by Dillon, Paul
“Maybe it’s better that way. Clotilde can imagine her ancestor in any way she chooses. I see what she means though; just to hear a few notes, just one time…”
They went silent.
The sky, the water, everything was shrouded in shadowy magenta gloom. Ben photographed the ferryboat with its flickering yellow lights, plowing through the waves, on its crossing from Argostoli to Lixouri.
“I didn’t tell you about my dream,” said Elena.
The pristine beauty, the desolation, the magnificent sky … urged her to reach out and touch Ben.
He held her hand.
“Dream?”
“Yes, this afternoon. I fell asleep after you dropped me off. I dreamt we were in the middle of a meadow, listening…” She paused. “No—you were teaching me to listen … listen to the grass, the flowers … growing. But insects flitted around everywhere, buzzing, distracting me.” She paused, unable to convey the emotion clearly. “Then, as though I’d known forever, I became part of the landscape and it part of me. I have never felt more alive … that was when my phone rang … it was Sophia.” Bending the truth caused her to delay. “I wanted so much to climb back into the dream, but the moment was lost.”
Her words resonated with him.
“I used to do that—when I was younger, not so much now.”
“Listen to things grow?”
“Well not exactly; more like sensing than listening. I grew up in a northern climate, where everything springs up fast in the brief summer. That’s when you can lie in the middle of a field and feel everything growing around you.” He paused to embrace a childhood memory, and with the recollection, his voice assumed a note of sadness. “I haven’t done that in years … maybe I wouldn’t be able to feel it anymore.”
A camera flashed, attracting their attention. The teenage boy had made his way across the rocks to the edge of the treacherous waves. In the purple darkness, he leaned forwards, stretching out his arms like a soaring bird, holding the pose and reaching to the sky. Time after time, his ghostly silhouette found substance in the flash of his father’s camera.
“I’ll never forget this sunset,” said Elena.
“Me neither. It’s nearly dark, and yet, I don’t want to leave. You know, this is the type of experience that can lead to falling in love.” Ben spoke from the heart, unconcerned how she’d react.
“Is that what you’re feeling?” Her intonation conveyed no surprise.
“I think so—well, we only just met but let’s say I’m on the edge, overlooking the cliff.”
“That’s dangerous.” Her hand squeezed his arm tenderly, but it held a dagger. “You know I’m going home on Wednesday.”
“I guess,” Ben’s attempt to disguise his disappointment failed, making the reply feeble.
The family moved away from the lighthouse leaving Ben and Elena alone.
“Tonight will be our last,” she said.
Ben rose, pulling her up by the hand
“So let’s make it a special one.” He led her across the boulders, back to the tower. The wind gusted through the white columns, Ben pressed Elena against the wall, she didn’t resist. With the rhythm of a beating heart, the light from the cupola bounced off the rocks, illuminating their kisses.
Chapter 35
After leaving the festival, the entourage had stopped for lunch in the monastery village. The journey back was uneventful; Elena slept most of the way, waking just outside the cemetery gates.
The graveyard at Drapano lay two hundred yards north of the old bridge, across the lagoon from Argostoli. Cypresses formed its border and many fine trees grew in the grounds.
Cemeteries fascinated Elena. For her, intrigue lay hidden in every marker, even the humble. Tombs that had fallen into disrepair held the most attraction. These, more than the grandiose, embodied her concept of death. One memorial, close to the Katros monument, inspired her to reach for her camera. Rusted railings bordered the grave, each topped with a decorative iron pinecone. Neglect had left many of the finials missing with only a rusty dowel to mark their passing. Inside their tarnished confine, red and yellow wildflowers strained their heads above the weeds. Some of the flowers, blown by the breeze, kissed the corroded pinecones unconcerned with their decay.
“It’s a pretty place,” said Nicia. “I like to come here at least twice each year.”
“Who maintains the graves?” asked Elena.
“Andreas takes care of everything. I always bring fresh flowers when I visit.” Nicia held two bundles of red roses.
“Dad, aren’t the two monuments beautiful?” Elena clutched her father’s arm.
He stood next to Andreas, in front of two adjacent plots dedicated to the Katros and Matsakis families. Choked up with emotion, Ioannis could utter little more than a murmur of agreement.
Nicia, aware of her brother’s grief, sought a distraction and turned to her husband. “Why don’t you explain the history of the monuments?”
Andreas moved forward to speak, his back to the Matsakis mausoleum. For the benefit of the children and their American mother, he explained the Greek custom of disinterring the dead two years after burial. “In Greece, we wash the bones with wine and place them in an ossuary.”
“That’s creepy,” said the oldest boy; his mother shushed him.
“The urns are usually kept in church vaults; we keep ours here,” Andreas continued. “I bought these plots the year Nicia and I moved back to the island.”
A flowering tree grew behind the Matsakis tomb, its lush foliage and red blossom provided stark contrast against the white mausoleum. The main edifice stood chest-high, two carved wreaths decorated the fascia. From the top slab emerged a life-sized marble figure, a woman, her head bowed and veiled. Flowers lay in the crux of an arm; a hand covered her face under the veil. The statue’s robe flowed over the flat surface, disappearing behind.
“We relocated both my parents here.” Andreas spoke with no trace of sadness. “Father died in the war, mother was interred in Patras after the earthquake.”
Elena attempted to read the lettering carved between the wreaths. She could make out the Greek names and dates but not the sentence above.
“What does the inscription say?” she asked.
“‘The only moments that matter are those we remember,’” said Andreas.
Elena thought the sentiment strange, even unsettling. “Whose quote is that?”
“Andreas’s grandmother always used to say that,” replied Nicia. She stooped, placing a bouquet of red roses in a glass vase at the foot of the Matsakis shrine.
“It was a terrible mess trying to bury the dead after the earthquake,” said Andreas. He moved over by the Katros tomb. “Greek custom calls for the body to be buried within twenty-four hours but it was not possible for Stamos.”
For the first time that day, Ioannis spoke without being asked a question.
“We had to wait for the rescue teams to take care of the dead. It was two days after the earthquake before we could bury Stamos and Grandmother.”
“We thought you didn’t remember,” said Nicia.
“But I’ve always remembered everything.”
The green iridescent wings of a dragonfly caught Elena’s eye, distracting her just at the moment of her father’s admission. The creature hovered over the Katros monument as if revealing a secret.
Kneeling behind his tomb, the white figure of a boy, in a hooded robe, buried his head into folded arms on top of the flat marble shrine.
Just like a schoolboy asleep on his desk, thought Elena.
Nicia placed the remaining bouquet in a receptacle, mid-way in the fascia. The uppermost petals partially covered an epitaph carved into the shrine.
“What does it say?” asked Elena.
Ioannis read the message, his voice strong with a hint of pride. “‘For the brother that we had.’”
More than the sermon at the plane tree, more than the saint passing over Ioannis, this was the defining moment for Elena. The
moment she witnessed her father, accepting his brother’s death and embracing his memory.
She photographed the beautiful tombs, recording every detail, until Nicia tapped her on the shoulder, motioning her to leave. As she walked away, she took one last shot of her father, standing alone by his brother’s grave.
The only moments that matter are those we remember. She never knew Stamos, Ioannis held those memories. Someday, she might stand by the Katros mausoleum again, honoring her father, and count the moments that mattered. This day held many, of that she was certain.
Chapter 36
Ben and Elena left the lighthouse, heading back towards Nicia’s villa. Without streetlights, bends seemed to appear out of nowhere on the narrow lane.
“Do you need to change before dinner?” asked Ben.
Elena’s hair blew back in the balmy night air. “Not unless you want me to.”
He took his eyes off the road, stealing a glance at her. “You look great.”
“I freshened up earlier, so let’s go; I’m yours for the evening.”
“Any restaurant recommendations? Our last night should be somewhere special.”
“Our last night is going to be special but I don’t want to eat at a fancy place,” she replied. “I’d prefer plain and simple. Drive past the house, then turn right at the junction, there are plenty of tavernas. It’s outside Argostoli and touristy but…”
“Sounds okay to me.”
“Hey, that was Nik’s car.” Elena leaned over the door and looked back. “He must be on his way to see Sophia.”
“Nik was quiet last night, is he always like that?”
“Sophia says he’s shy, until you get to know him. She’s serious about their relationship.”
“Sophia seems to know what she wants.”
“She does. I think you just have to make a commitment and stick to it.” After a moment of self-reflection, she added. “That’s what Sophia keeps saying.”
Colorful beach gear hung from racks under the white canopy of a market at the corner of the intersection.
“Left or right?” asked Ben.
“Right; this is Lassi. Drive a little further, there’s curbside parking.”
Lassi wasn’t more than three quarters of a mile long. Restaurants, small hotels and car rental businesses lined its one main street. Ben drove until Elena spotted a row of quaint tavernas; he pulled in to the curb.
“The food will be similar wherever we choose,” she said. “Well, apart from that Chinese place.”
“Pick any. I don’t mind.”
“Somewhere up here,” she pointed at the hills above the town, “is the cave where Saint Gerasimos lived when he arrived in Kefalonia—he’s the patron saint of the island, by the way.”
“A taxi driver told me the story of the mummified saint.”
“Did I tell you, I’m only here because my dad came to attend the big festival; it’s held every August in honor of Saint Gerasimos.”
“You mentioned your father, but I don’t remember a festival.”
Restaurants vied for the steady flow of tourists promenading up and down the sidewalk. Tent boards, chalked-up with specials, stood outside every building. Ben stopped to browse a menu displayed in a glass case. “How about this one?”
“Why not, let’s see how nice their patio is.”
A middle-aged man greeted them at the top of an elevated entrance. His manner, relaxed and friendly, suggested a family owned restaurant. Ben liked the atmosphere of the place. Romantically lit, and tiled with a lavender hued stone, the outdoor terrace had charm in abundance.
“For two?” The man motioned to a crowded section, overlooking the street.
“How about over there, by the fountain?” Ben pointed in the opposite direction. “It’s more secluded.”
“Much nicer,” said Elena.
“Americans?” asked the owner.
“Yes,” said Ben.
They chose a table under a wooden lattice, covered in vines, forming a green roof above their heads.
Elena ordered a piña colada. Ben asked for a mojito—he was out of luck.
“Then just make me a rum cocktail.” It was too much to hope for a repeat of Spiro’s fine concoction at the Hotel Dionysius.
The man smiled, nodded and left.
Elena smiled too, she was also thinking of Spiro’s nameless drink and the night that followed. She looked up at the canopy of leaves, “I’m glad we chose this place, it’s nice here.”
Dressed in shorts and a short-sleeved shirt, Ben was sublimely relaxed. The night air, dense and warm, seemed to hug his skin, at times making him conscious of its existence.
“You’re still a mystery to me,” said Elena. “Tonight, I want to learn what makes Ben Anderson tick.”
“I hope you won’t be disappointed.”
“How about you?” she continued. “What do you want to talk about?”
“About you, what makes you tick?” He thought his reply a little unimaginative but didn’t care, as long as the topic wasn’t Boston and her boyfriend. “Oh, your father and the saint … you were telling me about the saint.”
She curled her fingers, looking at her nails, and began the story of the 1953 earthquake…
“But he was just a kid,” said Ben. “How come he blames himself?”
“Who knows … he was only nine, paralyzed, in the middle of one of the worst earthquakes ever,” she paused. “And Saint Gerasimos is a big deal here, even more so back in the fifties. It’s not such a stretch to imagine a child believing his prayers had been answered.”
“Yeah, I understand, but why the guilt?”
“I think he believes that if he’d prayed for Stamos then Stamos would have been spared too.”
“And that’s been eating at him all these years?”
“Yes, I mean, not like driving him crazy or anything—and it was half a century ago, but he wanted to come back and ask the saint for forgiveness. Closure is how we’d think of it today.”
“And did he?”
“Yes, he did. He even visited his brother’s grave—which was beautiful—both the grave and the visit,” she paused. “You’ve heard about the miracles attributed to the saint?”
“No.”
The owner reappeared with a basket of bread. A second, younger man carried a drinks tray. Ben tasted his cocktail.
“Man, that’s good … what’s with these Greeks and rum cocktails?”
Clearly, the host didn’t understand the remark, but he smiled at the obvious compliment and asked for their order. Ben extended his palm towards Elena who shook her head. “Can we have a minute?”
The two men left and Elena picked up the festival story…
“Did you see him?” asked Ben.
“Who, Saint Gerasimos? Sure, they paraded him around in a glass coffin. Then everyone lined up to kiss his feet.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Well not exactly, I sort of leaned inside the casket and bowed … ceremoniously.”
The proprietor returned. Ben suggested a few appetizers; Elena nodded.
“Oh and a bottle of…” Ben pointed to the most expensive wine on list, an Agiorgitiko. The owner thanked them and walked away.
“They only serve Greek wines, but they’re very inexpensive. I hope it’s decent.” Ben switched back to the earlier topic. “You didn’t tell me what the mummy looked like.”
Elena described the surreal, almost chilling, close-up encounter with the four-hundred-year-old saint.
“It was a very emotional experience—heaven knows what my dad felt.”
“That’s a great story.”
“Can you imagine? Saint Gerasimos lived in a cave, right here, in the hills above this restaurant.” She looked up at the pergola, as though to see through the vines.
“I guess he enjoyed meditating.” He was only half joking.
A young girl in a blue dress jumped off her seat at a nearby table and ran to the fountain. Ben’s eyes followed the girl, w
ho scrambled on top of the mosaic-tiled wall and stood, like a princess, surveying her subjects. He lost the thread of Elena’s conversation … he heard her repeat the word ‘meditation’, he caught ‘Zen’ and ‘spirituality’, but was further distracted by an old lady, perhaps the young girl’s grandmother, chasing the child around the fountain wall, trying to coax her down.
“I’m sorry,” said Ben. The drama with the young girl was happening behind Elena.
“You weren’t listening, were you?” She slapped the back of his hand.
To avoid being caught out, Ben summarized, merely guessing the context. “We were talking about Gerasimos and meditating … that led to the subject of your own spirituality and so to Zen—was I right?”
“Well, this whole trip’s been quite a revelation for me.” She turned around to see what was distracting him. “Come on then, spill the beans.” She waited for him to continue—he appeared bemused. “What’s with all this Cypress Garden, crows, listening to grass, then?”
“I never mentioned listening to grass—that was in your dream, I believe.”
He tipped his glass vertical, draining the last drop of rum cocktail. Pieces of ice shifted, spilling drink down the side of his mouth, wetting his shirt; they both grinned.
“You promised me … in the Cypress Garden,” she insisted.
Her words brought the brevity of their relationship into context.
Was it only yesterday, we lay on the grass in the garden of the Hotel Dionysius.
He continued, “I have vays of making you tock; that’s what you said.”
“See, you remembered.”
Tired of chasing the young girl around the fountain, the grandmother went back to her table and enlisted the help of the father who, at the insistence of his wife, got up to retrieve his daughter. Pulling a camera out his pocket, he crouched low, taking a picture of his princess, before whisking her high into the air. The girl giggled, basking in her father’s attention.
“What the hell’s going on back there?” Elena turned round.
“I’m thinking what vay you have in mind for making me tock,” said Ben.
