The Priest's Well (The Greek Village Collection Book 12)

by Sara Alexi

  ‘Reading back, I can hear how hard my words sound. If I thought there was any other way, I would take it. Although I even doubt this. Such little pleasure is offered me as a priest but I am finding pleasure in my plans to twist her life. Besides, I have sat here and mulled this over hour after hour, but what other course of action do I have? I really believe I would denounce the church if she would have me, but I am old and she is young. She would never consider me as a husband. Besides, I have no trade at which to make a living. And I suspect, no—I know—it is not her wifely qualities that I am seeking. That is not where my head goes to when I think of her. I think many things, but cooking and keeping house are not in those dreams. Where I want to go is far from a union sanctified by God and if I cannot go there, I will not let anyone else to go there in my stead. If God has made this world so unjust, then I will be unjust too. I am after all made in His likeness, am I not?’

  Another blank page, then a leaf of abstract drawings, shapes, scrawls. The pen digging in so deeply that there is a hole through the paper in one place.

  Savvas cannot help himself. He feels driven to read on.

  ‘It has been a while since I have put pen to paper here. The days have been filled in conversations with Babis. He knows the law better than I expected for one so young. Together, we have made out papers for Nefeli and her mama to take the house. Each evening, I go to the tree and I watch her at the same time in her ablutions. I feel no shame anymore. I feel nothing.

  ‘Maria came around, insinuating and fussing. So I told her good things happen to people who think only good and that bad things happen to people whose minds focus on the wrongdoings of others. She almost accused me of talking rubbish. So a day later, I took her bicycle from her front yard. I had no idea why I was taking it or what I intended to do with it but as I walked past it in the black of night, it felt like justified revenge. I have hidden it in an unused mud brick barn in an olive grove down towards the sea. It has given me some satisfaction, as she has done nothing but talk about her stolen bike ever since. She believes the children of the village are against her, that there is a vendetta. When she mentioned her missing bicycle to me, I reminded her of our conversation about bad coming her way for seeing bad in others, and she went very quiet. If she thinks it is God punishing her, perhaps she will stop. And if she suspects it is me, she will be scared of what more I am capable. I too wonder this.

  ‘What I do know is that I no longer care what Maria thinks just as long as she leaves me alone with her accusing looks and belittling sneers.

  ‘Today, I spent the afternoon with Nefeli and her mama. Nefeli filled my senses and I found it difficult to concentrate. Her hair is becoming more golden with each sun-filled day that passes, her skin has turned honey brown, and I swear her eyes have lightened. I notice the little bit of weight she carried around her hips over the winter has gone and I can imagine that some would say she is almost too slender. But I see her as a cat, lithe and supple.

  ‘When Babis finally made it clear what I was offering, Nefeli’s mama accepted it on both their behalf, but without much enthusiasm. As Babis pressed the point of what an extraordinary gift this was, I could see that the old woman at least made an effort to pretend it was a gracious gift, but it was clear that neither of them really wanted to be uprooted from their home and forced to live within these vast walls. But I don’t care any longer. The deed is done and tomorrow we will exchange living quarters.

  ‘The other advantage is that she will no longer shower in a room that is visible from the outside of the house, so at least I am also saved that temptation/torture.’

  Savvas raises his eyes from the diary and rubs them before crossing himself three times, muttering some praises to God. It is so easy to understand what Sotos was going through, and yet also clear that he was going mad. Does that make him, Savvas, a truly compassionate person, being able to see so clearly someone else’s point of view, or does it denote that he, too, is capable of going mad? He rubs the sweat off his forehead with the palm of his hand and bites on the inside of his lower lip.

  ‘All day, we went backwards and forwards with Nefeli and her mama’s things. For me, I took little from the big house to the cottage, but it was a chance to clear things out and I burnt many items in the olive grove. I also gave much away to the children in the square to take home to their own mamas. Later, walking into the corner shop around lunchtime, I heard the end of a conversation between Marina the shop owner and her daughter-in-law Irini, saying that I was such a good man to be giving so much away to the people of the village. I felt such a fraud. I almost turned away but Marina had seen me through the window. They both wished me a hearty “good day”, but I found it hard to meet their gaze. They would take no money for the bread and cheese I wanted. I was insistent but to no avail and as I left, I heard the one say to the other what a modest man I was. If only they knew.’

  Following this passage are several pages of dark ink drawings and illegible writing, then suddenly clearer, in a bold hand.

  ‘When I found her, I could not help her in any way. I called the ambulance and the village doctor but other than that, I just sat with her. One side of her face was contorted; she sounded drunk. Later, I heard it was a massive stroke and that she would need round-the-clock care until she recovered. Nefeli seems to have been in shock ever since. There has been no one to do my washing or make my meals, so I have been living on bread and cheese and I have not changed my anteri for two weeks. It is grey with dust.

  ‘There has been no sign of Nefeli’s young man since her move to the big house and her mama’s stroke. I am pleased about this. But Nefeli has taken to hanging the wet washing out on the front balcony. The sheets cling to her form, wrap around her curves. I know the times she does the washing and I wait hidden behind a half-closed shutter to watch her hanging out the clean, wet linen. I try to busy myself at these times to spare myself this ordeal, but things conspire so I am always by that half-closed shutter when she is about this work.’

  Savvas wants to burn the book, destroy it completely. It is sucking him into a place he does not want to go. All the thoughts he has managed to push into some dark recess of his mind are being drawn forward and he finds himself not only understanding Sotos’ words but agreeing with them. But even though he knows that discarding the book will do more good than reading on, he is compelled to continue.

  ‘I am now being punished for all my wrong doings!’ the next page begins.

  ‘Nefeli’s mama looks like she is not going to recover from this second stroke. The doctor has concluded that her condition is stable. Nefeli must assume her role as carer is a permanent one and I have had correspondence from the church telling me that if Nefeli’s mama cannot continue her duties towards the church, then they cannot be paid by the church. This is a blow that can only be reconciled in one way. Nefeli must take over her mama’s duties. So now I am to be tortured by her making my meals and cleaning my cottage. The alternative is that Nefeli and her mama will starve. You see how I am tested. If I was a truly evil man, I would let them starve. I do not need Nefeli to come into my home, especially now my home is so small and her every movement will be within arm’s reach for me.

  ‘I have taken to reading poetry to find some peace in my soul. It does me more good than praying these days, but sometimes the poems are too close to the truth, the torture I now suffer daily as Nefeli makes herself my housekeeper. I have begun to think she has bewitched me on purpose, that the evil is hers.

  ‘It has been a month since I last wrote in this journal—or prayed, for that matter. My torture continues, my thoughts grow blacker and blacker. I swear Nefeli knows exactly what she is doing.

  ‘I am afraid. Not of anything outside of myself but of what is within.

  ‘Do not let me harm her. Or her me!’

  Savvas turns the pages quickly, his heartbeat sounding in his ear. But there is no more. The pages are blank, white and pure. Sitting back, he exhales.

  ‘How did he di
e?’ The words come almost unbidden, but there is a growing disquiet and he looks around the room. Was he found dead in here, on the bed? He looks through the door to the chair by the fireplace. Was he found dead there? He shivers and feels for his crucifix through his robes. Wherever he died, he took his secret with him. The village thought of him as a saint as he gave away his possessions and moved into the smaller house. He himself has heard nothing but praise from every quarter. But after seeing his state of mind through his writing, Savvas cannot believe his predecessor died a natural and calm death.

  But the good news, from reading through these pages, is that it seems Nefeli’s mama at least was not in favour of the move from the cottage to the big house, so maybe the move back again will be met with pleasure? Now, however, he must write letters to the bishop. He needs a car and he is sure there are other things if he concentrates his mind.

  Two weeks later, a four-wheel drive Mercedes is delivered to the church, much to the intense interest of the villagers, and in particular the tanned boys who play football in the square. The sun reflects off its black surface as the high-seated vehicle rolls through the square, turns up by the corner shop, and pulls to a halt on the paved area outside the church. The boys are the first to press their noses against the windows, greasy fingers smearing the paintwork. An old man leaving the kafeneio in the main square hobbles up to join them.

  ‘Papas, how fast can it go?’ a young boy asks.

  ‘Papas, is it bulletproof like the Catholic Pope’s?’ a teenager asks with a slight teasing edge to his voice. It seems they teach the young all religions these days.

  ‘Solid cars,’ the old man announces. ‘Bought my son one for his taxi job. Runs even when it is raining.’

  Savvas looks at him twice, but the man seems serious.

  A second man arrives, folds his arms, looks at the big shiny beast with a glint in his eye. He unfolds his arms and puts them in his front pockets to lean over and look at something a little closer inside the wheel arch.

  ‘Hmm,’ he grunts. Savvas waits for what is about to follow but the man says no more, just continues to stare before pulling a card from his pocket.

  ‘You’ll be needing this,’ he says finally to Savvas and hands him the card before walking away. The card reads, ‘Alekos garage. Tractors, cars, mopeds.’ Savvas looks into the wheel arch to see if he can see what Aleko could see, but there is just a thin layer of dust on the new, shiny paint.

  A couple of people use the car as an excuse to loiter and chat, causing others that are passing also to stop and join in the conversation. Savvas recognises most of them from his Sunday morning service. He recognises more of the women perhaps than the men. The men have work as their excuses on Sundays; trees that won’t wait to be tended, tractors that need to be tinkered with, animals that must be fed. But even though the male population has, in part, been absent, Savvas feels that over the last couple of weeks, he has made his status known and the majority of them are showing him suitable reverence.

  There are one or two of the older ladies who think they have seen it all before and have offered him advice with very little respect, but he has dismissed these, firmly putting them in their places. The one he keeps his eye on, though, is Maria. There is nothing in the way she acts towards him that denotes what she witnessed of his predecessor. Sotos’ secret seems to be safe with her. How many other secrets does she have? Come to that, how many secrets does everyone else in the village have? He looks about at the faces. They might all know things, about Sotos, about him, about the church.

  It is a bad time for Maria to come across from her house. She looks over the car with disdain, shielding her eyes from the sun’s glare with her hand. Above the bonnet, the air rises in shimmering waves.

  ‘A very pretty toy,’ she begins. With her presence, the boys return to their game of football and the others who had been using the car as an excuse to take a break and chat melt away. It seems he is not the only person who tries to avoid Maria’s company.

  ‘It is easy,’ Maria says, folding her own arms and standing beside him, ‘to fall into the ways of mankind.’

  ‘It is a car, Kyria Maria. I need it for church business.’ He would like to take it for a drive now, smell the leather interior. Take it for a spin into Saros perhaps, park on the sea front and sit having coffee overlooking the bay.

  ‘An earthly desire,’ Maria mutters through gritted teeth.

  ‘Kyria Maria, I appreciate your sentiment, but please rest assured you have no need to concern yourself about my spiritual life.’

  Maria looks up to the grand house where Nefeli is throwing a sheet over the stone balustrade of the balcony to air. Savvas is grateful that in this moment, the sheet is not wet and clinging to her. The sight of her attending to her domestic duties, even though it is a commonplace, trivial thing, makes the heat in his cheeks rise.

  ‘I have seen how quickly a man can fall,’ Maria says and her gaze, which is now on him, seems to see right into every thought he has ever had. Her penetrating look creates flashing images in his head of his mama spreading him in a crucifix position on the cold floor as a punishment. He forces himself into composure.

  ‘Maria, please do not play games with me. If you have something to say, then say it.’ His guilt twists into anger.

  ‘What did they tell you about your predecessor?’ Her voice is low so it does not carry, but Savvas looks around the square anyway.

  ‘He was a good man,’ he retorts, as if this is the end of the conversation. But his words do not sound convincing.

  ‘Men are good till they fall. I suppose they told you he died of a heart attack?’

  It would be wisest to stop this conversation right now, but his curiosity is too strong. She ‘tuts’ and lifts her chin, rolling her eyes, a Greek ‘No!’ ‘He did not die of a heart attack.’

  Savvas’ limbs tense rigid, waiting for her to say more. He cannot ask her, that would be tantamount to encouraging gossip, and it would admit that she has power, and knowledge that he wants it. It would most definitely imply his interest, which he feels very strongly that it is better to conceal. If he stares hard enough, the shiny new car will appear to be the focus of his attention.

  ‘He died under the greatest sin of them all, in a bid to cover his other sins,’ she finally says. Then there is a deliberate pause before, with a great deal of air, she expels a single word: ‘Suicide.’

  Savvas closes his eyes, bites his lower lip, and tries to maintain his calm exterior. On opening them again, he turns to face her.

  ‘I think you have said enough.’ The tightness in his voice matches a constriction in his throat.

  ‘I found him. I thought he was sleeping. His cassock was pulled up above his knees and his legs were bright red. It was a scene no God-fearing woman should have to see. I was about to leave him to his slumbers but something made me stay. I pulled down his cassock and I shook his sleeve to rouse him, but his head rolled in a way that was not natural.’

  ‘You’ve said enough, Kyria Maria.’

  ‘Carbon monoxide poisoning. He had stuffed clothes up the chimney. My clothes, that he had taken from the washing line, and then he had burnt charcoal in a pan. And I will tell you something else. There was a bottle too, an empty bottle of Metaxa brandy. And sleeping pills. I took the empty packet so they weren’t found, along with the bottle, and burnt my clothes.’

  ‘Kyria Maria, I forbid you to say anything more.’ She is colluding with him. She is telling him she performed a cover-up. Maria will not be silenced.

  ‘It was her.’ She glances towards the balcony. There is no Nefeli there now, but Savvas knows who she means.

  ‘Kyria Maria, I do not know what you are trying to say and nor do I want to know. It is not your place to say these things or to judge.’ The words fall one after the other but guilt is creeping all over him, consuming him. He has lusted after Nefeli too and Maria’s confession, her admission of her cover-up, isn’t that her way of pointing out his future path if
he continues on the same route?

  ‘She might not have actually lit the charcoal but if she didn’t, she may as well have done it,’ Maria whispers.

  ‘Kyria Maria, I will hear no more!’ And with these words, he strides away from her toward the church with such a pace, he can feel his cassock slap against his calves as he walks.