watch their progress across her thighs.

  ‘He seems a bit lonely I suppose.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I thought. He’s very sweet. I think it’s a shame that he lives here all alone. Except for Eleni, of course. And the man who let us in. Do you think that’s her husband?’

  ‘Perhaps. He drives for Kounidis.’

  ‘That room with all the children’s toys is a bit sad isn’t it? I wonder what happened to his wife?’

  ‘I get the impression he devoted too much time to his work. Maybe there wasn’t enough left over for a wife.’

  She lay down and closed her eyes. I watched her breathe, the rise and fall of her breasts, the hollow of her stomach.

  Late in the afternoon we went back to the house to rest for a while. I lay down on my bed to read, but there was too much going on in my mind. Thoughts of my father and of Alex kept insinuating themselves. In the end the heat made me drowsy and I fell into a light sleep.

  When I woke, twilight was approaching, the sky darkening. I took a shower and changed, then knocked on Alex’s door. When she opened it she had a towel wrapped around her and her hair was wet.

  ‘I’ll meet you downstairs,’ she said.

  I left her to get ready and went down to the terrace. Though there were faint sounds of activity from somewhere in the house there was nobody around, so I went back inside to the library where I spent half an hour browsing the shelves. Many of the volumes were in French and other European languages, including English. I recognised some of the English and American authors; Greene, Hemingway and Conrad, but most of the books were volumes on psychology, archaeology and history, both modern and ancient. Some were old texts, but the majority were pristine. First editions.

  Near the library I found a room we’d passed earlier on our tour with Kounidis. The door had been closed then and he hadn’t remarked on it. This time I tried the handle out of curiosity, but it was locked. From its position I guessed that it faced out onto the northern end of the terrace, but when I went outside the windows to the room were shuttered.

  I was admiring the view over the sea as the light faded, when Kounidis appeared.

  ‘Good evening, Robert,’ he said. ‘Did you have a pleasant afternoon?’

  ‘Very. Thank you.’ I told him that we had been for a swim. ‘Alex is quite taken with your house. With everything actually.’ I smiled, gently teasing Kounidis, who smiled in return.

  ‘I have always appreciated beauty, Robert.’ He gestured towards the chairs where we had sat that afternoon. ‘Please.’

  For a little while we were content to sit quietly.

  The light was almost gone, the otherworldly purple and pink fading to darkness. The breeze had dropped and the temperature was pleasantly warm. Eleni appeared carrying a tray with some glasses, a bottle of ouzo and a jug of cold water. She set them down and returned moments later with a variety of opektika dishes. Dolmades and saganaki, bread and an aubergine dip. Footsteps approached from within the house and Alex joined us. She looked quite stunning, dressed in a simple dark-blue skirt and top. She paused in the doorway self-consciously as we stared at her.

  ‘Forgive us, Alex,’ Kounidis said. ‘We are, I believe, both of us made quite speechless by such beauty. Please, sit down.’ He drew out a chair for her.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Do you like ouzo?’ Kounidis asked us both.

  ‘I have to admit it’s a taste I haven’t fully acquired yet,’ I said, and Alex admitted that she hadn’t tried it.

  ‘Then you must try this. It is a very good brand.’ Kounidis poured some out for both of us and raised his glass. ‘Stin-iyassas.’

  The ouzo did taste a little better than others I had tried, but I still found the strong flavour of aniseed disconcerting. We chatted for a while. Kounidis asked Alex about her family and her life in London. He seemed quite taken with her, even mildly flirtatious in an old-fashioned and courteous way. He refilled our glasses. I could feel the alcohol going to my head and there was a distinct shine to Alex’s eyes. Eventually Kounidis asked Alex about her grandmother.

  ‘Did she ever marry in England?’

  ‘No. There was only ever her and my mother.’

  ‘Your grandmother had a brother who also went to live in England.’

  ‘Kostas, yes. His family run a restaurant in North London. But Nana and Kostas never saw each other. I didn’t even know about the rest of the family until after she died.’

  ‘Yes, I am afraid that I am not surprised,’ Kounidis said.

  Eleni appeared to tell us that dinner was ready. We ate on the terrace again. Eleni had prepared chicken cooked with herbs, potatoes and white wine. Kounidis directed the conversation as he had at lunch. He steered away from the subject of Alex’s grandmother, instead relating stories from his childhood when his time had b
een taken up with fishing and working on the family land. He portrayed a life of work with virtually no luxuries, but he made it seem like a happy, simpler time in many ways. The land, the sea, the sun, the smell of pine and wild sage and days spent fishing when the nets would be hauled into the boat full.

  As I listened I couldn’t help wondering how accurate his depiction was, given that in the end he had been lured away to the mainland, driven by what must have been a powerful urge to succeed. At some stage a lamp was lit, attracting insects which flickered around the flame until Eleni returned with a candle. The smoke it emitted had a curious, powerful aroma which acted as a repellent. The glow from the lamp enveloped us in a cocoon of yellow light beyond which the darkness closed in. As the stars appeared, I felt a strange sensation which was probably heightened by the amount of wine and ouzo I’d consumed. Being high up and so close to the cliff edge created the illusion that we were no longer earth-bound but were instead drifting through space.

  When the remains of dinner had been cleared away, Kounidis began to tell us the rest of the story of what had happened during the war.

  ‘But before I take up where Irene left off, I must tell you about other events on Kephalonia, because they are important if you are to understand what happened here,’ he said.

  The way he pronounced English words and his slightly convoluted phrasing lent an almost poetic quality to his narrative, somehow making the words themselves unobtrusive, facilitating the conjuring of images. The lamp had been turned down until it was barely a dim glow which cast Kounidis in dark silhouette. Beyond the terrace, figures seemed to be moving in the darkness, the past coming to life …