by Dillon, Paul
Curious about the book, Andreas reached down to the wooden crate and examined the cover. Nicia continued to stroke the bird’s feathers.
“What shall we call it?” she asked.
“Tutankhamen,” said Andreas. “Let’s call it Tutankhamen.”
Nicia didn’t hear the second iteration of the word Tutankhamen. At the moment Andreas spoke, a wall of noise—the same roar that deafened Ioannis a half mile away, reached Nicia with a mind-numbing crash. The ground rushed up, smacking her hard, sending the newly christened bird into the air. For what seemed an eternity, Nicia bounced around on the floor, banging her head several times; she never lost consciousness. When the shaking finally stopped, day had become night. She wondered if blindness had struck, her eyes were open but there was no light.
Andreas’s voice came out of the darkness. “Nicia … Nicia…”
“I’ve lost the seagull,” was all she could say.
Her eyes and lungs hurt; she coughed violently.
“Are you okay?” asked Andreas.
“I think so, but I can’t see.”
“Don’t move.” Miraculously, Andreas too had escaped injury.
Mature for his years, he had the presence of mind to grasp their plight.
“It’s dust from the earthquake. Hold on, I’ll try and find you.”
Above their heads, a ray of light, thin and diffuse stirred hope.
“Nicia, look up, can you see any light?”
“Yes, I see it.”
Disorientated, Andreas tried standing only to bang his head on something hard; he got back down on the floor.
“Don’t try to stand; I think the ceiling has collapsed.”
Crawling in the direction of Nicia’s voice, Andreas inched his way over the masonry.
“Say something,” he said.
Out of the darkness, came a reply, “Tutankhamen.”
Despite their predicament, Andreas wanted to chuckle; Nicia was somewhere nearby.
With each passing minute, the dust cloud floated slowly to the ground. Sunlight shone down like a torch beam into the center of the room. In the distance, a siren pierced the silence. The shrill sound seemed to trigger a chorus of shouts. Nicia couldn’t tell if the cries came from inside or outside the building.
Nicia screamed; something touched her.
“It’s only me,” said Andreas.
He felt her shape in the gloom, first her leg then her head; he put his arm around her shoulders.
Nicia’s fears subsided as Andreas held her. Up above, the ray of sunlight penetrated enough to cast the first shadows over their new world. Nicia’s mother called, her voice muffled and distant. Somewhere close by, Larissa cried.
“We’re inside the storeroom. I think we’re trapped,” Andreas shouted.
Timber groaned then snapped, more light streamed in, illuminating their prison. Nicia could see their dilemma clearly now. Behind her, the store entrance appeared impassible, choked with fallen masonry. In front, the rear wall had collapsed to a pile of rubble a few feet high. The ceiling angled down sharply propped up on the debris. She looked at Andreas; his face comforted her.
Nicia’s mother called out again. “Nicia, your father will be here soon. Stay where you are, we’ll get you out.”
Still crouching, Andreas lifted his hand and touched the roof beams. The two children were lucky; the floor above had provided protection from the falling stonework. Someone from the outside would be able to remove enough floorboards to affect a rescue.
“We’ll be okay. Your dad will come soon,” said Andreas.
His words evoked memories of his own father, killed by an incendiary bomb dropped by a German plane in the Second World War.
Unwilling to wait, Andreas resolved to break his way through and escape their dark cell. He told Nicia his plan. A new voice called from outside.
The boy moved quickly. Standing on a crate, he reached up to an area of floor, already damaged and open to the sky. He thought about his sick mother; she’d been sleeping in the room above.
Without tools, breaking through the boards proved an impossible task. Andreas used a chunk of stone as a hammer and beat the underside of the floorboards but with little success. The work was hot and sweaty. Clear air and sunlight spurred the boy on. He shouted to his sister; Larissa was unhurt and still in the garden. Hearing Andreas’s voice, she scrambled over the rubble, climbing the incline, and thrust an arm through a hole in the boards. Andreas held her hand tight like a lifeline thrown to a drowning man.
Down below, something brushed against Nicia’s leg. Her heart leapt into her mouth; she screamed. Andreas let go his sister’s fingers and jumped off the crate, reaching Nicia in a single bound.
“Tutankhamen,” Nicia clutched the injured bird to her chest; tears dripped down her cheek.
In spite of his predicament, Andreas was happy. He kissed the head of Nicia, his Egyptian princess.
Chapter 23
Eric steered the Lamia IV out of the cove at Assos, round the castle rock then headed south for five nautical miles. The yacht cruised into a small bay formed by two spurs that curved out from the land. Eric anchored a few hundred yards from the glistening white shore of Myrtos.
“I expected there’d be other boats here,” he said.
At first glance, Ben thought the beach only accessible by sea; it sat at the foot of steep limestone cliffs rising hundreds of feet into the air. As he studied the vista, he noticed a narrow precipitous road, winding its way down to a dirt parking lot overflowing with cars. A solitary wooden hut blended into the landscape without spoiling the natural beauty.
Colorful parasols stained the pristine white shoreline, each providing shade to a pair of sun loungers.
“Myrtos is one of the most photographed beaches in Europe,” said Eric, muddling fresh mint into a glass of lime juice.
Elena pulled the camera from her bag and cycled through the photographs. She stopped at the picture of herself and Sophia, sitting atop the wall overlooking the bay.
“This is the view from up there.” She passed the device to Ben.
“Who’s the girl in the olive dress?”
“You’re supposed to be looking at the scenery.”
Eric handed Ben a mojito. “Let’s go up top.”
Out on the stern deck, the water created ripples of light that danced up the stark white stairwell. Sean had the dinghy ready for launch; Joe prepared diving equipment.
“We have more scuba gear if you want to explore the deep,” said Eric.
“I’m not wearing the mouthpiece after he’s used it,” said Joe.
Ben ignored Joe’s remark and turned to Clotilde, “Have you been here before?”
“Many years ago,” she replied. “It’s a trendy spot, popular with the Italians.”
“So Joe, why don’t you swim over to the beach and parlez vous Italiano with your paesanos,” said Ben.
“Paesani.” said Joe.
A shadow passed overhead, everyone looked up. Like a giant gaudy eagle, a hang-glider soared above the yacht. Ben’s eyes followed the craft as it banked sharply, swooping back towards the cliff.
Elena gripped Ben’s arm. “I think he’s in trouble.”
With surprising speed the pilot reached the precipice but he was clearly too low. The purple and yellow glider appeared on course to smash into the rock face.
“What’s he doing?” said Eric.
Nausea swelled in Ben’s stomach at the prospect of witnessing an accident. He cringed as the craft swerved viciously at the last moment then soared back out to sea.
A faint commotion drifted across the water from the shore. People stood, with hands shielding the sun, focusing their attention on the flying daredevil. The kite repeated the maneuver again, hurtling bullet-like towards the cliff, turning seconds before impact.
“Show off,” said Joe.
Each brush with death happened at a lower altitude. Finally, the pilot reached treetop height then attempted the spectacular.
Like a bird snatching its prey, his feet brushed loose pebbles from the escarpment. Onlookers strained their necks as he bounced off the shale, skimming over parasols to perform a perfect landing on the beach.
“Now that is how to make an entrance,” said Eric.
In a slick, practiced motion, the bronze-tanned pilot tethered his craft and ran to the water’s edge, plunging into the sea with a powerful dive.
“Well,” said Clotilde.
“Couldn’t he just drive here, like everybody else,” said Joe.
“Watch out Joe,” said Ben. “The daring bronze man is swimming towards the yacht. He might be planning to steal Clotilde.”
“The daring bronze man will get a harpoon up his ass,” replied Joe. “We’re off diving, to hell with him.”
He led Clotilde down the steps, as though shielding her from imaginary bronze suitors.
“I’m going for a dip, you coming?” asked Elena.
“I think I’ll hang out with Eric for a while,” said Ben.
“Okay, see you later.”
***
Ben realized he’d been in Elena’s company for most of the last twenty-four hours. It would be good to take a break, besides he needed to talk to Eric about tomorrow’s arrangements.
“I’ll fix more drinks,” said Ben.
On his way back from the galley, he scanned the water for Elena. She was in the dinghy with the others, heading towards the beach.
“There you go.” Ben handed Eric a cocktail.
“Cheers. So how’s it going with Elena? It’s the first time I’ve seen you guys apart.”
“Hmmm, I was going to talk to you about that.”
“She lives in Argostoli, doesn’t she? Is she staying with us for Zante?”
“I haven’t asked. I don’t think so.”
“But you’re coming?”
“To be honest, I’m not sure.”
“That’s a helluva strong mojito you just made,” said Eric.
Ben lowered his voice even though Elena was nowhere to be seen, “What do you think of her?”
“She seems nice enough. You must be keen to ask that kind of question. Do I detect something more than a casual attraction?”
Ben felt busted.
“Well, now you mention it,” he said. “Here’s the problem, you’re flying back to LA in two days. I want to go to Zante but I doubt she’ll come along. I know it sounds nuts, but if she says no, I’ll end up staying here.”
“When’s she going back to the States?”
“She hasn’t decided—at least that’s what she told me. She might leave tomorrow for all I know.”
“Is there a boyfriend?”
“I didn’t ask but I get the feeling there is.”
“What about tonight?”
“She invited me over to her family’s villa for dinner. I already accepted.”
Eric sipped his drink. “That doesn’t suggest there’s someone else.”
“But he’ll be back in the States. Her aunt’s family might not even know him.”
In detail, Ben told Eric the events surrounding his meeting with Elena.
“I swear, nothing like that’s happened before … at least not in a long, long time. I don’t know what’s got into me. I’ve been trying to put things in perspective—it’s because I’m on vacation, or on a Greek Island, the heat, even crazy things like cicadas or the color of her dress.”
“It’s well known that a change in environment can affect your state of mind,” said Eric. “And we all respond to visual stimuli even if subconsciously. Maybe you got struck by Cupid’s arrow,” he laughed, “or the thunderbolt, like that scene in the Godfather.”
“Visual stimuli? You promised not to wear your biologist’s hat on vacation.”
“But think about it. I saw the same girl in the same dress, so did Sean, and Joe, and a bunch of other guys. We didn’t go bananas over her. I mean, don’t get me wrong, she’s an attractive girl—it’s as the saying goes; beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”
“You don’t think she’s so hot then?” asked Ben.
“No, I didn’t say that, but there are plenty of examples in nature of the power of visual attraction; flowers mimicking female wasps in look and smell, birds of paradise with bizarre plumage and dance rituals.”
“I’m not a wasp, though.”
“Obviously humans are more complicated.” Eric paused to think. “Some guys can get excited looking at a porno mag. It’s only ink on paper, not a living thing or even three-dimensional. In biology, the visual experience sparks off the chemistry.”
“Spoken like a true scientist,” said Ben.
“Was I getting carried away?”
“No I’m fascinated. The problem is, I think I’m falling in love with her—maybe it’s obsession.”
Eric smiled. “Have you had sex yet?”
“Well … yeah and now I can’t stop thinking about it—all the damn time.”
“I’d say you should be careful,” said Eric.
“I have to keep seeing her.”
“One or two days shouldn’t be long enough to get hooked.”
“Something like this happened a few years back. Remember Nicole? I once brought her to one of your parties. Her father owned a bunch of buildings downtown.”
“Vaguely,” replied Eric.
“I only saw her four or five times but I could feel myself falling in love. She ended up not returning my calls. It was one of those deals where every time the phone rings you hope it’s her.”
“We’ve all been there.”
“Although you’re disappointed, it’s not quite painful enough to hurt.”
“You need to find out more about Elena,” said Eric.
A combination of hot sun and cool sea breeze had left Ben sublimely relaxed. The two cocktails kept the conversation flowing.
“Isn’t there a love-antidote on the market yet?” Ben was only half-joking.
“That’s funny,” said Eric. “Before I sold Genecular Labs, we looked into that.”
“What, developing a love-antidote?”
“Yeah, it was during one of our company-wide brainstorming sessions. We canvassed all our business and marketing people to suggest areas for off-the-wall research. So this one woman, a real smart girl, had charted the success of erectile dysfunction drugs and wrote a proposal for a love-antidote. I mean, they were only two-pagers, not full blown analyses.”
“What happened?”
“We canned the bitch, right away.”
“What?”
“Just kidding, no, she submitted three ideas—one made it to the research stage. Unfortunately for you, it wasn’t the love-antidote.”
Ben grinned. “Maybe I can buy some of the ingredients off-the-shelf.”
“I doubt we’ll ever see such a product,” continued Eric. “There’d be issues with the size of the market, whether insurance would cover the treatment, not to mention the negative publicity—think of the headlines—GENECULAR LABS DESIGNS MOLECULE KILLS LOVE!”
“You’re a letdown,” said Ben.
“I still have the woman’s email address. You can start your own company.”
“Funny.”
Ben stood up, looking over the water, searching for Elena. He didn’t want her sneaking up and hearing their conversation. The dinghy was over by the southern end of the beach.
“We’re only beginning to scratch the surface of neuroscience,” said Eric. “No scientist is even close to a love-antidote—or a love potion for that matter.”
Ben checked the icebox for beers. He flipped open a couple of cans, handing one to Eric.
“Did you ever work with oxytocin?” asked Ben.
“We didn’t, but I’m familiar with the research. For example, if you inject it into young female rats they start behaving like mothers, fussing over baby rats, even young females that have never mated,” said Eric. “Actually, Miss Smartypants suggested a different hormone for her love potion.”
“Oh?” sa
id Ben.
“Vasopressin, an almost identical molecule,” said Eric. “Researchers experimented with a species of rodent, one that forms stable mating partnerships. They blocked the vasopressin transmitter with an inhibitor, causing the animals to lose interest in their lifelong partners.”
“I might need some of that.”
They laughed.
The two men fell silent, gazing out over the flat sea. Ben reflected on the complexity of the brain’s chemistry, his desire for Elena; of poems and love songs.
Love has to be the ultimate existential experience, he thought.
“You going to mention this to Elena?” asked Eric.
“Hell no. Imagine how that would go down.”
“Right,” said Eric. “Honey, I love you
—No you don’t, it’s just the chemicals in your head.”
“Honest, Elena, it’s still love,” said Ben
“Yeah, we’re still drunk, even though we know the rum caused it.”
Both men chuckled.
The afternoon sun had lost its ferocity, sinking low over the water. Ben became tired. Thinking back, weeks seemed to have passed since he met Elena. He got up and headed for the stairs. “See you later. I’m going to take a nap.”
The strong cocktail and the two beers had taken their toll. He lay on the padded cushions of the aft deck lounge, gazing up at the heavens. The sun smoldered, over to the west. High above, a white jet-trail spread wide across the sky, its creator long since gone. He fell into a deep sleep.
Chapter 24
Ben looked down at an intensely blue scene. Fluted pillars of white marble rose above a roman mosaic floor flooded with crystal water. Streaming from behind, the most intense sunlight he’d ever known illuminated a girl, swimming between the stanchions. Her motion rippled the pool’s surface creating reflections that danced up the cerulean walls.
From the shore, a car horn blared, drifting across the gentle swell, entering Ben’s dream. Voices floated above him. Familiar though the voices were, they made him uncomfortable lest attaching a meaning to their words rob him of his exquisite illusion.
He sensed, rather than saw, Elena lying next to him. Slowly, he opened his eyes. Sleep had left him deeply relaxed.
Elena was indeed by his side, asleep. Seeing her brought back the delicious memory of his dream. He snuggled closer, hoping to catch a whiff of perfume and, with it, the scent of last night’s passion. She bore only the faint tang of the sea.
