The Magic In The Receiver

by Dillon, Paul

  “Take the last century, free market capitalism versus communism or whatever. People were ready to launch nuclear war over the ideology. A few years later, we have forgotten what communism is.”

  “That’s true,” said Elena.

  “Right. Children born this millennium will have to be taught about communism in history class. Today it’s free market capitalism versus socialism; yesterday, free market capitalism versus communism. The further you go back, the more ridiculous it gets; Yankees versus Confederates, Royalist versus Parliamentarians, Catholics versus Protestants, and so on.”

  “Amen to that,” said Elena, excusing herself. “I need the restroom”

  The strong coffee had conspired with the pointless conversation to stall Ben’s progress with Elena. He got up and followed her into the taverna, looking for Spiro.

  ***

  By the time he returned, Ben’s head had cleared.

  A street vendor showed his tray of novelty gadgets at Eric’s table. Attracting little interest, the man left without making a sale.

  Ben walked back to his seat, picked up the ouzo and knocked it back. He remained standing, looking out over the bay, where the lights from the tavernas splashed yellow, red, and orange patterns over the water.

  Elena and Spiro came out of the restaurant together, chatting on the way to the table. Ben stared at the harbor unaware of their approach until she put her arms around his neck. He felt her breasts pressing into his back and sensed the texture of dress clinging to curves. She nuzzled her face into his neck.

  “Everything okay?” she asked.

  “It’s a beautiful night, so peaceful.”

  He wanted to turn around and hold her but now wasn’t the time. He thought of the check to keep from becoming aroused.

  “It’s been a perfect evening,” she said.

  Ben had to agree; being with Elena was natural, second nature. There was no surprise when she hugged him from behind; it was as though she had known him forever.

  He turned; Elena let her arms fall to her side. “I’d better see to the check,” he said.

  A huge wad of Euro notes lay piled on a silver plate next to the bill.

  “How much do I owe?” asked Ben to no one in particular.

  “We took care of it already,” said Eric.

  Ben protested.

  “Hey man, you went to a lot of trouble to arrange dinner. Don’t worry; we took very good care of Spiro.”

  The remark was final, further argument was futile. Eric went over to Spiro, shook hands and thanked him for his service. No doubt this would be one of Spiro’s more profitable tables this season.

  “My compliments to Irilena, please thank her for taking the trouble to make the lamb kleftiko; it was delicious,” said Ben.

  Elena stood by his side, the others waited in front of the souvenir shop until Ben was finished. They walked away.

  “My flowers!” said Elena.

  “Better leave them,” said Ben. “There’s nowhere to put them.”

  “No way,” said Elena.

  She returned to the table, lifting the flowers from the vase. Drops of water ran off the stems, wetting her legs.

  Chapter 17

  Ioannis Katros led his family along the marble floor of the Church of Saint Gerasimos. Elena stood by her mother’s side, surprised by the spectacle’s opulence. Incense filled the air, lingering; fueling the solemn chants with an alien potency. For the first time, Elena understood how ritual exploited the senses to strike awe in the beholder.

  She whispered to her mother. “The children won’t be able to see anything; someone will have to take them outside.”

  There was no reply.

  Elena’s mother was second generation American, born of Italian parents. Although not a devout Catholic, Veronica Katros’ influence on her daughter favored the Roman over the Greek Orthodox Church. Apart from marriages, christenings, or deaths, on her father’s side, the family never attended service.

  As Elena waited in line, she struggled to recall the layout of a traditional Greek church. She crossed an antechamber, entering the main space.

  Narthex, and nave, she thought.

  At the far end, a large screen, the templon, separated the nave from the sanctuary beyond.

  This was a church unlike any in Elena’s recollection. Standing in the middle of nowhere, its magnificent interior was reminiscent of the Vatican or ancient Constantinople. Every available surface bore icons or frescoes painted in the Byzantine style. Vaulted ceilings, covered with intricate works of art, depicted saints or biblical stories. Each higher ceiling led the eyes upwards to the massive dome, soaring above the nave to gaze upon the image of Christ.

  The church benches, removed to accommodate a larger congregation, left an open space of black-and-white, checkered marble. Elena ran her hand along a velvet rope. It hung from an ornate gilded post, defining the aisle. Worshippers, pressing forward, pushed her from behind as she shuffled into position midway in the nave.

  There was so much to marvel at, Elena didn’t know where to start. From any angle, the templon, intricately carved from white marble, and inset with icons was the focal point. It towered upwards, passing the visual baton to the painted ceilings. Elena looked up; the detailed artwork mesmerized. Only when her neck tired, did the paintings lose their grip, bowing to the elaborate chandeliers. One in particular held her attention. Hanging from the central dome, covered in candles, it had a name she knew; horos. Like a silver ring of Saturn, its icon-encrusted band circled a colossal inner orb. Staggeringly baroque, the inner orb alone was grander than the finest chandelier she had ever seen. A monk standing near the altar pushed the horos with a rod, making it turn back and forth in hypnotic fashion.

  This was the awe in which the Patron Saint of Kefalonia was held. With new appreciation, Elena began to consider her father’s personal quest with deeper awareness. A monk chanted, another echoed his song. Elena looked across at her father and saw a man electrified in the presence of his saint. She tried to fill her mind with his thoughts, but could not. To her, the terrible truth of his childhood trauma had always been out of reach; a mountain peak obscured by clouds.

  From her earliest years, Elena’s father had told stories about Saint Gerasimos. She remembered how the saint’s body had not decomposed after burial; that it lay in its original robes in a silver and glass sarcophagus. Yesterday, faithful servants had carried his casket from the old monastery, out of the cave where he’d spent his life, laying it to rest at a marble shrine in the church. There it now sat, awaiting its annual journey.

  Although absorbed in the ritual, Elena retained the presence of mind to check on the two young boys. Strangely, they showed no sign of restlessness.

  Hemmed in by the congregation, she could not see the saint. The activity of the monks, by the templon, suggested his casket lay over to her left. More than once, Elena caught a glimpse of silver over the heads of the worshippers. Soon they would take the sarcophagus and carry it, upright, to the ancient tree planted by the saint in his lifetime.

  An elbow nudged Elena’s arm, her mother nodded in the direction of her father. The congregation had begun to line up at the front of the church. Ioannis, Nicia and Andreas joined the queue.

  “Is this the Communion?” whispered Elena.

  “Yes,” replied her mother.

  Out of the sanctuary, a priest emerged, carrying a silver chalice and a ritual spoon; chanting filled the air.

  A young girl bowed her head, awaiting the priest. Elena imagined her chosen for the honor, like some festival princess. The child’s mother held a red cloth napkin under her daughter’s chin, now raised to receive the blessing. Dipping the spoon into the chalice, the priest administered the communion wine and the young girl passed the cloth to the next in line.

  With communicants moving in and out of the aisle, the area in front of Elena became less crowded. Her pulse quickened as she caught a glimpse of the saint. A woman, returning from the sacrament, shuffled bac
k to her place, once more blocking Elena’s view.

  Now her father prepared to receive the communion wine. Kneeling before the priest, he turned to the left, fixing his eyes on the saint. The priest held the spoon, just above the chalice, waiting for what seemed an eternity until her father turned his head back to receive the blessing. Ioannis passed the red cloth over to his sister and returned down the aisle.

  As he rejoined Elena, she smiled. He did not respond, causing her concern. She tapped his arm and he faced her momentarily. His unfamiliar expression showed a hint of fear. She tried to put her apprehension aside.

  A little trepidation was to be expected.

  How quickly time passes, the service was almost over.

  What message had she missed during the sermon?

  Elena regretted her poor understanding of the language. She resolved to ask Nicia, later.

  Robed figures gathered around the body of Gerasimos, conjuring suspense like an electric charge. The burnished dome rose into the air, a woman cried out. The scene was far more intense than Elena expected. The casket moved forward, people shouted out, some became hysterical.

  Held aloft in his silver and glass tomb, Saint Gerasimos was coming back to his beloved land.

  Chapter 18

  Walking back to the yacht took longer than expected. The young boy, Alan, stopped to play with a kitten he’d spotted under a bench near the harbor wall. Elena sat on the armrest, watching the boy coax the tawny cat into the light. Ben and Eric passed time discovering mosquito bites on their legs.

  “I need to get something from the boat,” said Ben. “Be back in a minute.”

  No sooner had the kitten emerged than Elena’s phone rang, frightening the creature, sending it back under the bench. She pulled the handset from her bag, checking the caller ID: Greg Buchanan. She let it go unanswered. Time had flown; she had forgotten her promise to call.

  It’s still only mid-afternoon in Boston; he’s sure to ring again.

  Until now, Elena hadn’t considered the night ahead. Rather than making conscious decisions, events seemed to have unfolded around her.

  Kismet, she mused.

  Tonight was part of a process, a process that could define her future. Now, a choice was imminent, forget Greg’s message or respond. Ignoring it would create more tension, weighing on her mind, holding her down. Her thoughts had to be free from conflict, allowing destiny to run its course. The phone, still in her hand, vibrated with a new voicemail. She acted without hesitation, hitting the retrieve option, anxious for a conclusion.

  Alan, seemingly bored with the cat, stood up just as Ben returned. “Bye Kitty, bye Ben,” said the boy and followed his father to the yacht.

  Elena saw Ben approaching; she stepped over to the boardwalk, straining to hear Greg’s message above the music and clatter of the tourists.

  “Listen, I’m sorry about earlier, I got stressed out,” there was a pause. “Forget what I said about deadlines. I mean, I still want you to come back soon, but … well, just come back when you’re ready. Hey, it’s late over there; you’re probably beat. No need to call me back tonight. Let’s speak tomorrow. I love you.”

  She turned back towards the bench. The cat was out again, nestling against Ben’s foot. He stroked its back without looking up.

  “Oh, you got the cat to come out. It likes you.” She sat next to Ben, patting the kitten’s head. “Here, fluffy baby.”

  “Shall we?” Ben nodded towards the promenade.

  Elena picked up her bouquet; a faint whiff of fragrance followed the movement. Her thoughts remained with Greg as they made their way to the plaza. It was sweet of him, conceding to her wishes; she felt relief from the earlier tension.

  “Did you get tomorrow’s schedule from Eric?” she asked.

  “Yes, we need to be back at the boat by one.”

  “Did you say you had two rooms at the hotel?” She deliberately intended to confuse him.

  “Err … no, one room with two beds. I think I said we can get another room, if there are any available, or one of us can stay on the yacht.”

  “Let’s figure that out when we get there.”

  Greg’s message lingered in her head. His voice had a weak feel to it, she preferred the insistent Greg, the Greg who demanded her. She decided against calling him tonight; a text would suffice. Greg had no way of knowing where she was. He didn’t have Aunt Nicia’s number and wouldn’t call if he did. That would be spying.

  “Something wrong?” asked Ben.

  “No, I just got a text from Sophia. I need to let her know I won’t be back until late tomorrow.”

  She sat on one of the benches in the main plaza, opposite the cafe with the rude waitress. Her fingers tapped out a reply.

  “Hi got your message sorry I didn’t get back to you busy with Sophia poor phone service out here going to turn in now call you tomorrow.”

  There was no need to append with ‘love you’; it was only a text message.

  ***

  Ben had the distinct impression that Sophia was not the caller. Something had distracted Elena. A sense of deflation threatened to wipe out the euphoria, the mysterious spell that had bound them together at the restaurant. His objective was clear; the excitement must reappear.

  She rose, beaming him a smile. The gesture was like throwing a switch, bringing back the magic. He put his arm around her waist, pulling her into him. Her arm rested on his, the contact tingling.

  This was their street. From noon ‘til night, for eight hours, the music, people, buildings, the lights, heat and aromas had become their world.

  Ben stopped in front of a pink building, which housed a general store. He pointed at two swollen bites on his leg.

  “Look at these.”

  “I haven’t been bitten yet.” Elena spoke as though boasting of an achievement.

  “That’s because you’re Greek. I’m going to buy some citronella candles, keep the damn mozzies away tonight. Do you need anything?”

  “Should we get something to drink?”

  “The hotel bar will be open for another hour; we’ll have a nightcap there. Watch these while I go inside.” He handed her a green paper shopping bag. “You left this on the boat.” The bag contained overnight necessities and a bikini they’d bought earlier.

  To idle away the time until his return, Elena took pictures of the harbor. An old lady, standing alone, stared out over the bay. She turned around in surprise as the camera flashed, snapping her profile

  Elena was still preoccupied when Ben returned from the store.

  “I’ll carry the bags, you look after the flowers,” he said. “It’s not far.”

  A cooling breeze drifted along the narrow side street leading away from the promenade. Storekeepers stood in doorways, looking bored, hoping to make a last sale.

  “The cafes look so lonely at this time of night,” said Elena.

  They strolled, with linked arms, up the slight incline, stopping once to browse the goods outside a leather store. Barely three hundred yards long, the narrow street ended at a T-junction where a wider road ran parallel with the harbor. They turned left, hugging a stone wall. The dimly lit lane had no sidewalk and the land beyond rose steeply. Here, only the sound of crickets stirred above the distant drone from the quayside.

  Presently, they rounded a curve where the ground on the right leveled out.

  “We’re here,” said Ben.

  Tall, dark trees hid the building from view until they passed the opening to a parking lot. Fifty yards further, a gravel path led to the hotel, its walls bathed in orange light.

  Crossing the black and white checkerboard foyer, they entered the bar. Before Ben had taken in the surroundings, a deep voice called out.

  “Good evening.”

  Surprised, Ben felt as though he’d trespassed into someone’s home.

  “Hey, good evening,” he replied, still unsure who’d addressed him.

  “Beautiful flowers for a beautiful lady,” said the man behind th
e bar. “I put them in water for you.”

  “Thanks,” said Ben.

  The counter ran along the right hand side of the room, one-third its length. A man and woman, in their fifties, occupied two stools at the far end. The bartender, also in his fifties, went back to his conversation with the couple. No other guests were in the room.

  Dropping his bags on a circular table, Ben pulled back an armchair. Elena moved to sit but stopped as laughter erupted at the bar.

  “That guy sounds fun. Shall we sit at the bar?” he suggested.

  Elena nodded, following him.

  The bartender leaned against the counter, chatting to the middle-aged couple. “You liked that … no cheating, eh?”

  He stood up as Ben approached.

  “I’m still not sure how you did that,” said the woman.

  From her accent, Ben gathered she was English, from the West Country.

  “Watch him, he’s full of tricks,” she said to Ben.

  “What did he do?” Ben moved closer to her.

  The woman talked, excitedly; the bartender asked Ben for his order. Politeness required Ben to juggle the two conversations.

  “Balanced a fork on a toothpick?” Ben exaggerated his curiosity. He had no idea what she was talking about. “Elena, what would you like?”

  “Strawberry daiquiri.”

  Ben repeated Elena’s order to the barman, who appeared not to have understood.

  The woman kept up a steady stream of words. “…cork in a wine bottle; amazing how he…”

  “I need to see that,” said Ben, on autopilot.

  “We don’t have this,” said the bartender. His face seemed fixed in a permanent grin.

  He must be referring to the strawberry daiquiri, thought Ben.

  He turned back to Elena, “Fancy a mojito then?”

  She nodded.

  “Mojito?” asked Ben.

  The barman, still grinning, shook his head.

  “You’re out of luck, old chap,” said the man at the end of the bar.

  “How about any cocktail that contains rum?” Ben continued.

  “I make you something, no problem. You like … lady friend like; special recipe.” The man’s thick Greek accent added more humor to the already farcical conversation.