by Dillon, Paul
One of them knelt beside the boy who reached out to the icon of the Saint.
“Who else was in the house when the earthquake happened?” asked the man.
“Grandmother,” said Ioannis. “And Stamos; he’s playing in the garden.”
Chapter 6
Water droplets on clay tiles formed a trail leading to the silver framed mirror. Ben stood facing his tanned, trim reflection; a white towel hung around his shoulders. Heat poured in through the open doors, evaporating the moisture on his skin, leaving a pleasant, tingling sensation. He put on a pair of cargo shorts and lay on the bed to cool off.
A novel sat on the bedside table, untouched since the night before. He fiddled with the frayed leather bookmark, inserted mid-point in the book. Flipping open to the marked page, he stared blankly at the text, unable to concentrate. In his mind, he retraced the events leading to his being here, at the Hotel Dionysus, in the small fishing port of Fiskardo.
Although he lived in Los Angeles, Ben preferred spending the summer at one of his parents’ European residences. His father’s wealth allowed the family to maintain a townhouse in London’s fashionable Belgravia, a country estate in Surrey, and a chateau in the Loire valley. This year, he’d opted for the London residence. Two months earlier, a group of friends from Los Angeles invited him to join a cruise of the Greek Islands. The party of six planned to charter a yacht in Corfu and spend ten days exploring the Ionian Islands. He had deliberated for weeks, eventually declining the invitation in favor of a loose promise to rendezvous with the boat at some point on the journey.
It was the vague nature of the arrangement that mattered. Ben had become used to doing as he pleased. Committing to a schedule, however pleasant, had no appeal.
Over the past week, he’d maintained regular contact with the cruise organizer, tracking the yacht’s progress. As he lay there, Ben was unable to explain why he chose to meet his friends in Fiskardo, on the island of Kefalonia.
Buying a last-minute ticket, he’d taken a flight the previous afternoon, arriving at the island’s small airport in the heat of early evening. Dusk had become night during the one-hour taxi ride to the Hotel Dionysus. Without a concrete itinerary, Ben had reserved the room for two nights. He did not unpack.
The phone on his bedside table vibrated then beeped, announcing a new message. He reached over to read it.
”leaving sami harbor soon will be in fiskardo late afternoon see u there e”
e, was Eric Miller, the cruise organizer, an American in his early forties, and a successful biotech entrepreneur. They had been friends for over a decade.
Ben replied.
“ok am here see u later.”
The timing was perfect. He could explore the village, take a leisurely lunch and meet up with the boat in the afternoon.
Ben studied the message again. Curious about the local geography, he picked up the visitor map he’d bought at the airport and went onto the veranda. Outside, in the cypress-scented air, he became conscious of the cicadas and wondered how the mind makes oblivious their incessant sound.
He leaned against the balcony, letting the sun toast his back and began retracing last night’s journey. From the airport, on the southwest coast, his finger followed the western coastline, through Argostoli, to the northern tip of the island.
The port of Sami lay on the eastern seaboard, fifteen miles south of Fiskardo. Just offshore, Ithaca Island stretched the entire distance from Sami to Fiskardo, separated by a narrow channel.
The voyage by sea would be spectacular, thought Ben.
Stepping out of the sunlight into the shaded room, he felt a twinge of regret, coincident with the change of light, that he would miss the experience.
Eager to explore the village, Ben prepared to leave. Rooting through the suitcase, he chose a T-shirt and spread it on the bed. As he smoothed out the creases, the texture of the fabric became rubberlike as his hand moved over a large print. He paused to admire the black and white graphic, a poster advertising a Japanese movie. A young man and woman lay asleep, perhaps dead, on the floor; their bodies forming a straight line, head to head, one yard apart. The ground, strewn with leaves, suggested a forest setting. Above the prone figures, three white lines of Japanese letters rose vertically, extending past the print and blending with the deep blue cotton.
Ben knew the image attracted attention. When asked about it, he always feigned ignorance in an attempt to cultivate an air of mystery. He pulled the T-shirt over his head, grabbed his mobile phone and rummaged in the suitcase for a point-and-shoot camera and his sunglasses.
***
In the narrow corridor, a middle-aged maid mopped the floor tiles, her cart piled high with clean towels and fresh linens. He smiled as he squeezed past. “Good morning.”
Startled, the woman muttered something incomprehensible, though it sounded friendly enough. Ben was in good spirits, eager to explore; lacking a plan suited him fine.
Black and white marble formed a checkerboard pattern on the floor of the air-conditioned lobby; an oasis of cool before the furnace beyond. Outside, a few high clouds drifted over the sea in an otherwise blue sky. Ben flipped on his sunglasses, suppressing the blinding light.
Arriving in Fiskardo at night had robbed the village of its charm and color. Tired and weary, he’d taken a nightcap and gone to bed early; daylight revealed a pleasant surprise. Nestled in a small bay at the northern tip of the island, Fiskardo was the quintessential Mediterranean fishing harbor. Surrounded by pine and cypress hills, scores of white craft floated in shallow turquoise water. Like a verdant cloak scattered with sequins, brightly colored villas decorated the gentle slopes leading down to the quayside. Even the most jaded traveler might rejoice, gazing at the shimmering mirage of Ithaca Island across the narrow blue channel.
What had the taxi driver said last night?
The man could have been a tour guide the way he punctuated the journey with a tale for every place they passed. His ramblings drew little interest for the most part but two things stuck in Ben’s mind; a mummified saint and the August earthquakes of 1953. That he should remember the earthquake was no surprise, the man’s description was vivid, telling of hundreds dying, thousands evacuated, the entire island lifted up sixty centimeters. Later, in the hotel room, Ben had checked online; Kefalonia was on a major tectonic fault, where the European and Aegean plates collide. The driver hadn’t exaggerated, the earthquake had leveled almost every building, erasing centuries of culture and history. Fate had seen Fiskardo escape, preserving a trace of the islands’ past.
The village was concentrated on the west side of the bay, its architecture classic Venetian. Pastel painted houses, their walls festooned with flowers, lined the quayside. At the water’s edge, cafes and tavernas served guests under shaded cabanas. Here was a peaceful place, where waves lapped against the quay … gently, like leaves rustling on a tree.
Ben stopped at a cafe for coffee and a small bowl of fruit before continuing to explore.
At the central plaza, the promenade became an artist’s canvas. Here, a blue gable, lush with red and pink blossoms, abutted an orange building with a clay-tiled roof. He paused to admire a two-storey house, harmonious, with its ochre walls and pale green woodwork. Three giant vases of the most vivid-red stood against the pastel masonry creating a sublime contrast. Thick, gnarled trunks grew from the urns, a meter high, before bursting into foliage and flowers. The flowering vines conspired to cover just enough of the ochre wall for Ben to imagine an artistic gardener meticulously pruning to keep the composition in check.
He photographed the building in classic landscape, throwing in a few unusual angles for good measure. He checked the images, thinking of the artistic gardener, hoping to make him proud. One of the shots, at least, showed promise.
Ben was happy to linger, content to be alone. No one would urge him to stop taking pictures or hurry him to another destination. Every action would be for his own pleasure and in his own time.
He
sat on one of the benches at the water’s edge and gazed out over the harbor. A mild breeze blew off the bay, ruffling his hair. He may have stayed five minutes or half an hour, he could not say. Eventually, he left the bench and turned to face the village. Several narrow streets, crowded with tourists, led off from the main promenade. He chose one at random, mingling with the crowds, briefly sharing in their lives. Gradually, the shops gave way to houses and the street became quiet.
At a crossroad, another vase caught his attention. Burnished and intensely blue, it stood one meter high, on a platform, outside a rose-colored villa. An iron rail bordered the plinth. Out of the container grew a bougainvillea in full bloom, its mass of purple blossom splashed against the wall. The blue of the house door matched the vase, its ceramic handle painted in a floral pattern. Further down the street, more bougainvillea-clad cottages funneled his vision, leading to a narrow view of the harbor. Ben focused his camera lens on the urn and its flowers, hoping the distant bay would make a pleasing composition. He moved back a few paces, checking the photograph in the viewer. Satisfied with the shot, he was surprised as the door edged open and a small boy emerged. The child was dressed curiously, wearing a flat cloth cap and raggedy clothes; he stared at Ben who made a gesture so as to take his picture. The boy gave a smile, confirming his consent. Ben returned the smile, snapping an image before retracing his steps back to the promenade.
Chapter 7
August 8, 1953 fell on a Saturday, another day in the high eighties. Eleven-year-old Nicia Katros sat with her friend on the harbor wall, staring out over the lagoon.
A church bell rang out, announcing the hour. Nicia tossed a pebble into the air, watching it drop into the sea with a satisfying splash. “I win … again.”
“I didn’t see the last one,” complained Larissa Matsakis. “Besides I’m still winning.”
The two girls had walked the length of the eastern Fanari Peninsula, along the Argostoli waterfront, looking for loggerhead turtles; a common sight at this time of year.
Nicia pulled a piece of chalk from her pocket and began drawing on the stone floor. “I don’t think so. Look.” She sketched out the long cigar shape of Argostoli bay, then the narrow Fanari peninsula jutting into it. Getting her bearings, she looked to her right, to the south, where the old stone bridge crossed the lagoon to the mainland.
“Here’s Drapano Bridge.” Nicia drew a crooked line across the inlet. “A cross for me and a circle for you.” She marked the spot where each girl had spotted a turtle. She went on to draw the rest of their neighborhood topology, the port, the northern tip of Fanari, the lighthouse on northwestern edge opposite the much larger Pali Peninsula. She chalked more sightings.
“Count them. Did I miss any?”
“I can’t remember,” said Larissa. “But I know I’m winning.”
Half a mile to the north, the Argostoli-Lixouri ferry sounded its horn and began the twenty-five minute crossing of the bay.
Nicia tugged her friend’s dress. “Come on. The ferry’s leaving. It’s time to go. I’ve got the tally on a map in my room; we can count the score later.”
Before they had walked a hundred yards, Nicia called out, excited. “Another. Over there.”
The reddish-brown shell of an enormous turtle surfaced near the seawall. More than a meter long, the creature poked its head out of the water, opening its nostrils to draw breath.
“It’s the biggest one yet,” said Larissa.
The turtle’s massive flippers, like sea wings, moved with a slow grace, propelling it forward as though gliding through air. The girls followed its nonchalant journey along the quay, under a fishing boat, where it surfaced again, filled its lungs then plunged into the depths.
At the moment of descent, a tingle ran down Nicia’s spine, as if she, herself, were submerging, opening her eyes underwater, holding her breath to disappear into an unknown world. She wanted to follow.
“I thought you had to get back early,” said Larissa.
“I do, let’s go.”
Nicia lived in a small two-story house close to the Argostoli ferry terminal. The neighborhood was poor. This didn’t bother Nicia. Her father often told her, “In Argostoli there are rich people, poor people and desperately poor people. We are lucky.”
The family owned a smallholding on the outskirts of town, which had passed down to the eldest son for generations. The farm was little more than a small orchard of pear and olive trees and an adjacent half-acre field planted with vines, tomatoes, and eggplants.
As the girls turned into their street, Nicia schemed. Her brothers were building a tree house in the old oak behind father’s barn. Ioannis had talked of nothing else for the last few days. From what he’d told her, Nicia formed a gingerbread image of their handiwork, based, in part, on a picture she had once seen in a children’s book. Tonight, together with Larissa’s older brother, the boys planned to sleep in the den for the first time. Nicia was jealous.
“Mom’s taking me to the farm. We’re delivering food to the boys.”
“Can I come?” asked Larissa.
“No. Andreas is there. Who will look after your mom?”
The Matsakis’ lived next door to Nicia; they operated a general store selling all manner of goods, including produce grown on the Katros allotment. Mrs. Matsakis suffered from stomach problems and was often too sick to mind the shop. At such times, Nicia’s mother helped out; the two families were close.
In truth, Nicia wasn’t sure what arrangements had been made. Her older sister, Nessa, usually worked at home, lacemaking, but sometimes assisted Mrs. Matsakis in the store. Secretly, Nicia wanted to sleep in the tree den and hoped to convince her mother to agree. Having Larissa along would spoil the plan.
Nicia said goodbye to her friend and entered the house. On the other side of the kitchen door, she heard her father’s voice.
“What are you going to do, woman, climb the tree? I’ve checked the thing myself; it’s safe. The boys have done a good job; they won’t come to any harm.”
Her mother was opposed to Ioannis spending the night on the farm, but reluctantly agreed, on condition she inspect the tree house. Nicia opened the door making as little sound as possible.
“I’m not going to climb the tree; I just want to see how high it is. I’m going over there with Nicia before it gets dark. I still think, with the recent tremors and all…”
A wry smile and a shake of her father’s head ended the discussion on an amiable note.
***
With the afternoon sun far to the west, Nicia and her mother set off through town carrying a bag of food.
Even at her young age, Nicia’s was aware of a connection to Andreas Matsakis. Handsome, and one of the most popular boys in school, Andreas didn’t tease her like the others. Nicia treasured the protection she enjoyed from being in the favor of Andreas. Today, she was pleased to be bringing his supper.
The narrow dirt path leading to the allotment wound through the pear and olive orchards. This was Nicia’s favorite part of the farm. She loved how the pear trees grew v-shaped trunks, often quite close to the ground. Sometimes she’d scramble up a tree and stand in the fork, an arm around each bough, doing nothing, just watching the world and listening to the cicadas in the branches. Most everything about nature fascinated Nicia; even touching the thick rugged bark of the pear trees filled her with a sense of delight.
“Can I sleep in the tree house tonight?” Nicia chose this moment to ask. She imagined how it would feel to open the door in the dead of night, and sit, motionless, high in the branches, listening to the crickets and the owls.
“No.” Her mother’s answer was empathic. “Girls don’t sleep in tree houses.”
“But why?”
“They just don’t. Besides, the boys won’t want you around. Don’t ask again.”
‘The boys won’t want you around.’ The words echoed in Nicia’s head and they hurt. Ioannis wouldn’t have said that, they were too close. He was always the first to leap
to her defense when Nessa teased her. Perhaps Stamos or Andreas had spoken to mother but it was hard to imagine. Just the thought of not being wanted blunted her desire to sleep in the tree house. If only her mother hadn’t spoken.
The lone oak grew behind the stone barn. From the path, only the higher branches were visible above the clay-tiled roof; there was no sign of the tree house.
Nicia’s mother breathed a sigh of relief, “Thank goodness it’s not too high.”
Still smarting from the hurtful words, Nicia ran on ahead to catch her first glimpse of the den.
Andreas knelt on the flat roof, leaning over the side with a paintbrush in his hand. He heard Nicia’s approach and motioned her to climb; she looked pensive.
“Come on,” he teased. “A baby could do it. Just use the nails as steps.”
Nicia assessed the difficulty. The boys had hammered thick iron nails into the trunk, every couple of feet, until a gently sloping bough made the climb easy. She wondered if the tree felt pain when the nails pieced its bark.
“Nicia,” her mother yelled.
The shout alerted Ioannis, who opened the tree house door; Nicia was halfway up the trunk.
“Get down,” her mother called.
Nicia didn’t stop. With the agility of a cat, she reached the sloping bough, balancing along, until Ioannis grabbed her hand and pulled her through the door. The young girl looked down at her mother who swung the bag of food on her wrist.
“It’s safe, mom,” said Nicia with a smile.
In reality, the tree house wasn’t more than twelve feet off the ground. Nicia’s mother relaxed and sat on the stone steps outside the barn door.
“Where’s Stamos?” she shouted.
A voice called from inside the stone building.
“In here, Mom.”
“I’ve brought your supper. Come and get it, we have to get back. Nicia, come on, please.”
Like a gymnast, Andreas swung from the roof and through the tree house door. Ioannis and Nicia frolicked on the pillows and blankets scattered around the wooden floor. Nicia wished she could stay with the boys; her mother called again. It was time to go.
