The Magic In The Receiver

by Dillon, Paul

  The music mystery distracted him; Elena was talking, pointing up at the house.

  “That’s my bedroom, I’ve been getting up at first light and reading then I go back to sleep again. It’s so beautiful watching the sun come up behind the villa and lighting up the bay.”

  He turned to look at the balcony outside Elena’s room. Uplighters, hidden in the baskets of bougainvillea, illuminated the upper storey. Ben spotted a bird’s nest under the eaves, close to her bedroom window.

  “Have you seen the swallows?” he asked.

  “No. Apparently, I just missed them.”

  “It’s a pity,” said Nicia. “Her room’s a great place to watch them hunting for insects over the orchard.”

  Ben found her description evocative. He began telling Nicia about his childhood in the countryside outside of London … his love of summertime, of swallows nesting in barns, swooping low over the fields of barley. As he spoke, he was that young boy again, transported back to a summer long ago. He stood under a group of sycamores by a rusted iron fence. It overlooked a field, left to pasture, and covered in wildflowers. Twilight made silhouettes of distant trees. Behind the fence, a ditch attracted swarms of midges, irritating him. Somewhere nearby, his parents ate dinner in the garden of a country pub. Over the meadow, swallows swooped and dived in the half-light; tonight their memory created his vision of Nicia’s orchard.

  With a touch of regret, he shook off the memory. The music, the wine, the courtyard were a heady, intoxicating mixture.

  He turned to Andreas. “Elena told me you have a gallery in Argostoli. We are planning a visit tomorrow with some of my friends. Have you had it long?”

  “We opened,” he paused to calculate, “about six years ago.”

  At the mention of the gallery, Sophia spoke for the first time. “We got some nice pieces from Dimi yesterday. I have the best ones exhibited already.”

  “What did you think of Dimi?” Nicia asked Elena. “He’s a wonderful artist.”

  Elena wasn’t sure how to respond. Dimi still intrigued her and kept appearing in her thoughts.

  “I’m not a good judge of art,” she said. “But Dimi and his wife were charming. We had lunch in their garden.”

  “Is art your main business?” asked Ben.

  “It’s more of a hobby,” replied Andreas.

  Ben wondered if Andreas had bought the gallery for Sophia’s benefit.

  Andreas didn’t answer the implied question about his occupation. Ben thought it impolite to press. As though she’d read his mind, Elena supplied the answer.

  “Uncle Andreas owns a chain of gas stations, mostly on the mainland.”

  “It’s a very small chain,” said Andreas, “We are comfortable, but we are not Onassis.”

  “Did you know Onassis owned one of the nearby islands?” asked Sophia.

  “Really, which one?” Elena twirled wine in her glass.

  “Skorpios Island,” Sophia continued. “It’s near Lefkada, Clotilde probably passed by there the other day. I’ll ask her about it tomorrow. Nik’s boats take the tourists there…”

  Nik had kept a low profile, talking mostly with Sophia. Ben thought it a good opportunity to bring him into the conversation. “You must know quite a bit about the history. I’m interested.”

  Nik’s voice was melodic, somewhat at odds with his designer-ruffled appearance. “Skorpios is a popular destination, although you can’t land there. Onassis started that whole own-your-own-island thing back in the sixties. It’s where he married Jacqueline Kennedy or Jackie-O as she became known.”

  “Who owns it now?” asked Ben.

  “Onassis’s granddaughter, Athina—though she never visits.”

  “How about that,” said Elena. “Having your own island and never visiting.”

  “There are always rumors that some famous person is going to buy Skorpios. Madonna, Bill Gates… What’s for sure, when it’s sold, it’ll be the most expensive private island in the world.”

  The conversation centered on Nik for the next few minutes. Ben learned he owned a small car hire business in Argostoli and operated a couple of cruise boats.

  Andreas poured the last of the Côte Rôtie, topping up each glass; the iron skillets had long since gone cold. Sophia removed the empty dishes, making space on the table.

  “I’ll make coffee and bring the desserts.” She took the cart back to the kitchen.

  “Tell Ben the story of how you came back to Kefalonia,” Elena begged Nicia.

  “It’s getting late, I’m sure he doesn’t want to hear about that.”

  Elena insisted. “I don’t care if he doesn’t. I want to hear it again.”

  “Please, I want to hear,” said Ben.

  “Oh dear, where to start…”

  Chapter 27

  It was after midnight by the time Nicia finished her tale. Sophia had brought a second pot of coffee. Three bottles of tentura liqueur sat on the table.

  “What do you think; isn’t that the best happy-ever-after story?” asked Elena.

  “Yes,” said Ben. He turned to Nicia, “I’ve often wondered what it must be like to live through a disaster. Hopefully, I never get to experience one.”

  The music had stopped, mysteriously, as Nicia began her recital; now, only the crickets broke the silence.

  Nik stretched, “I’m tired. I think I’d better be going.”

  He pushed back his chair, awaiting any objections; Sophia put her hand on his. He rose, saying his goodbyes to Andreas and Nicia in their native tongue.

  Only Andreas remained seated. Nik walked around the table to shake Ben’s hand.

  “It was a pleasure meeting you.” Nik’s tone was sincere.

  “Likewise, I hope we meet again soon,” Ben replied.

  Sophia followed Nik into the house as Nicia cleared the dishes; Andreas stayed in his chair, sipping tentura.

  “I’m going to show Ben the orchard.” Elena addressed her uncle.

  He nodded.

  Ben and Elena set off across the courtyard, pausing to look at the water fountain before disappearing through the gates in the rear boundary wall.

  Only a few days into a new quarter, the moon’s pale light cast the orchard in shadow. A large table sat underneath a group of pines in front of the olive grove.

  Elena leaned back against a wooden chair.

  “This is where I have breakfast; there’s a nice shade. It gets hot, even in the early morning.”

  Bright lanterns, placed in the branches, illuminated the first few rows of olive trees. A pale cat looked back from the shadows, its eyes glinting.

  Ben peered into the semidarkness.

  “How far back does it go?”

  “Right down to the sea. It’s not far, a couple of hundred yards, maybe. Shall we?”

  They entered the ghostly orchard. The cat moved further into the darkness. As Ben moved deeper into the grove, his eyes adjusted to the gloom. Spaced seven or eight yards apart, the olive trees bore a light scent of fruit, sometimes overpowered by whiffs of jasmine, though he saw no plants. The dry, course grass brushed Ben’s feet through his sandals. Elena stumbled; he grabbed her hand, keeping hold.

  “I should’ve brought a flashlight,” she said.

  “What and ruin the mystery tour.”

  “Glad you’re enjoying it but it’s almost over,” she said. “Here’s the bench at the cliff edge.”

  Ben could barely make out the seat ahead, a black shape against the faint moonlight reflecting off the water.

  Resting a hand on the bench, Elena leaned into him. She pointed across the channel, away to the right, where the lights from the town of Lixouri glinted over the bay. They sat in the darkness, a darkness brought to life with the voice of a thousand crickets.

  “What did you think of Aunt Nicia’s story?” Elena asked him again. “I’ll never tire of it.”

  “You want something like that to happen to you?”

  “I don’t have a childhood sweetheart, so we can rule
out that possibility.”

  Her answer somehow reassured Ben. “Something’s bothering you though.”

  “Well yeah! This whole place is bothering me.”

  “How’d you mean?”

  “You were there tonight; didn’t you feel the magic?”

  “Sure, I’m still feeling it. The sea, the crickets, the smell of the night … you. What else is there to live for—oh I forgot the food and wine.”

  “I’m being serious.”

  “So was I.”

  The time for Elena to open up was close; perhaps he’d get to know everything soon.

  He made his move. “What about Boston?”

  “I’m not sure I want to think about Boston,” she hesitated. “It’s a reminder that I’ll have to leave Kefalonia.”

  She started to explain her reason for coming to the island.

  “It was around the end of the first week that I began to think about not going back home. I thought the whole idea would wear off after a few days but it’s taken root,” she paused. “And now you’ve appeared and messed things up even more.”

  “Why don’t you start at the beginning? What do you do in Boston?”

  “I work in advertising—mostly writing copy. I’m pushing my luck taking so much time off.” Her voice hinted at some internal conflict. “I’m getting a whole lot of hassle over my extended stay. I’ve tried working from my bedroom, trying to complete a project, but I can’t concentrate… I don’t know, it all seems so pointless when you compare Nicia’s life, or even Sophia’s. I’m so weary of all the corporate bullshit in our world.”

  Ben stayed silent.

  “It’s the difference in lifestyle,” she continued. “Rushing around everywhere, crazy deadlines, stuck in traffic, no time for lunch, too tired to enjoy dinner, TV advertisements bombarding you twenty-four-seven.”

  Ben pushed up closer, putting his arm around her.

  “Stress is a killer, they say.”

  Touching her fueled his desire; her soft feel excited him. Now was not the time for lust, he had to get to the bottom of her issues.

  “Let’s think this through. You’re on vacation; the island is charming, you’re captivated,” he paused. “Okay, that’s normal. Everybody, at some time, has taken a holiday and not wanted to return—some actually pull it off. There’s nothing wrong with that. Most people just end up going home … and after they get back into a routine, they forget all about their idyllic island.”

  “I know what you’re saying … and it’s true, but there’s more to it than that.”

  “Like?”

  “Like, who’s to say I don’t belong here. This is my family, my family’s roots.” She pointed at the house. “Aunt Nicia came back … look at her; she wouldn’t swap her life for anything.”

  “True.”

  “And there’s Sophia … she’s more Greek than me … she spent half of her life in the US and prefers it here. I love Sophia as much as anyone that I know in Boston.”

  “So stay. What’s stopping you?” Ben’s tone was matter of fact.

  Soon he would find out whom else she loved in Boston. He pulled his arm from around her waist, resting it on the back of the bench.

  Elena hesitated, “Well … I don’t speak enough Greek for one thing and I’ll need to get a job. I don’t think there’s much work on the island, outside of tourism.”

  “None of those things are real barriers, if it’s what you want.”

  Elena didn’t respond; they sat in silence. Ben was calm, listening to the crickets. He doubted Elena was conscious of them at this moment. She looked lost in her thoughts.

  Finally, he asked the question. “Is there somebody special back in Boston?”

  She took a few seconds to consider her response. “Somebody, yes … special, not really.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “There’s isn’t much to tell,” she replied. “How about you?”

  Ben answered emphatically. “Nobody special.”

  She didn’t respond. He let the silence continue, trying to gauge her mood. One more question then he would need to swing her thoughts away from Boston and back to the island.

  “How long before you have to go back … the job I mean?”

  “What’s today, Saturday? If I go back, it will have to be before the end of next week.”

  Enough was enough. Ben felt the magic of the evening disappearing, drip by depressing drip. For a moment, he existed on another bench, cold and wet in a dreary industrial part of London. Heavy trucks thundered through the rain-drenched streets, their terse noise, devoid of joy, obliterating the crickets’ clement song.

  “Well, I’m going to stick around until you make a decision. Who knows, we might both end up staying a while,” he said.

  She considered his statement. Was he serious? If so, would she want to stay with him? She wasn’t sure; really didn’t understand him. He was so different from the people she knew. Maybe he’d lived in LA for too long. Whatever the answer, his words comforted her.

  “Don’t you have to get back to LA?” she asked.

  “I don’t have to get back anywhere. Let’s rent a villa, like your aunt’s, and stay ‘til the end of summer.”

  He watched the Boston Elena retreat and waited … waited for the sensuous Elena to reappear.

  “Very nice, Mr. Mysterious. Tomorrow, I’m going to have to find out what makes you tick.”

  “At the moment, you make me tick.” His remark implied impermanence; he regretted it immediately.

  Hoping she hadn’t made the connection, he bent over to kiss her; she responded. The girl from Boston faded away.

  Somewhere in the orchard, an owl screeched, breaking the spell of their kiss. Its call, a single note, repeated four or five times in short bursts then stopped. Elena pulled her lips from his.

  “We can’t, I told you before,” she said.

  Ben’s hand was between her thighs; he didn’t remember putting it there.

  “They might see us,” she said.

  His hand nestled further.

  “It’s too dark to be seen from the house … let‘s go somewhere out of sight.”

  “No,” Her answer was resolute.

  They had agreed to this, Ben had to admit.

  “Tomorrow, then, promise me, tomorrow.”

  “If you’re good,” she smiled, removing his hand. “Come on, it’s late, we should go.”

  They left the bench and headed back through the orchard. Ben ached with desire.

  “It’s been a lovely evening,” said Elena, offering him encouragement.

  His passion both pleased and excited her, but deep inside, a warning sounded.

  As they neared the house, the lights hanging in the pines cast olive tree shadows over the ground, laying down an indelible image in Ben’s memory. The owl called out again.

  “It’s somewhere over there,” whispered Ben, pointing to their right.

  Again, the creature called.

  “In one of those two trees.”

  They crept closer, Ben wondered if the noise of the crickets would disguise their approach.

  Elena spotted the owl first.

  “It’s there, I can see it,” she tugged at his arm.

  Ben strained his eyes in the shadowy light, following her fingers; he was within five feet of the tree.

  “Yeah, I see him,” whispered Ben.

  The owl was a mere seven inches high. It sat on a branch two yards above their heads.

  “Look at its eyes,” said Ben.

  “It’s so beautiful,” she whispered.

  The bird had a mottled plumage; its paler feathers reflected the light from the lanterns. It sang again, calling four times in quick succession before flying off into a darker part of the orchard.

  “We’ll have to keep really quiet,” said Elena as they sneaked back into the courtyard.

  Ben silently thanked the owl for a magical end to their evening.

  Under the pergola, the table
looked sad and bare. Only the candles remained, extinguished. Ben glanced back one more time before they entered the kitchen; he would always remember Nicia’s courtyard.

  No one stirred as Elena opened the front door. She followed Ben over to the Jeep; he climbed into the driver’s seat.

  “I wish I wasn’t going back to the hotel alone,” Ben complained one more time.

  She leaned against his door and kissed his cheek through the open window. Hard metal separated them.

  “What time tomorrow?” she asked.

  “I’ll call you in the morning, maybe at ten or ten-thirty.”

  “Okay.” She turned and walked back to the house.

  He gazed longingly as her white figure hurried over the tarmac; every curve committed to memory for recollection on the drive home.

  She waved once from the door and went inside.

  Ben drove back to Argostoli, concerned about his feelings … his obsession for Elena.

  Chapter 28

  The strange mercurial bells reminded Elena of high school and her music teacher, Mrs. Adams, flailing her arms, striking the metal plates of her glockenspiel. Repeating a series of three chimes, in rapid succession, the joyous bells heralded the appearance of Saint Gerasimos to the expectant crowd.

  Lowered from its resting place, the silver casket stood upright on the church floor. Four men, in lay clothes, waited to act as bearers. It was time. Bearded monks slid wooden poles, with slow precision, into metal rings on each side of the sarcophagus. Heaving the weight onto their shoulders, the porters raised Gerasimos into the air.

  “Let’s get in line,” Elena nudged her mother’s arm.

  The men received the order to move and headed to the exit a few yards away. Jostling for position, worshippers poured into the aisle, inching their way behind the saint.

  “I wish we were outside,” said Elena’s mother. “We’d get a much better view. I want to see him looking down at the crowd.”

  The bearers paused at the threshold, awaiting a signal to proceed; the bells stopped momentarily. Elena stood on tiptoes, straining to see; only a silver dome and cross was visible over the heads of the congregation.