The Magic In The Receiver

by Dillon, Paul

“Make that two,” Ben chipped in.

  Eric continued, “I sat there drinking a couple of cold ones, watching the owner catching these tiny birds.”

  “Tiny birds?” asked Ben.

  “Yeah, little song birds, I forgot what he said they were called. He caught two while I was there.”

  “Who’d be a titan of the Biotech industry when you could own that taverna,” said Ben.

  “Yeah, tell me about it.”

  Talk of the magical cove and the legendary shrimp dish made Eric eager for new discoveries. “This place isn’t very interesting.” He engaged the throttle and the yacht slid away.

  A few minutes out from Assos, Joe climbed up to the flybridge, followed by Clotilde.

  “That kid of yours fleeced us,” said Joe.

  “You been teaching him poker?” asked Eric.

  “Don’t listen to him,” said Clotilde. “We were playing crazy eights, ask Sean.”

  Clotilde’s lime green bikini competed for attention with Joe’s Hawaiian shirt.

  “Check out the castle.” Eric pointed ahead.

  Ben looked up at the sun-bleached outcrop. Olive trees surrounded the red-brown walls of the square, roofless fort.

  The yacht slowed, gliding into the bay. A thin strip of land connected the promontory to the mainland, forming a sheltered cove with a narrow northerly entrance. The water was shallow, the bottom easily visible. Eric stopped the motor a hundred yards from the beach.

  “You gotta be kidding,” said Joe.

  “Nice,” said Clotilde.

  Brightly colored houses lined the shore, from the harbor mouth to the castle rock. Several smaller craft lay anchored in the bay.

  Before leaving to drop anchor, Eric handed out cold beers from the built-in icebox near the cockpit.

  With the village as a backdrop, Ben photographed Elena. Clotilde stood watching them.

  “Lean against the guardrail,” said Ben. “Now turn you head to the right.”

  Elena’s profile was beguiling. A satisfying sensation, perhaps pride, swept over him. It had been a long time since Ben had wanted to belong to someone.

  “I like the T-shirt,” said Clotilde.

  Ben focused on the monochrome print in the viewfinder. A young, dark-haired woman; her hands raised, touching her forehead, pushing back her hair. A large bracelet dangled from her left arm.

  “Hedy Lamarr isn’t it?” He heard Clotilde say.

  “Yeah, it’s one of Ben’s,” replied Elena.

  “If he had any class,” said Joe. “He’d have given you the Sophia Loren one.”

  “Did you know Hedy Lamarr was an inventor?” asked Clotilde.

  “Inventor and movie star. Hedy, you under-achiever you,” said Elena.

  “Yes, she invented some kind of radio technology. Spread spectrum, I think,” said Clotilde.

  Ben took his eyes away from the viewfinder and rejoined the physical world.

  Yet again the stylish Clotilde scored high in his estimation; devastatingly beautiful, art and wine connoisseur, Miss General Knowledge. Once more, he found himself comparing the French girl to Elena. He knew most men would pick Clotilde. Two days ago, he would have done so without thinking. Clotilde was flawless, a classical beauty; Elena wasn’t. She had a larger nose, typical of Mediterranean and Middle Eastern people. Now, that feature held more allure than the unblemished Clotilde and he began to feel an elitist pride in its imperfection.

  In any case, thought Ben. After you get used to someone, you cease to notice their features.

  Clotilde was too perfect; every man could see that. She could never be special to him and him alone.

  Ben tapped Elena’s arm. “I’m going for a dip, you coming?”

  “Sure. Is there a snorkel, the water looks so clear?”

  “I’ll ask Eric.”

  ***

  Down on the stern deck, Ben laid his hands on Elena’s shoulders, gently massaging her neck muscles. They watched Sean start the winch and guide the dinghy into the water.

  “Sean and Sandra have volunteered to pop over to the village and bring back lunch,” said Eric, stepping out of the main cabin. He checked the reception on his phone. “Hey, Sean, call me when you get to a menu.”

  “Okay.” Sean laughed and started the motor. His wife stepped into the craft, steadying herself on her husband’s arm.

  “Hey, Alan,” said Ben. “Get the snorkels and show me how to set up the diving board.”

  The young boy disappeared into the cabin below, returning moments later with two masks. Passing them to Ben, he rigged up the diving board in less than a minute, looking pleased to demonstrate his seamanship.

  “You’ll be captain one day,” said Ben.

  “I already know how to pilot the boat. I skippered it from Paxi to Lefkada.”

  “No way. What about charts and maps?”

  “My dad showed me how to navigate.”

  “What are you, like ten or something?” teased Ben.

  The boy jumped onto the diving board. “Race you to shore,” he shouted and plunged into the water.

  All alone on the stern deck, Ben grabbed the hem of Elena’s T-shirt, pulling it up. She slapped his arm, removing the garment herself.

  Sheltered by the rocky promontory, the air in the cove was motionless and blazing hot under the afternoon sun. Ben whipped off his shirt and passed a snorkel to Elena, beckoning towards the step with his palm. “Ladies first.”

  She leaned over the side, dipping the mask into the water. With the visor full, she flung the water at Ben, drenching his chest before jumping into the sea. He bounded onto the board, diving in after her.

  ***

  Ben was following a shoal of orange fish when he heard Eric shouting.

  “What do you guys want to order?”

  He flipped over on to his back, sliding the snorkel over his head.

  “Do they have the shrimp, in the olive oil and garlic?”

  “No, I checked already,” said Eric, with a smile.

  “How about souvlaki?”

  “Souvlaki,” he said into the handset.

  “Yeah, lamb souvlaki,” he relayed.

  “That’ll do for me,” said Ben.

  “What does Elena want?”

  She was several hundred yards away, over by the outcrop.

  “Dunno, a salad … any salad,” said Ben.

  ***

  Elena swam for another half hour later before returning to the boat. Ben was hanging off the guardrail, ready to climb out of the water when she slithered up behind, wrapping her arms around his waist. Her breasts pressed into his back as she squeezed him. He flipped around, facing her, relishing the sensation of her slippery body. His mind scrambled, searching for a plan, anticipating any opportunity that might arise where he could make love to her before Argostoli. He kissed her neck as she wriggled free and climbed on deck. Ben swam off to cool his desire.

  It was mid-afternoon when the dinghy returned. Ben heard Eric shouting his name and headed back to the boat, cutting through the water with a powerful stroke. He imagined Elena watching him.

  As he scrambled back on board, Eric’s wife called from the galley. “Ben, do me a favor, take these plates upstairs.”

  He obliged, making a couple of trips for napkins, utensils, chilled white wine and beers.

  Soon everyone was on the flybridge enjoying lunch. Young Alan sat at the cockpit playing a handheld video game, somehow managing to munch a burger at the same time.

  “How’s the salad?” Ben asked Elena.

  “Delicious.”

  “Joe, you been swimming yet?” Sean wound strands of linguine around his fork, sucking up a loose strand as he popped it into his mouth.

  “He doesn’t want Clotilde seeing his man boobs,” said Eric.

  “I might get the scuba gear out later,” replied Joe.

  “Joe’s been working out; he’s in good shape,” said Clotilde.

  She put an arm around his neck and kissed his cheek. “How about y
ou, Ben, do you work out?”

  Ben’s T-shirt was still on the stern deck. He wondered if Clotilde had noticed the small fold of fat peeking over the top of his shorts; he leaned back, tightening his stomach.

  “Usually, but I’ve been traveling for a month. I try and do some pushups when I’m on the road.”

  “How many pushups, five?” asked Joe.

  “A hundred or so,” said Ben, ignoring the sarcasm.

  “A hundred at once?” Elena felt one of his biceps, mocking him.

  “No, four sets of twenty-five,” said Ben.

  “More like a hundred sets of one,” said Joe.

  Alan shouted; everyone looked up.

  “He’s probably just beaten his record score,” said his mother.

  The boy came over to his father, in search of praise. Eric high-fived him, letting him squeeze into the circle of adults.

  “What did you order, Joe?” asked Ben.

  “Moussaka.”

  “How is it?”

  “So-so. You know the Greeks copied Moussaka from the Italians,” said Joe.

  “Oh, really, I suppose you guys taught both the Greeks and the French to cook,” said Elena.

  Surprised by her remark, Ben looked up from his lunch and waited for Joe’s reaction.

  “Yeah but we did a better job with the Greeks,” replied Joe. He appeared to have accepted Elena as one of the group. This pleased Ben.

  “Joe isn’t a big fan of French cuisine,” said Clotilde.

  “That’s right. We taught them to cook then they go and start adding cream and butter and heaven knows what else. The next thing you know, the food’s ruined. Italian food is simple with fresh ingredients; tomatoes, a little garlic, olive oil.”

  “Do you ever cook French food?” Elena asked Clotilde.

  “Sometimes, but only when I’m mad at him,” she paused. “I don’t mind Joe mocking the French, I’m part Italian anyway.”

  Ben put his fork on his plate. “That explains a lot.”

  “Yes, my father’s Italian.”

  “Clotilde comes from a distinguished Italian family,” Joe said. His face lit up with pride.

  “Tell us more,” said Elena.

  “My ancestor was Josephina Grassini, an opera singer who was quite a star in the late eighteenth, early nineteenth centuries—you’ve probably never heard of her.”

  Ben hadn’t, but that didn’t slow Clotilde’s mystique from its meteoric rise.

  “You peasants wouldn’t know it, but Grassini was a big deal back then,” said Joe. “She was the lover of both Napoleon and the Duke of Wellington.”

  “There’s no need to lie,” said Ben.

  “It’s true,” said Clotilde. Ben’s deadpan humor was lost on the French woman.

  “So, not-tonight-Josephine was your ancestor?” asked Elena.

  “That was a different Josephine,” said Clotilde.

  “I don’t know what she saw in that pansy, Napoleon,” said Joe.

  “Joe doesn’t have any respect for our great Emperor,” said Clotilde.

  “Emperor of France? He was Italian! His real name was Buonaparte, not Bonaparte. What a nation, your greatest leader wasn’t even French,” said Joe.

  Ben wondered how much Clotilde might resemble the illustrious Josephina Grassini. Did the two military goliaths go into battle at Waterloo fighting for their countries or was their contest more personal?

  “There are some desserts here,” Sandra produced a plastic bag from under her seat. “They’re all the same, chocolate gateau.”

  “Thanks, they look delicious but I’ll pass,” said Elena. “I’ll tidy up. What happens to the trash?”

  Plates and food containers lay strewn around the bridge, as though the Battle of Waterloo had taken place on board.

  “How come you didn’t hire a maid?” Ben asked Eric.

  “We invited you instead,” said Joe.

  “There’s a dishwasher and garbage disposal in the galley,” said Eric.

  Ben got up, making room for Elena to slide out from the bench-style seats.

  “So get busy then,” he said, pulling her to her feet.

  His leg darted back to avoid a kick.

  “I’ll give you a hand.” He smiled.

  Several trips back and forth cleared the mess on the flybridge. Elena stacked dishes in the washer while Ben flung food cartons in the disposal.

  “You must have been a great waitress.”

  “The best,” she replied.

  “Hey, thanks for offering to help. That was a nice gesture.”

  “No problem, it’s the least I could do. I feel guilty, not paying for anything.”

  “Your money’s no good here.” He wrapped his arms around her waist, squeezing her from behind. “I wish we were alone on the yacht, right now.”

  He fantasized. She turned around, still in his embrace. Her eyes betrayed indecision, spurring him on. Privacy was just a few feet away, below deck. He held her wrist, stepping back, pulling her towards the stairs.

  She resisted. “It’s too risky.”

  Frustrated, he relived the moments from their steamy encounter at the Hotel Dionysus.

  A motor sounded from the stern; Eric and Sean winched the dinghy into its cradle.

  “Eric must be getting ready to leave. We’ll soon be at your fancy shmancy beach.”

  Minutes later the main engines started; the yacht plowed forward.

  Chapter 22

  Nicia lay on the bed, doodling on the bandage that wrapped around her hand. Visions of the hissing cat provided inspiration for her scribbles. Yesterday, after returning from the market, her mother had cleaned the wound with iodine and hot water; it stung. “We have to kill the germs,” her mother kept saying.

  After applying the final stroke of color to the sketch, she dropped her brush into the water jar and snapped the paint set closed. She was restless. School had closed for the summer. Ioannis and Stamos were at Grandmother’s cottage; Mother was next door in the store and Father at the farm. Only Nessa was in the house and Nessa wasn’t much fun. This morning, at the breakfast table, her elder sister hadn’t so much as said a word; Nicia ate her tiropita and marmalade toast in silence.

  By late morning, Nicia had begun to wonder why Larissa Matsakis hadn’t come around from next door. Because Nicia was older than Larissa, she felt the girl should come to her; there was something slightly demeaning in having to search Larissa out. In a few minutes, Nicia would go and find her friend. Perhaps they’d go to Grandmother’s and visit the boys. She picked up a book from the bedside table.

  Although poor, the family managed to borrow, swap or buy second hand books for Nicia. Tutankhamen’s Treasures was the latest. The Egyptian pharaoh and his treasure-filled tomb fascinated Nicia. She loved the book’s black and white lithographs; the gilded wooden Canopic Shrine, the Lion Bed, the Statue of Anubis. If only the pictures were in color.

  “Are you up there,” Larissa called from downstairs. The Matsakis’ children often came into the house unannounced and vice versa.

  “In the bedroom,” shouted Nicia.

  She tracked the sound of Larissa’s shoes tapping on the bare wooden stairs then the landing; in a few seconds, the loose floorboard outside her door would squeak. Larissa came in, without knocking, and sat on the narrow bed.

  “Let’s go and play in our garden,” said Larissa.

  Nicia considered the suggestion, picturing her neighbor’s yard. A simple rope swing with a red seat hung from a branch in the Matsakis’ apple tree; she could play there until lunch.

  “I want to go and see Ioannis this afternoon,” said Nicia.

  “Can I come too?” asked Larissa.

  Nicia wasn’t sure. “I’ll have to ask.”

  The two girls left the Katros’ house; Nicia noted the time on the hall clock. Not long until lunch.

  The Matsakis’ store, not much larger than Nicia’s house, had one sash window with shutters of a faded and delicate blue. Bottles of olive oil, jar
s and jugs, even boxes of fruit sat in the open window or outside the door partially blocking the entrance. Years later, Nicia would try to remember the display that day but could not. Clear in her mind though, she remembered carrying Tutankhamen’s Treasures and that Larissa walked in front wearing a lilac dress.

  The shop had a peculiar, unique aroma. Neither pleasant nor unpleasant, the smell was a strange combination of spice, fruit, paraffin and shoe polish. The two girls walked behind the counter towards the rear. Nicia said “Hello” to her mother who smiled and ruffled her daughter’s hair.

  A bead curtain hung at the entrance to a small storeroom. Nicia parted the strands of beads with her hands, gliding through as though doing the breaststroke. Larissa shouted something and ran off through the open door at the back of the building, disappearing into the bright sunshine.

  A voice called from the gloom. “Nicia, come and look.”

  She recognized the voice instantly; it belonged to Andreas, Larissa’s thirteen-year-old brother. Nicia stopped just short of the door and turned.

  “What is it?”

  Andreas was holding something in his outstretched hands. Nicia could only make out a head, the head of something alive.

  “I found it near the harbor.”

  Nicia moved closer and realized Andreas held a bird, a seagull.

  “It can’t fly,” said Andreas.

  She stroked the gull, her fingertips gliding down its soft neck and back.

  “I don’t know what to do with it.”

  “Let’s take it to the doctor,” Nicia suggested.

  “Doctors only treat people.”

  “Can I hold it?”

  Nicia put Tutankhamen’s Treasures on top of a wooden crate and held out her hands. Noticing the colorful bandage, Andreas asked if the scratch hurt. He’d heard about yesterday’s incident with the cat.

  “It doesn’t hurt.”

  Outside in the garden, the bough of the apple tree creaked with the rhythm of a pendulum; Larissa’s ankles and black shoes swung in and out of sight from the side of the door jamb.

  Stretching out his arms, Andreas offered Nicia the seagull.

  She expected the bird to struggle or peck at her, it did not. The injured creature just sat there, motionless. She cradled the gull gently, holding it up to her nose, sniffing its scent.