by Sara Alexi
Marina is not sure what to do. A sense of panic grips her chest. The boatyard is clearly packed up for the season. Dry dock is not the place for boats in summer, and it is a wonder there are any here at all.
At the other side of the beach near the ramp used for hauling the boats in and out of the water there is a painted notice.
Marina, at a loss for what to do next, and feeling as if her task has become insurmountable, allows her legs to continue their pace until she is standing in front of the notice. It is written on a piece of weathered hardboard with a scratchy marker pen that all but runs out of ink near the end, the letters fading.
Boat Owners, Sailors, Captains and Crew
We love you in the winter when your work is our business…
We love you in the summer when by chance we meet and share sailing stories over an ouzo…
But if you have a work-related problem in the heat of the summer, ask yourself if it can wait till we re-open in the less hot months before you call us or walk up to our house in the mountains where you will find us enjoying the cooler heights during this time.
Tolis and Takis Kaloyannis
27522
Tolis and Takis, father and son? Marina feels her hope reignited at the sight of his name.
She has brought no bag and so no phone. However, her legs feel energised as if the years of sitting in her shop have stored up the need to move. The thought of the walk up into the mountains gives her a thrill. Before the muscles in her calves have had a chance to relax she strides out again along the path and turns to cut down the side of the valley, and then left to head further along the island through the pine woods. She leaves behind houses that look as if they have not been lived in for years, and even some, when viewed from the rear, that prove to be no more than shells, their roofs fallen in long ago. Another cockerel calls as the pine trees close behind Marina, muffling all sound.
Marina’s lungs claw as the track begins to climb steeply now. She pauses to take breath and can see the streak of sun between the pine trees stretching across the sea. The hill on the far side of the boatyard behind her shades the pine trees from the dawn and the needled undergrowth is still, quiet and dark. The path continues, and after some time Marina wonders if she will gain the mountain village before the sun forces her to hastily retreat. The path turns further inland, and as she tops one hill, another hill even higher appears. It seems too far. There is a mountainous ridge to her right and a rocky outcrop to her left. It keeps the path in the shade. The sun has not yet risen here. Marina feels sure she can make it to the top of the next hill, but what if there is yet another hill beyond that?
She decides the top of the next hill is her turning point. But as this is gained and she deliberates at which tree exactly she will turn and admit defeat, she sees a very long-eared hare leap across the road above her, its black tufted ears so comical. Marina wishes to see another and climbs some more in hope, and is rewarded. The hare pauses, squatting on hind legs, front legs dangling, tufted ears upright, swivelling. She giggles and stays alert for more. The trees are thinning and the hare darts towards an open area. Marina follows the path, mesmerised.
She can hear a cockerel crow somewhere up the road and the trees have thinned out to scrub. Goat bells tell her she is within distance of human habitation. Another cockerel. A walled enclosure. A donkey’s saddle, wood and padded leather, by the side of the road. Marina’s excitement grows as there on a hillock in front of her is the first mountain-village house, this one flat-roofed. Low stone walls with mesh fences below it contain the cockerel and some hens which run to her excitedly.
The hill on her left still keeps the sun at bay, and as Marina passes the house on the hill the road divides, left into a dell with two cottages dotted or right towards a two-storey stone house on a ridge that Marina feels sure will give her a view down the other side of the island.
The idea of seeing down the other side of the island appeals, and she turns right. Set into the hillside by the road is a big concrete tank, no doubt for water. Hanging by its feet, from one corner of the block, is a seagull, its beak open, its tongue protruding, its eyes crusted white. Marina recoils.
People come here to hunt. Rabbits and hares in the summer. The place suddenly feels sinister and Marina turns to retrace her steps. It is then that she sees the village. It is not the one or two houses she has seen. There, on this side of the house with the flat roof, are a dozen houses all crowded in together in the shade of the hillock.
Instead of there being four houses for Marina to check, there are twenty. Finding a single man’s house without causing undue interest will not be possible. Marina gasps. What if he is not single? What if he is married, and Eleni is ‘the other woman’? Marina crosses herself twice and pushes the thought away. But the thought will not dissipate. It explains Eleni’s reticence, her anger.
‘Oh, my poor baby,’ she says to the sky, and sinks down to sit on a wall.
‘Who’s your poor baby?’
Marina jolts. The chickens have spoken. She turns her head to see which chicken it is. An angelic boy smiles back up at her. He is crouched on the ground with his hand open, resting on the floor. The hens pick corn from his upturned palm. He is wearing a pair of swimming trunks. His feet are black, his dark tan even, his hair sticking out at every angle, messy from sleep. He obviously lives in his shorts. Red shorts. His hair as blonde as the gods themselves. His eyes brown, dark brown. Marina is dazzled.
‘This one is my baby,’ he says, and picks up a fluffy-bottomed red Rhode Island hen. The chicken seems very happy tucked under his arm. He fishes in a home-made bag slung over his shoulder and holds out a handful of corn to her. She pecks eagerly.
‘She’s beautiful,’ Marina says
‘Who are you up here to see?’
‘Oh! I am not sure, maybe no one.’
‘A long way to come to see no one.’
He struts about the enclosure with the hen under his arm. Marina stands to leave.
‘Are you going?’
‘I suppose. You don’t have any water, do you?’
The boy drops the hen and shuffles through the gate of the enclosure, ensuring it closes behind him. Marina presumes he has a bottle of water on the other side but instead he runs away, the soles of his feet like white rabbit-tails behind him, his blonde mop streaming.
‘See you, chickens,’ Marina says, and pushing her weight forward rises slowly and begins to walk away. She cannot think how to carry out her mountain-top task. She cannot knock door to door with any discretion and she can think of no other way of finding who lives where. In the dimness of her mind a cloud of misery folds over her.
‘I probably just haven’t had enough sleep,’ she says to the cockerel.
‘My dad says I should sleep longer in the afternoon but I never do.’
Marina only twitches this time. ‘Don’t do that!’
‘Do you still want this?’ The boy holds out a bottle of water, frosted over with cold. Marina takes it and drinks deeply. It spills down her dress but she doesn’t care. The sun isn’t over the highest hill yet but the air is warming. Everything will dry within minutes soon enough.
‘Are you going back down?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can I come? I’m allowed as far as the first corner, by the fallen pine.’
Marina smiles her reply and they begin, at his pace, slow, stone-kicking, no time limits. He is not more than six, seven, maybe a small eight. It has been too long for Marina. Her children grown, she cannot judge their ages any more. She must look like an old granny to him. Actually, maybe not, now she is in a blue dress. She feels younger in it.
‘Who says you can go as far as the fallen pine tree?’
‘My mum. Vikki’s not even allowed to the hen coop but she is only five. But that’s in the summer. In the winter we are allowed as far up the road as the pine trees and the other way just to the beach, not along the coastal path.’
He picks up a stone and throws it at an
olive tree. It ricochets into a bush and something scuttles away.
‘That’s if I am at the boatyard. But since I started school I lived last winter with an aunt in town so I could go to lessons every day.’
‘Is Vikki your sister?’
The boy stops and darts off the path and returns with a tortoise. It is a large old one. He puts it on the road heading the way they are going and begins to walk with steps so small he is keeping pace with it. Marina stops walking and looks around her to gauge the sun’s progress. She is still holding the bottle and drinks again.
‘Can I have some?’ Marina hands him the bottle. He drinks and pours some on his head - an action copied from an elder – and gives the bottle back. ‘She’s my cousin. We live in the same house at the boatyard in the winter when our dads are working, but in the summer we live next door.’
‘So you are a Kaloyannis?’
‘Yes, Dimi. What’s your name?’
Marina thinks to withhold this. What if Eleni is his dad’s secret lover? It could get too complex for Marina to think through.
‘What’s your dad’s name?’
‘Dad.’
‘And your uncle’s name?’
‘Uncle Toli. He’s great. He lets me climb up his front, over his shoulders and down his back, and then through his legs without touching the ground.
Tolis Kaloyannis, Marina crosses herself and thanks the mother of Jesus for all her help. She smiles from ear to ear and ruffles his hair. He pulls his head away sharply and smooths a hand over his scalp. He takes a step away from her and pinches his mouth closed, his movements subdued.
‘Big guy, is he?’
Hair-ruffling forgotten, his limbs take on new life and he turns and runs backward a little as he explains with his hands just how big Uncle Toli is.
‘He is a giant! Nearly as big as Dad,’ he concludes. ‘I have seen him pull a rowing boat into the yard by himself! Once when a boat in the yard was being held up by sticks it started to topple, and he held it up until my dad found more sticks. But he scared me then. He shouted so loudly at me.’
‘Shouted at you?’
‘Get out of the way!’ Dimi bellows in the lowest pitch he can manage. ‘Oh, there’s the pine tree.’
Marina stops her slow walk to turn to her companion, but he has turned already and is walking away. He looks back and calls, ‘Who did you say you came up here to see again?’
‘I think I came up here to see you!’
Dimi grins and waves, before taking off at a run.
The journey down from the fallen pine to the boatyard seems to be so swift, but as Marina comes out of the pine forest and enters the boatyard’s valley she can see the sun is peeking over the high hill, so she knows the coastal path will be basking without shade in the morning sun. It is already hot. Marina finishes the bottle of water.
The houses with roofs that she thought were uninhabited in the basin behind the boatyard have their shutters open. Near the road there, a man scoops water from a large blue-painted barrel, bucket by bucket. Tree by tree, he waters young olives. He calls a cheery ‘good morning’ as Marina passes and waves his bucket in salute.
Even the boatyard house with the arch has one shutter open, and the slight breeze brings the smell of old leather, wood and polish.
But still the boats in the yard lie untended, the only life the small chugging fishing boat which is now skimming around the outside of the bay, with one man on board, trailing a line. The cockerel is still crowing, and the sun lights up one half of the valley. Soon the valley will be thick with heat, holding in the warmth until the evening.
Marina turns out of the shade onto the coastal path, and the heat of the sun hits her. From dawn to full heat in a single step. She pulls her hat down so the brim hides her face and, looking down at her feet, marches for home.
The loose thread she spotted earlier on the toe of her shoe has now worked its way into being a loop, and the leather that it was stitching shows the smallest gap. The black butterflies have increased in numbers and sit still on the path until her footsteps tread and they flit and weave around each other, pairing off in circles of courtship.
Despite her anticipation of the heat on this stretch of the journey, the sun’s power is weak compared to her expectation. She estimates it is still only about seven thirty, maybe eight. A firm pace brings her to the cluster of houses where she finds a rarely used bin for her water bottle. Fresh donkey manure on the road tells her that for some work has begun. The butterflies seem to relish their warm early morning breakfast.
She takes the back road that she came by, back to Zoe’s house. One or two people wish her a good day as they sweep their front steps, water their vegetable patches or sit for the first moments of their day: men with the eternal cigarette, woman in plain black dresses and head-scarves.
Marina’s legs are tiring, and she keeps her head down as Eleni could be around any corner. The spillage from when she drank out of the bottle has left a water mark on her dress and her shoe now has a hole, her sock clearly visible. The thought of lying down back in her room appeals strongly.
The stairs up to her door are almost too much, and Marina pushes her hands on her knees to lever herself up the last few.
The clock by her bed says eight thirty as she steps quietly into her room, her day’s work already done and with no chance of bumping into Eleni. She is pleased. As she pulls off her shoes the hole becomes bigger. Marina sticks her finger through it from the inside and wonders if she can stitch it. She is too tired to care, and stuffs her socks, one in each shoe, and throws them in the corner. Just before succumbing to the lure of her mattress she takes out her piece of paper and puts a line through Apostolis Kaloyannis. She feels smug at her cunning ability to cross him off without even having met him.
Two names to go, Socrates Rappas and Alexandros Mavromatis, and then, no matter what the outcome, she must think of her own needs. She is aware that her care for Eleni is acting as a smothering blanket over her own emotions that she must face before leaving the island. She must deal with the pain of all those years ago. She closes her eyes. There is an owl hooting outside the window even though the day is now well established.
Chapter 13
‘Ela, ela, pame.’ Come on, let’s go, someone is shouting. Doors bang. Marina hovers on the edge of sleep trying to make sense of the noises, which are dreams and which reality.
Many voices all talking at once.
‘Calm down, how do you know?’
‘I had a call and now the line is dead. Please come, hurry.’
‘Roula, I have to go.’ It is Zoe’s voice. Marina can hear Roula crying. Sleep dispels. Marina rolls off the bed and pushes on her flip-flops.
‘What’s happening? Can I help?’ Marina stumbles out to the balcony, rubs sleep from her slack face. She tries to straighten her hair. There is a strong wind blowing. It feels cooling. Marina relaxes in its gentle kiss.
‘I have to go now, please.’ Irini’s eyes are wide, her body twitching. Signs of panic.
‘What’s wrong?’ Marina puts a calming hand on Irini’s shoulder. She tries to still her with her hand’s pressure.
‘Irini’s fiancée called. He said he hit some rough water. Now his line is dead.’ Zoe is hugging Roula, who is crying. Her eyes reflect the raised tension. ‘She called one of the other taxi boats. They say his VHF radio is also dead.’ Roula wails. Zoe tries to encompass her in her arms.
‘Marina, come with me?’ Irini asks, her voice trembling.
‘Yes, of course, my dear. Where?’
‘Port police. Get them to go and find him. I was about to go but …’ Zoe looks down at Roula, whose head is against her chest. She is stroking her hair.
Irini takes Marina by the arm. Marina is all but pulled down the steps and out onto the street. They are on the path to town before Marina comes to her senses and realises she has forgotten her bag and her hat. But neither hat nor bag seems important. Marina releases her mind from the thoughts of
Irini’s fiancée and realises she has just agreed to walk right into the place she needs to avoid the most. Port police. Eleni.
They enter the harbour area. Irini begins to ask people where the port police are. Marina wonders what the date is. Has her daughter begun working yet. If she hasn’t, will the port police want to take her name? Can she avoid going in?
‘Irini,’ Marina begins. She cannot go into the port police office.
‘Look, all the other boats are in.’ Irini points at the taxi boats and begins to cry, and walks faster. The wind is whipping round the port. The cats huddle in shop doorways. The waiters are inside. The outdoor tables have been cleared of napkins, glasses and menus. The sky is darkening. A donkey on the corner begins its loud sad bray. It echoes. The town feels empty.
Irini runs ahead and stops a man who is getting off one of the taxi boats. He turns his back to the wind as he talks to her, his chin tucked in and shoulders hunched. His words are whisked away from Marina by the wind. When she catches up with Irini she sees her face is wet with tears. The man slopes off to a café.
‘He says all the other radios are still working. The port police are just here.’ Irini turns to a door between two shops. A small white sign outside, no bigger than a postcard, declares its importance.
‘Irini, I …’ Marina begins again, but Irini’s frightened tear-stained face shows more sorrow than she can bear. Marina closes her mouth and allows herself to be pulled into the port police office. After all, Eleni is not due to start for another couple of weeks.
There is no one behind the desk. Marina looks around for a newspaper to hide her face, just in case. The room is sparse, blue and white themed, with a coffee table and one wooden rush-seated chair. The walls are decorated with damp-buckled prints of stormy seas behind dirty glass in thin frames. Judging by the counter top, which has been painted a sharp blue, Marina can tell it has not been decorated since the seventies, and that even then it was done on a budget.
