The Magic In The Receiver

by Dillon, Paul

  She smiled, smug in the knowledge that she could make him sing like a canary at will. He knew it too.

  Engrossed once more in their own world, Ben and Elena chatted, oblivious, as two waiters materialized. One setup a retractable stand, the other lowered his tray on top and arranged dishes on the table. While they served, the owner arrived, carrying a wine bottle in a wicker holder. He presented the label to Ben, who nodded without reading it.

  “Have you noticed how good the tomatoes taste?” Ben passed the plate of Greek salad to Elena.

  The proprietor poured a tasting of wine into Ben’s glass, Elena helped herself to the salad.

  “What do you think they sprinkle on the feta cheese?” she asked.

  “Fine,” said Ben, glancing quickly at the owner. “I think it’s oregano—you’re the one who’s supposed to be Greek.”

  The host finished the pour, setting the bottle on the table. “Would you like to order entrees?”

  “Not yet, we’ll order later.” Elena stared into Ben’s eyes, giving him that look, the look he’d come to associate with pleasure.

  Soothing music played in the background, his mystery cocktail was strong. He looked around, committing the scene to memory; the fountain, the vines, the girl with the blue dress, the curiously shaped bottle on his table, holding the flickering candle. Tonight was going to be a night for storing memories.

  “Why do you think I know anything about eastern philosophy?” he asked.

  Elena didn’t answer. Ben wondered how to proceed, wary of treading on her beliefs and spoiling the evening. Her notion that everything happens for a reason held absolutely no meaning for him.

  Maybe something I say will make her change her mind about leaving on Wednesday. If so, I’ve no idea what.

  Elena held an unusual attraction for him, strangely sensual, yet familiar like his car or wallet. Each hour he spent with her, the more entangled he became—an addict, powerless to resist. How he was going to miss her! Not for the first time, the word obsession formed uncomfortably in his mind. This was the moment where the neurotic in him began its rhetoric, trying to ruin his last evening.

  “How’s the wine?” he asked.

  “Keep it flowing.”

  “Are you coming back to the hotel later?”

  “It wouldn’t be much of a last night if I didn’t,” she replied. “Where were we, crows and karma wasn’t it?”

  Ben was already on his second glass of wine. He looked across at the luscious cleavage showing between the purple spandex of her halter-top and prepared to sing for his supper.

  “I’m sorry but I just don’t get it—karma I mean.” He spoke in his most sympathetic manner. “I’m not closed to any particular idea, but you have to make some pretty staggering assumptions.”

  “Such as?”

  “Past lives for one, the existence of a soul … a soul that is … conveniently undetectable, those kinds of things.”

  He waited, nervously, for her reaction, hoping he hadn’t gone too far.

  “It doesn’t have to be past lives, you can apply the principle to your current life too.”

  “Like reaping what you sow?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Well, as with any supposition that can’t be tested, you either believe it or not. Whatever makes you happy, I say.”

  “Yes, I believe in Karma and, yes, I want it to be true,” she paused. “So, if you need evidence, or proof of everything, how do you ever find any meaning in life?”

  “Maybe we can find common ground with Zen—isn’t that where you reach awareness from within, without rituals and such?”

  “And you’ve done that?”

  “To a degree,” he said. “I guess you could say that.”

  “Is it spiritual?”

  “In a secular way … there aren’t any actual spirits involved.”

  Ben poured another glass of Agiorgitiko and caught the owner’s attention, waving him over. “We’d better order entrees. Are you still hungry?”

  “Yes, I know what I want,” she replied.

  The proprietor took their orders; Ben tilted the wine bottle indicating another. “Oh, and more water please.”

  “You still haven’t explained your interpretation of Zen yet, that’s what I wanted to hear,” said Elena.

  “You can’t define Zen; it’s self-realization.”

  “You’re cheating,” she said. “Stop holding out on me.”

  “Okay, but after cocktails and a couple of glasses of wine, I’ll start rambling,” he paused. “How to describe the connectedness, that’s what you wanted, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Imagine yourself in a place,” he continued. “It could be somewhere familiar, a woodland glade, a trout stream or somewhere magnificent like the Sahara, under a full moon with millions of stars.”

  “I’ll go with the Sahara.”

  “Good choice.” Ben paused, setting down his fork. “The desert reminds me of a passage in a short story. The author describes a man sitting motionless for hours, staring out from a hill over an oasis of palms. ‘We’ll never understand what he’s doing,’ the writer says. ‘He’s not meditating or contemplating philosophy; rather, he is enjoying the act of existing.’”

  “And that’s why we are all connected?” she asked.

  “That’s one way of looking at it. Most indigenous cultures believed their land itself to be alive, rather than full of individual living beings. I believe, as a species, we are predisposed to think this way, but in the West, we repress this notion and so a forest has no intrinsic value unless it can be exploited for our own needs. I can’t help thinking that the earth itself, if viewed from space, must be considered to be alive.”

  “So we’re all part of one Great Spirit?”

  “You could call living organisms the Great Spirit. Life is a never-ending pattern, each being playing its part to make a whole. The owl last night, the olive trees, the grass, a worm, a spider—they’re all connected … but together they make, say, an olive orchard; a piece of natural art. When he enjoys the act of existing, perhaps the Bedouin sees his landscape as an art form.”

  The entrees arrived causing Ben’s focus to drift back down to the table. In vino veritas. He realized he’d been babbling on without regard for Elena. The waiter opened the second bottle, pouring more of the red liquid into his glass.

  “So, as I was saying, you can sit in a meadow or a forest or wherever and feel everything growing … existing around you. It’s not that different from meditating,” said Ben.

  “Not everyone is tuned in to that.”

  “Tuning in is a good analogy. We’ve got careers, credit card payments, mortgages, kids’ college funds. It’s difficult, perhaps impossible, to filter out their noise. A few months back, I made an investment in a wireless company. I talked to one of the engineers, he told me building a transmitter is easy, all the magic’s in the receiver.”

  “I think Nicia has the magic. I wish I had it too.” Elena pushed her plate away, resting an elbow on the table. “I understand what you’re saying, and to an extent I agree, but what’s the point of it all?”

  Ben saw danger in replying. He understood it might work against him but couldn’t turn back.

  “Ah, the why question,” he said. “There are two types of people, those who absolutely have to have a meaning and those that don’t … and there’s no bridging the two. I’m thinking you can’t conceive of your existence without there being a reason.”

  “You’re right, one hundred percent right. It’s simply a non-starter for me to think that life has no purpose,” she said.

  Elena appeared to be enjoying the conversation, Ben thought it safe to continue.

  “So that’s the great argument of the theologians.”

  “What is?”

  “Science can explain how, but not why.”

  “Right,” she said. “You can’t … it can’t.”

  “There isn’t a why … so no explanation is needed,” h
e continued. “In fact, I’m the exact opposite, I can’t conceive of there being a why.”

  “There has to be a point to it all. That’s why I believe in karma.”

  “But the people that came up with karma and reincarnation were missing … ah, some key information.”

  “Like what?”

  “Let’s say I was born—what, four hundred years ago. I’d possess relatively little understanding of life or the world around me. Take biology, for example, the cell wasn’t discovered until the seventeenth century, evolution wouldn’t be described for two hundred and fifty years, DNA three hundred and fifty. The concept of molecular biology would be impossible to explain to all but a few geniuses; you’d probably be arrested for trying. Send me back to that time and show me a forest with all its wonder and I wouldn’t have a clue how it got there. What could I do; kill a deer, dissect it? I’d be even more baffled by what lay inside. No doubt, I’d happily accept whatever mumbo jumbo any monk in a robe had on offer.”

  “I never thought like that before,” she said.

  Ben had tired of philosophy—and it might be his last night with Elena. Nothing he’d said tonight would alter her decision to leave Kefalonia, quite the opposite. Better to change the subject now, before the noose tightened further, and concentrate on enjoying himself.

  “Hey, this isn’t fair!” he said. “It’s our last night together—you asked me to tock, so I tocked. Did I give the correct answer?”

  “Yes, I think I understand you better now.”

  Ben studied Elena for clues, trying to decipher her vague reply. Had she connected with his viewpoint or had he painted a picture of himself as shallow and empty? For the first time, Ben tried to see himself through her eyes, the wealth, the yacht, the lack of a career, his meaningless philosophy. He probably did not compare well to the man waiting for her in Boston.

  He needed to figure a way out of his dilemma.

  “Did you like my do-it-yourself Zen? Maybe you can create your own flavor; take a pinch of mine, a sprig of karma and voila!”

  “That’s exactly what I’m going to do.” Elena spoke figuratively. Certainly, she would use his aimless rationalism to justify her decision to return home.

  Ben gulped down a glass of water, hoping to counter the effects of the wine. The second bottle of Agiorgitiko was half-empty. If only he could clear his head, stick to the original plan and just enjoy the evening. Maybe it was the drink; maybe, now dinner was almost over, the reality of no more Elena had sunk in; maybe it was time to change strategy, to talk her into staying.

  “I know you said this is our last night but it doesn’t have to be.” He spoke with what little confidence he could muster.

  The wine made him feel hot and sticky; he looked at Elena, dreading to detect pity in her glance. She did not speak.

  “We could stay here; go to Italy, Paris, anywhere.”

  “Ben, my mind’s made up; I’m going home on Wednesday.”

  There wasn’t a trace of doubt in her voice.

  “Well just for the record, I want you to stay.” He failed to mask his disappointment.

  So emphatic was her answer that Ben had no option but to let the matter drop. A twinge of self-doubt stabbed at him for losing out to the unknown boyfriend.

  “You’re sweet,” she said.

  Ben didn’t want to be sweet; his mind was stuck in a moment in time, a moment when a girl in an olive colored dress stood pondering a mysterious problem near his table at a quayside restaurant, triggering something inside him.

  Ben thought about saying goodbye immediately after dinner, forgoing the hotel. The love chemicals were flowing in torrents; what names had Eric given them? If he said goodbye now, damming the stream might be easier.

  The delicious shape of Elena consumed him; thoughts of finding a replacement scared him. He dismissed all thoughts of an early night.

  “Let’s order coffee … and ouzo,” he said, resolving to get back on track. Wednesday’s three days away, anything can happen.

  “I wouldn’t mind a cappuccino,” said Elena then excused herself and went to the restroom.

  Over the course of dinner, she had taken on a new identity, that of a goddess. He watched her glide along the stone tiled floor, legs perfectly revealed in her short white skirt. Ben wallowed in his own obsession.

  The restaurant had emptied without him noticing, the chatter of diners replaced by crickets, singing their endless song in the trees behind. Not for the first time the sound of the island captivated him; now its soothing rhythms assuaged the torment of his rejection. By the time Elena returned, Ben was, once again, the man of the Hotel Dionysius.

  Catching the waiter’s eye, he mimicked signing the check then knocked back his ouzo. “What’s going to be your favorite memory of Kefalonia?”

  She placed her elbow on the table, resting her chin on her palm. “There’s so many, it’s hard to say. The festival with my dad … meeting you, the lighthouse, last night in the olive orchard, the yacht…” Elena elected not to include the morning at Dimi’s. “How about you?”

  “Where to start—meeting you in Fiskardo; the night at the hotel, the owl … right now.”

  Elena smiled, satisfied that her impulse to stay on the island had worked out so well.

  I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, she thought.

  “Shall we?” he asked, adding a handsome tip to the bill.

  Ben ambled across the stone floor of the now-silent restaurant, a step behind Elena; the empty tables echoed his sadness at their imminent parting; he reminded himself again not to care.

  “My room overlooks the harbor; it’s really pretty at night,” he said.

  They walked arm-in-arm back to the Jeep.

  “Do you have a view of the bridge?” she asked suddenly.

  “Yeah—it’s kind of dark though—but there’s an obelisk nearby, in the center of the lagoon, it’s all lit up at night. Do you want to take a walk? I’d like to see the town from out on the water.”

  He opened the passenger door, pleased with his suggestion. A late night stroll along the bridge would prolong the dreaded moment of Elena’s goodbye; perhaps some magic might occur out in the lagoon.

  “I’d like that,” she said. “I’ve seen the bridge in the distance a few times but haven’t been there yet. This will be my last chance.”

  The air, redolent with summer, swirled around the windshield, eddying into their faces. Elena’s arm hung out of the window, her hand floating through the night like driftwood on waves. The Jeep streaked back to Argostoli.

  Minutes later they reached the outskirts of town and turned right, descending towards the lagoon at the southern end of the harbor. Elena remained quiet until Ben stopped the car by the promenade.

  “You okay?” he asked, noticing her silence.

  “Yes, I was just thinking how perfect the evening has been. I hardly want to risk speaking and spoil it.”

  Relaxed and sedated by the wine, Ben agreed. “I know what you mean.”

  Elena was first out of the Jeep and stood admiring a line of newly planted palms. Spaced a few yards apart, they formed a boundary between the sidewalk and the recently restored promenade. The stems of the young trees didn’t reach higher than her midriff. She ran her finger across the angled cuts where last year’s leaves had been removed. “I wonder if they’re some dwarf variety. If we come back here when we’re old, will they be fifty feet high?”

  Ben joined her. “I’ll be grey-haired way before you, so maybe only thirty or forty feet.”

  “Do you think I’m too young for you?”

  “You’re perfect. You know the formula, right?”

  “Formula?”

  “Yes, a man should look for a girl who is half his age plus seven.”

  Elena made calculations testing his theory as they stepped on to the old stone bridge. The obelisk stood out like a beacon in the center of the lagoon a quarter of a mile away.

  “I wonder why the bridge doesn’t follow a
straight line,” said Ben. “Do you know its history?”

  The old structure zigzagged across the inlet, heading first to the obelisk, before changing direction to the opposite shore.

  “Sophia told me the British built it in the early nineteenth century, it’s called Drapano Bridge … Drapano is the place on the other side—that’s where the cemetery is.”

  Closed to traffic, the old bridge was a peaceful sanctuary at night. Gentle waves lapped against the walls a few feet below. They reached the obelisk without meeting another person.

  “Oh what a pity—you can’t get to it,” said Elena.

  The stone edifice wasn’t part of the bridge but built on a concrete raft in the bay.

  “I think it has more effect, just floating on top of the water.” He reached for his camera. “Come on, model for me.”

  Elena posed, dreamlike, before the incandescent floating column; the lights of the harbor twinkled behind her. His camera flashed, and flashed again, as Ben shifted angles.

  ***

  The flashes stopped, Elena’s eyes adjusted to the night, to the stars above the dark hills of the opposite shore; above the cemetery, above the tomb of Stamos.

  “Sit on the wall,” he said.

  Ben took more pictures, getting down on one knee, moving closer; Elena’s toes pointed downwards, barely touching the floor, enhancing the elegant shape of her legs.

  “I don’t want you to leave,” he whispered.

  ***

  The faint light of a bicycle coming towards her from the Drapano side distracted Elena, she thought of Dimi, how he might paint her.

  “Shall we go,” she said.

  Chapter 37

  An insistent, heavy knock rapped on the hotel room door. The sound barely carried through the spacious suite and onto the balcony outside. The knock repeated, louder this time.

  “That’ll be room service,” said Elena.

  She leant against the balcony rail, overlooking the lagoon. Ben walked across the bedroom, switched on the lights, and opened the door. A waiter, in formal white dress, entered carrying two cocktails on a silver tray.

  “Just put it down there.” Ben tipped the man with a five Euro bill.