The Magic In The Receiver

by Dillon, Paul

  “What do you think of the view, Elena?” asked Dimi, as they reached the drop.

  Elena looked over the edge to the panorama below. Tree covered hills sloped down to Fiskardo; a cluster of red-brown roofs, surrounded by blue, white-speckled with boats. Maybe it was the height, or the angle of perspective, but to Elena, the large cruise ship anchored in the channel, even Ithaca itself, lacked dimension, substance, as though she viewed the vista with the eye of an artist.

  “It’s very pretty. Have you painted it?”

  “Once. It was spring, the hillside was covered in wildflowers.”

  He gestured towards the house, pointing out his window on the upper floor. “The view is just as nice from my studio. Shall we?”

  They walked back, passing an alfresco dining area before entering the house through a pair of purple doors, similar, but wider, than those Elena had photographed. Inside, the patterned limestone motif continued into a huge kitchen, blurring the line between inside and out.

  Apologizing for the absence of his wife, Dimi offered the girls refreshments. “Alexia doesn’t like to be disturbed when she is working. She will join us for lunch,” he explained. “After we eat, Sophia can see her work.”

  Dimi poured three glasses of iced tea and led the girls from the kitchen into a long hallway. He carried on a conversation with Sophia as they walked along the corridor. Elena noticed several paintings hanging on the walls; she wondered if they were Dimi’s work, but decided not to ask.

  At the end of the hallway, a broad staircase with an ornate iron balustrade, swept up, in a one hundred and eighty degree curve to the upper floor.

  “Here’s Mikka,” said Dimi.

  Elena smiled as a tawny cat, sporting a leather collar, joined them on the wood-planked landing.

  Dimi’s studio was spacious; Elena judged it to run the full width of the house. The outside wall was constructed of sliding glass panels, each pane about one foot square. Several of the panels were open and led on to a wide veranda. Dimi went straight outside and invited the girls to sit at a mosaic-tiled table. The view from the patio was stunning, as Dimi promised. Mikka curled up on the limestone floor next to a potted plant.

  An adjustable awning hung from the parapet above the glass wall. The studio looked out eastwards over Ithaca. The sun would be over the house during the hottest part of the day.

  Sophia set her drink on the table. “Shall we take a look at your work, Dimi?”

  “Elena would you care to join us, or stay and admire the view?” asked Dimi.

  “We just drove an hour to get here, I’m seeing your work,” she replied.

  Somewhere overhead, the drone of a small aircraft, drowned out the rhythm of the garden.

  Inside, an open ceiling exposed large roof timbers. Antique furniture lay dotted around the room; paintings lined the walls. Elena’s eyes riveted on a blue velvet couch; a woolen blanket sprawled over its backrest. She imagined herself, naked, stretched out on the couch, the blanket draped over her knees and onto the floor. Dimi stood in front of a canvas, staring at her with a piercing glare. He would stride over to her, displeased with the pose, and rearrange the blanket on her legs. Still not satisfied, he continued to adjust her pose, moving her legs with his strong hands. She wondered if he would sit down on the couch and attempt to kiss her; and how she would respond.

  Sophia called from the rear of the studio.

  “Elena, come and check these out.”

  She walked over to join them, keeping Sophia between herself and Dimi. The two discussed a series of still life paintings; flowering plants, mostly orchids and vines. Although Elena had an untrained eye, she admired the way Dimi had used light and shadow to create an effect unlike anything photographic. Elena’s mind went back to her aesthetic moment, behind the camera, at the side of the villa.

  What percentage of people would walk past the purple doors and see nothing of interest? How did Dimi perceive the world? Did he take interest in everything? What did it mean to be an artist?

  Lost in her thoughts, she shifted her gaze towards another area of wall. Here, the subjects were landscapes and buildings. She sauntered over to browse the canvases, feeling Dimi’s silent presence behind her.

  As she turned towards him, their eyes met. Totally assured of himself, he appeared to be daring her to hold his gaze. Sophia joined them and asked him a question, ending the contest of wills. Elena walked out to the veranda, still thinking about the couch.

  Ten minutes later, with their business concluded, Sophia and Dimi re-emerged onto the veranda with several canvases rolled under their arms. At Dimi’s suggestion, they returned to the kitchen, where a woman was removing dishes from the refrigerator.

  “Elena, this is my wife, Alexia.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” Elena offered her hand.

  Elena guessed Alexia and her husband to be of similar age. Her grey hair, tied in a bun, still had a few streaks of black, adding tone. Coming straight from her studio, she was dressed in overalls. Petit gold earrings decorated her otherwise plain appearance.

  “I hope you like vegetable dishes, Elena. I prepared some this morning.”

  “Love them,” replied Elena. “Becoming a vegetarian would be easy in Greece.”

  “Shall we go outside?” Alexia led the party out to a long table, laid for four. Bowls of colorful dishes sat in the center, alongside carafes of red and white wine. Elena took advantage of the bright sunshine, putting on her sunglasses, as if to hide from Dimi.

  “These are Greek meze—small appetizers.” Alexia went from bowl to bowl announcing each dish. “Braised eggplant with tomato, dolmades, scordalia—which is a Greek potato and garlic dip, stuffed vegetables and spanakopita. Oh … and fresh bread from the village, please help yourself. There’s red wine, white wine, water and ice tea.”

  Alexia passed the bowls around the table, Dimi poured wine.

  As they dined, the hot sun, the breeze, the sounds and smells of the garden, the flavors of the meze intermingled, putting everyone in a pleasant frame of mind.

  “Why don’t you paint Elena?” Alexia turned to Dimi. “She would make a lovely model, she’s so pretty, such beautiful legs.”

  Elena nearly choked on an olive and gasped, audibly, at the suggestion. Everyone at the table had surely noticed her surprise.

  Dimi piled on the pressure. “What do you think, Elena?”

  She took a moment to recover her poise. “I’m sure there are many more suitable models on the island.”

  Neither Dimi nor his wife pressed the matter further and the topic of conversation changed. For the next fifteen minutes, Dimi held center stage, reminiscing about the island, in the days before the tourists invaded.

  Elena noticed her cousin glance at her watch for the third time. It was no surprise when Sophia shifted the conversation back to business.

  “Lunch was wonderful; truly delicious. Perhaps we can look at your new pieces. It’s getting late and I have another appointment…”

  “Of course, we can go now, if you like,” replied Alexia.

  Dimi turned to Elena then back to Sophia. “You two go on to the studio, Elena will keep me company in the garden.”

  Without reply, Sophia followed Alexia into the house.

  Being alone with Dimi caught Elena by surprise. She considered following her cousin but decided to stay put; Dimi would have scored a victory over her.

  “Won’t you have another glass of wine?” he asked.

  Before she could reply, Dimi picked up a carafe and filled her glass.

  “Let’s go over to the patio,” he suggested.

  Topping up his own glass, Dimi got up, walked around the table and pulled back Elena’s chair. As they crossed the garden, Dimi lit a cigarette and offered her the pack. She declined.

  Iron and wicker chairs surrounded tables with marbled tops and cast iron bases. They sat, sipping wine. Elena watched the dragonflies flit above the lily pads, Dimi watched Elena.

  “You say you are no
t an artist, Elena, but I can see you have an eye for beauty, for the mysterious. Perhaps you like photography then?”

  Drowsy from the wine, she found his voice melodic.

  “I’d like to take photography more seriously. I think the change in environment, the beauty of the island is having an effect on me. I have been here for nearly two weeks…” She hoped he wouldn’t ask questions about her life in America.

  “Will you be staying much longer? Many who visit never want to leave.”

  “No, I couldn’t do that. I may stay another week but I have to get back.”

  “You have a boyfriend in America?”

  “Well yes, but…”

  Dimi didn’t let Elena finish. “I can see that there is a conflict within you. Perhaps you are conditioned to a lifestyle that does not … stop to smell the roses, as you say. Inside there is another Elena, trapped. Take off your sunglasses; let me see your eyes.”

  Like a shield, her glasses offered shelter from his magnetic gaze. Maybe it was the wine, but her fascination had grown to the point where she questioned her ability to resist should he pursue her.

  Elena removed her sunglasses, placing them on the table next to her empty glass. Dimi looked into her eyes. She saw a deep kindness that surprised her.

  “Perhaps the man you are looking for will remain hidden until you find your true self,” he said. “Love is like a painting, Elena … the lover is the subject, yes, but the artist takes that subject, injects himself, and creates…” He reverted to Greek. “How you say in English … the painting, the love, it is just a reflection of your true self.”

  The spell of Dimi, the wine, the garden was suddenly broken as Sophia and Alexia reappeared. More time had elapsed than Elena had realized.

  “It’s late, we should be leaving,” said Sophia.

  Her cousin continued speaking to Dimi, explaining how she and Alexia had already loaded several pieces of ceramics into the car, together with his paintings. Elena was last to rise, she followed Sophia across the garden, to the side of the house. As they passed the narrow purple doors, Dimi turned to Elena.

  “Ah, the doors—maybe I’ll use them for my next painting. Perhaps, when you come again, I will present it to you.”

  “I’d like that.”

  They shook hands and said goodbye. At the bottom of the steps, Elena turned and waved. She looked straight at Dimi; he was looking at her too.

  Chapter 5

  Alone and afraid, Ioannis lay on the stone floor for what seemed like hours. He had no way to mark the passing of time. Somewhere in the distance, shouts broke the silence.

  He rubbed his leg just above the knee. A throbbing ache made him want to fade back into sleep. Close by, propped up against the debris, the icon of Saint Gerasimos appeared to watch over him. He closed his eyes.

  ***

  January the seventh had been mild for a winter’s day. A local clergyman paid a surprise visit…

  “Ioannis,” said his mother. “Sit up; Father Voutsinas is here for your Name Day.”

  She carried wine and cheese on a wooden tray, beckoning the monk into the parlor with a nod of her head. The man stooped under the doorway then sat in a high-backed chair, balancing the platter on his knees.

  “I thank you kindly for the refreshment.” He raised his glass, turned to Ioannis and offered the traditional Name Day greeting. “I wish you a long life.”

  “Thank you, Father.”

  Name Day was like a second birthday to Ioannis. He sat on a sofa, trying not to slouch, and remembered the dates his father had taught him. November eight is Name Day for boys called Stamos, January seven for Ioannis, Nicia is…

  The monk leaned forward on his chair. “Where is your brother?”

  Stamos had been standing near his mother, now they had both disappeared.

  “He’s playing in the garden,” Ioannis found himself saying.

  The house fell eerily silent. A candle burned behind the Holy Man, casting his shadow along the floor. This confused Ioannis; Father Voutsinas wore a black flat-topped headdress, the shadow belonged to someone in a hooded robe. He looked again. Sure enough, the tall round klobuk had a flat top.

  The monk’s grey beard flowed down the front of his cassock, almost touching an ornate gold cross, its chain thick and heavy. Father Voutsinas caught the boy staring at the cross and held it off his chest. “It’s old … very old.”

  Gripped by a desire to touch the golden talisman, Ioannis rose but found standing difficult. He stumbled towards the monk, who grabbed his arm.

  “Steady now. Your leg’s a little numb from sitting such a long time. No need to worry.”

  Ioannis touched the cross, closing his hand tightly around it. The priest was right, he had pins and needles, nothing more.

  “It belonged to Saint Gerasimos.” Father Voutsinas took a sip of wine. “The Patron Saint of Kefalonia.”

  “Why do you have it?”

  “That’s a long story. First, I’m going to tell you about Saint Gerasimos. Would you like me to do that?”

  “Yes, please.” Ioannis knew all about the saint but the cross intrigued him. He itched to learn how it had come into the monk’s possession.

  “Well then, sit down, make yourself comfortable … and help yourself to those pastries over there.”

  Ioannis returned to the sofa, thinking it odd that he hadn’t spotted them earlier. He examined the plain white plate and its tempting treats but didn’t recognize his mother’s baking.

  Draining the last drop of wine, Father Voutsinas set his glass down. “Do you know where the Peloponnese is?”

  Ioannis cleared his mouth of pastry. “Yes, everybody knows. It’s part of Greece. My teacher says it’s famous.”

  “Your teacher is correct. It’s a large peninsula in the south of Greece, just across the sea from here. It’s a wild and mountainous land, the birthplace of the Spartans, the Corinthians, the Mycenaeans and the Olympic games.”

  Wild and mountainous, the words evoked images of Spartans marching into battle. Ioannis wanted to hear more.

  “Many hundreds of years ago, in 1506, a child was born in the village of Trikala,” the Holy Man continued.

  “Is that in the Peloponnese?”

  “Yes, in the northeast. Dimitrios and Kallie Notaras named their son…”

  “Saint Gerasimos?” Ioannis interrupted.

  Father Voutsinas smiled. “Just Gerasimos, no one is born a saint … did you know the Notaras family had noble blood?” The monk didn’t wait for a reply. “Legend says they were related to Emperor Constantine himself.”

  “I bet Saint Gerasimos had so much money, he didn’t have to go to school?”

  “Well you’d be wrong. He went to the finest schools in the whole of Greece.”

  ***

  The conversation meandered from shepherds to soldiers, emperors to goats; Father Voutsinas ended the yarn with the young Gerasimos getting lost in the mountains near Trikala and encountering wolves. Engrossed in the story, Ioannis forgot his surroundings and let his mind wander off to pine-clad hills. He dearly wanted to see a wolf; there were none in Kefalonia.

  “Have you ever been through a terrifying ordeal?” asked the monk.

  Ioannis shook his head.

  “Well let’s hope that never happens,” said the Holy Man, raising his eyebrows. “After Gerasimos finished his education, he traveled far and wide.”

  “Did he go to Africa?”

  “Well, he spent many years in Egypt, and Egypt is in Africa. He toured the Holy Land … was ordained a priest in Jerusalem, but a monastic life called. That’s how he ended up at the Holy Mountain.”

  “Holy Mountain?”

  “Mount Athos, I studied there too. It’s far away … on the other side of Greece, further even than Thessaloniki. There must be twenty monasteries on the mountain, Ioannis. I hope you can visit one day. If there’s one place Gerasimos loved—other than Kefalonia, of course—it was the Holy Mountain.”

  “What hap
pened next?”

  “After Mount Athos, he went to Crete then spent some time on Zante—I believe you once sailed there…”

  Ioannis nodded, wondering how the monk knew about the time he’d gone with his father and Stamos to the nearby island.

  “But only when Gerasimos came to Kefalonia, did he find his dream and stay forever.”

  Men shouted somewhere close by. Father Voutsinas appeared not to notice and pressed on with his story. “As I recall, Gerasimos came to Kefalonia in 1555. For the first five years he lived in a cave, not far from here.”

  “I’ve been there,” said Ioannis. “It’s in the hills above Lassi.”

  The monk paused, looked at the boy, and smiled. “Are you going to eat all the pastries?”

  Only one melemakaronia remained, sitting in its white paper cup, tempting him. Ioannis put the plate back on the cushion.

  “Gerasimos left the cave in 1560 and moved inland to Omala. Oh! How he loved the land he found there; he dug wells, worked the fields, planted trees, restored the church, founded a convent…”

  Ioannis became sleepy; the monk’s voice started to sound like a radio broadcast.

  “Gerasimos dedicated the rest of his life to the valley. Even here, he lived as a hermit, in a cave which still exists underneath the monastery.”

  Ioannis looked through the open door into the kitchen. Where’s mother? She’s been gone a long time.

  “Finally, as happens to us all, Gerasimos died in his beloved valley on August 15th, 1579. He was buried at the convent.”

  The candle behind the monk flickered wildly.

  Mother must have opened a door, thought Ioannis.

  “In accordance with Greek tradition, the body of Gerasimos was disinterred two years after his death. His bones were to be transferred to a permanent resting place.”

  Shouts rang out again, this time inside the house. “Hello, Hello. Is anybody here?”

  Ioannis became scared; the candle went out plunging the room into darkness. Father Voutsinas continued, oblivious to the commotion.

  “When they exhumed the body, a miracle had happened…”

  Now, men were in the room, he could hear their voices.