The Magic In The Receiver

by Dillon, Paul

  While he slept, the air had cooled, though it remained comfortably warm. He lifted his head, checking the sun against the horizon; an effort that banished the last remnants of his dream.

  His conversation with Eric was still bouncing around in his mind. It was good to get a friend’s opinion and he valued Eric’s judgment. Mulling over his words, Ben tried to draw conclusions, make decisions. He couldn’t go to Zante without Elena—that much was now clear. How hollow would he feel on the yacht without her? At the next opportunity, he must question her. Eric was right. A two or three day romance couldn’t hurt but a few days had a habit of turning into weeks. Before the night was over, he must know how long she intended to remain in Kefalonia.

  An electric motor whirred, gears ground—the sound of the winch. Someone was hauling the dinghy out of the water.

  Resigned to sleep alone tonight, Ben let the disappointment sink in. After dinner at the aunt’s house, he would visit the hotel bar, deadening his senses. Tonight, even the Hendersons would provide a welcome distraction.

  The main motor fired up, stirring movement in Elena; he put his arm around her, hoping she’d wake. Her bikini had dried in the late afternoon sun.

  It’s not simply lust, he thought. I really like her.

  She opened her eyes, smiled at him, and he kissed her.

  “Hey sleepyhead,” he said.

  “How long was I out?”

  “Princess slept for one hundred years.”

  The boat shuddered slightly as it started to move.

  Elena sat up. “I wish we could stay here for the sunset. Can you imagine how beautiful it’ll be?”

  “You don’t say. I already asked Eric—the sun sets around eight and we’re a long way from Argostoli. He doesn’t want to navigate in the dark for two hours. Besides we’d be late for your dinner party.”

  “I almost forgot about tonight,” she said. “I can’t wait to tell Sophia I’ve been to Myrtos Beach—that’s why I went in the dinghy, so I can say I was actually on the beach.”

  “I thought you’d gone looking for the hang-gliding hunk.”

  “You don’t miss a thing, do you?”

  The moment’s humor provided Ben an opportunity to address his pressing problem.

  “They’re sailing to Zante tomorrow. I have to decide whether to go with them—you’re welcome to come too.”

  “I can’t.”

  “So if I stay, will I be able to see you?”

  “Yes, we can see each other for as long as I’m here.”

  “But you don’t know how long that will be?”

  “I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

  He wanted to ask about a boyfriend but decided to postpone that question. He’d already overplayed his hand by tacitly agreeing to abandon his friends on the vague promise that she’d continue seeing him for who knows how long. For now, he wanted to leave it at that.

  “Okay, no worries, they’re flying back to LA in a couple of days, anyway. I’m not even done with Kefalonia yet.”

  Out in open water, the boat was now quarter of the way across the five mile straight separating the mainland from the Pali Peninsula. Argostoli lay to the south. Although only eleven nautical miles, as the crow flies, the journey by sea involved circumnavigating the Pali peninsula, tripling the distance.

  A breeze picked up as they approached the tip of Pali; Ben felt a slight chill.

  “I think I’ll go to the cabin. Are you coming?”

  Elena shivered too. “Yes, it’s getting cold.”

  Joe was stowing scuba gear in a hold below the stern as Ben stepped down from the mid-deck. Clotilde, wearing a man’s red baggy sweater, sat watching him.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Jacques Cousteau,” said Ben.

  “Who’re you calling French?” growled Joe.

  “How was the dive?” Elena asked Clotilde.

  “Terrific, we didn’t go too far, there are some tricky currents here.”

  “Do you dive often?” asked Ben.

  Clotilde stretched the sweater over her knees. “When I get the chance.”

  There’s no end to the woman’s talents, thought Ben and walked past her into the main cabin. Eric was at the cockpit; his son sat next to him, a captain in the making.

  “Hey Ben, we’re going to play Blackjack—if Joe ever finishes stowing the scuba gear. Are you two in?” asked Sean.

  Ben looked at Elena; she nodded.

  “Sure,” said Ben.

  Blackjack wiled away the time … the Lamia IV made her way south, hugging the western edge of the Pali Peninsula, a mile offshore. To the starboard side, nothing but open sea stretched for two hundred miles to the southeast coast of Italy.

  At the southern end of the peninsula, the boat steered a southeasterly course, past the small island of Nisida Vardiani, then turned north into the bay of Argostoli.

  “I’m out,” declared Ben.

  Down some five hundred Euros, he’d lost seven hands in a row. Clotilde had scooped up most of his crisp Euro notes; Elena was breaking even.

  “I’m going on deck to watch the sunset,” said Ben.

  Stretching his arms in the air, he slid back in his seat and looked at Elena. “Are you coming?”

  “Okay,” she replied. “I haven’t won anything, so I don’t feel guilty calling it quits.”

  They sat behind the windshield on the deserted flybridge.

  “You didn’t do too well down there,” said Elena. “Clotilde skinned you big time.”

  “Right, I’ll have to find an ATM.”

  Argostoli lay out of sight, to the east, on the other side of the narrow Fanari Peninsula.

  “How does it feel; sailing into your ancestral home at sunset?” he asked.

  “It’s,” she paused, “well, comforting. The longer I stay here the more Greek I feel. I’m going to try using the language more.”

  They leaned against the windshield; he put his arms around her.

  “Are you warm enough in that T-shirt?”

  “Yeah. By the way,” said Elena. “I have to remind Clotilde about Sophia’s Gallery tomorrow. Do you think she’ll come?”

  “I expect so. I think the plan is to spend most of the day in Argostoli. Zante is only about twenty miles south of here—not far with this boat. They’ll not be in any hurry to leave.”

  The Lamia IV continued north, shadowing the eastern coast of the two-mile wide channel.

  “It’s an unusual topography, sailing between two peninsulas,” said Ben. “We’re too early for the sunset, besides, it’ll go down behind those mountains.”

  “I often watch the sun set over Lixouri from Aunt Nicia’s orchard.” Elena pointed east, to the nearby shore. “Her villa is somewhere over … there it is.”

  “She must have a wonderful view. I mean, you must have a wonderful view.”

  The yacht turned east at the tip of the Fanari Peninsula; the bay stretched on for another six miles to the north.

  “That’s Fanari Lighthouse,” said Elena. “It’s a great place to watch the sun go down. Let’s go there tomorrow.”

  If Ben couldn’t get her to his hotel tonight, he’d make sure it happened the next night.

  “I’d like that. So, it’s the art gallery in the afternoon, sunset at the lighthouse … and dinner after?” he asked.

  “Okay, dinner after.”

  Not for the first time, Ben thought he recognized the expression on her face, the one he’d seen in the candlelight the night before. In his mind, he saw a green light to continue their passion.

  Content, he checked the signal on his phone; it was strong.

  “I need to book a hotel.”

  He found a listing of local hotels on the web and dialed a number. While he spoke to the receptionist, Clotilde appeared, still wearing the baggy sweater. She sat next to Elena.

  “…06 2014,” said Ben. “Great, so that’s two nights. Oh, and I’ll need a rental car for this evening. Can you arrange that by eight or eight-thirty?” He paused to hear the rep
ly.” I don’t know … a Jeep, yeah, get me a Jeep. Thanks, I appreciate all your help. I’ll see you later.”

  “Elena tells me you’re not coming with us to Zante,” said Clotilde.

  “No, I’m staying here with her.”

  “That’s so romantic,” said Clotilde.

  “Well, I can’t leave her alone with sex-crazed Greeks everywhere.”

  The girls laughed; Ben did not. With a twinge of jealousy, he entertained the idea of Elena looking for a Greek man. That would make sense—bring her closer to her roots.

  Enough daylight remained for the craft to steer without lights. Close to land, the temperature rose once more. Clotilde removed her sweater; Ben tried not to ogle her stunning figure.

  “Are you still coming to the gallery tomorrow?” he asked.

  “It’s all settled,” said Elena. “We arranged everything when you were on the phone.”

  ***

  The boat slowed to a crawl. Elena looked out across the water. A mile ahead, the old stone Drapano Bridge crossed the lagoon, linking Argostoli to the mainland. Elena was getting used to seeing the landmark bridge, first from the cemetery, then on the drive to Fiskardo. She thought back to that morning, only yesterday.

  Before Dimi, before Ben—and what to do about Greg? Very soon, decisions have to be made.

  ***

  Just north of the commercial port, on the outskirts of town, Eric steered into the marina, maneuvering the boat with skill, bumping it gently against the moorings.

  “I’ll find a taxi, can you get the bags?” asked Ben.

  He was in a hurry, there might yet be a chance of persuading Elena to join him for a cocktail at the hotel. Dinner with her aunt was at 10:00pm, as long as he got her back to the house by 8:30pm, she would have time to shower and get ready.

  Hailing a cab proved difficult, the yacht had docked on the edge of town and traffic was light. He decided to walk in the direction of the port, hoping to find a taxi stand. Frustrated and hot, he hiked a half-mile before finding a hotel. He went inside and asked reception to call a cab.

  Twenty-five minutes had passed since he left the others. Ben gave the driver instructions, first to the jetty then to the Royal Ionian Hotel. He was in no mood to chat.

  The car pulled into the parking lot and stopped.

  Ben pointed to the yacht. “Please go a bit further.”

  The driver reluctantly moved.

  “Just here. Thanks. Wait a moment, I’ll be right back.”

  He rushed across the tarmac and bounded up the gangplank, landing on the deck with a thud. Elena was still chatting with Clotilde in the main cabin; no one else was around.

  “Whatever happened to you?” she asked.

  Ben described his difficulty finding a taxi. “Where is everyone?”

  “Joe’s taking a nap; the others went for a look around. Clotilde didn’t want to leave me on my own.”

  “We’d better go, the car’s waiting.”

  Elena had their bags ready; Ben grabbed them and left.

  “See you tomorrow,” Clotilde called from the stern deck.

  Ben opened the taxi door, letting Elena slide in to the backseat; she clutched a green carrier bag. The driver packed Ben’s case in the trunk. “Royal Ionian?” he asked.

  “Please.” Ben got into the back seat next to Elena. Tired, hot, and sweaty from his exertion, he finally had a minute to relax. The sedan sped along the port road, passing the Lixouri-Argostoli ferryboat; his hotel was only a few blocks away.

  “How are you for time?” he asked.

  “I’m shattered,” she replied. “I just want to get home, take a nap, and get ready for dinner.”

  Suddenly, Ben remembered the rental car; he hadn’t factored in the additional time. There would be paperwork to sign, payments to make; the hire company might even collect him and drive to their location. The taxi pulled up outside the hotel. Ben and Elena had hardly spoken on the short journey. He too felt exhausted and decided not to ask her to join him, there was a risk of spoiling what had been a perfect day.

  “What’s your aunt’s address?”

  “I’m not sure—I know how to get there but not the address. I’ll text you when I get home. The concierge will give you directions.”

  For a moment, Ben entertained the sickening possibility that she wouldn’t text him, that he’d never see her again. His panic subsided; her number was stored on his phone.

  The driver got out, popped open the trunk and carried Ben’s case to the curb. Reaching into his wallet, Ben pulled out his last hundred Euro note.

  “Here, take this to cover the cab.” He passed the money to Elena.

  “No, that’s way too much,” she protested.

  “It’s okay, give me the change later.”

  He kissed her and opened the door. Elena said something to the driver, in Greek. Ben waved her goodbye from the roadside.

  Chapter 25

  Clouds of dust from falling rocks and shattered houses darkened the sky. Vasilis Katros ran towards Argostoli knowing in his heart that devastation waited.

  ***

  Luck—he would detest that word after today—was on his side for the moment. He’d been alone, working in the fields, when the earthquake struck. No warning prepared him for the elemental force, the earsplitting crescendo that heralded the cataclysmic event. Shockwaves, brutal and unearthly, threw him to the floor, bouncing him across the ground. Memories flashed through his mind, a day from his youth, a storm at sea, the fear of drowning. Movement was futile; never had Vasilis experienced tremors of such savagery and duration. When the shaking finally stopped, he got to his knees and stared at the crumpled heap that was once his barn. Luck, was not being inside.

  ***

  Running on adrenalin, he reached the outskirts of town in minutes only to have his worst fears confirmed. He flew, like a man possessed, leaping and stumbling over the piles of debris that littered the pavements. Everywhere, panic and terror held sway.

  Vasilis had visions of his house, a smoldering ruin. Deep in his heart, the certainty of personal tragedy had taken root. He couldn’t imagine otherwise.

  Every building he passed had been destroyed. Each time Vasilis turned a corner, a new pile of debris sparked the memory of a person he’d known, a friend perhaps lost. Out on the streets, people were dazed, angry, crying or just plain scared. More than once, he saw men digging franticly in mounds of rubble, hoping for a miracle, that a loved one might have survived.

  A hysterical woman called out to him, begging for aid. Vasilis pressed on, unable even to shout an apology. He wanted to help, now wasn’t the time.

  Another cry, desperate, someone he knew. Vasilis slowed only enough to yell out a reply. “My family,” was all he could say. Somehow, speaking for the first time brought home the full extent of the devastation. His town had been destroyed, utterly, every last building.

  Closing in on his neighborhood, a terrible dilemma became manifest.

  Go home first or get the boys?

  His house was closest but Stamos and Ioannis had only their grandmother for protection.

  Panic mounted as he turned the corner—what used to be the corner—of his street. No matter how many times he deliberated, Vasilis always reached the same conclusion; his world, his family, revolved around his home, he had to go there first.

  His terrace was no different from any other he’d passed on the frantic dash through town. Some houses had walls, some lay in a heap; none were habitable. Outside his door, Vasilis bent over double, exhausted. His chest hurt, breathing was painful. Preparing himself for the worst, he took stock of the damage.

  His property had fared better than most. The ground floor, at least, was recognizable. Wooden shutters, ripped from their latches, hung erratically around the windows. Dark green and freshly painted, they made an odd contrast to the missing or shattered panes of glass. The upper-storey facade had disappeared entirely, exposing ceilings and interior walls to public view. Vasilis thought it stran
ge to see his bedroom from the street. Two framed wedding photographs were gone, only their hooks remained. His bedroom door, hanging ajar, now led nowhere.

  The pavement was surprisingly clear of debris; the masonry from the first floor had fallen inside. Vasilis shouted the names of his daughters, Nessa and Nicia; he called for his wife. Some inner demon tortured him with the horrible question:

  Which one do you most want to survive?

  He resisted the demon’s nagging and pushed against the front door; it wouldn’t budge. He tried again, this time throwing all his weight into the effort. The entrance was blocked; the bottom of the door smashed by the debris piled up behind.

  “Dad.”

  He gave up his efforts just as Nessa shouted him. She was standing outside the ruins of the Matsakis’ store. They rushed towards each other; she threw her arms around his neck.

  “Thank heavens you’re safe. Where’s your mother? Where’s Nicia?”

  He thought to ask Nessa where she’d been when the house collapsed but there just wasn’t time.

  “Mom’s in the garden next door,” Nessa paused. “Dad … Nicia is trapped…”

  “Trapped, where?”

  The word ‘trapped’ sickened him, invoking visions of Nicia crushed and dying in the rubble.

  “In the storeroom at the back of the shop. She’s trapped under the floor with Andreas.” Nessa’s breathing came in gasps as she spoke.

  “Show me. Is she hurt?”

  “No, I think she’s okay. Mr. Tsakampikas is helping free her.”

  The teenager led the way through the ruined store; its collapse seemed imminent. The roof perched precariously on what remained of the side and internal walls. Vasilis followed his daughter over the mound of rubble that, earlier in the day, had displayed produce from his farm. Anxious voices shouted somewhere in the ruins.

  Dumbstruck by the absolute devastation of his neighbor’s business, Vasilis struggled to make sense of it all. He could not imagine how the building had collapsed in such an odd fashion. On the side abutting his house, everything had caved in; it was possible to scramble over the debris and go through to the garden beyond.