Aphrodite's Tears

by Hannah Fielding

  She let herself out of the car and immediately caught her breath. They were at the top of a cliff with their backs to the sea. Massive patches of black shadow scarred a broad expanse of earth and, here and there, she could make out where lines of rock and tumbled columns lay. All was still. The view was naturally limited by the light, and she found it difficult to assess space and the distance in the semi-darkness, but it seemed to her as if a miniature city, sliced off by time, was sprawled before her, reposing in a breathless trance. The moonlight lay like a dream of beauty on the ruins.

  ‘What have we here?’ she whispered, her eyes taking in the soulful mystery of the place.

  Damian came to stand beside her. ‘It’s the site of an old acropolis. Legend has it that the city and its temple were built as a hideaway for Aphrodite and Ares, the illicit lovers.’ A thread of amusement ran through his voice. ‘Unfortunately, there’s not much left of it, and Manoli has built his taverna inside what’s left of the old palace. He’s managed to make a feature of the temple, even though the columns are in bad condition and its roof has long gone. Even though I’ve been here many times, I’ve never had time to do a proper study of the site. Perhaps one day you could take a look at it. I’d value your opinion.’

  He took a step forward and looked down at her with his intense, argent stare. Some distracted part of her mind registered that, in the evening light, his eyes shone like those of a hungry wolf.

  ‘I’ll make sure I make time for it,’ she answered, tearing her gaze from his. They began walking side by side. As far as Oriel could make out, the ground was strewn with stone, brick and bits of wall. On her high heels she was struggling not to fall.

  ‘Here, let me help you. I wouldn’t like you to twist your ankle.’

  Oriel felt the touch of his hand on hers and this time she didn’t jerk away. They mounted a small slope, crushing wild herbs under their feet, filling the air with a tangy fragrance. Silence dragged between them, but Oriel knew that they were both aware of the current of physical attraction running directly from their fingers straight into one another’s veins.

  The cool breath of night blew Oriel’s hair from her brow and played caressingly around her neck and across her face. She withdrew her hand from Damian’s to push the strands away and, in so doing, lost her balance, and would have fallen if he hadn’t moved instantly to catch her arm.

  ‘You see what happens when you let go of me?’ he admonished softly.

  Oriel looked up at him and met the glinting slits of granite and saw the tension in his face as he slowly dropped his hands to his sides. She could tell that he was fighting with his senses, trying to control his need for her and, in response, it was as if a slim flame burned within her body. The moonlight played over the width of his shoulders and gleamed in the medal half buried in the dark hairs of his chest.

  More than ever Damian reminded her of a pagan god and she felt the yearning deep in her belly, even as she hated him for making her feel so insecure around him. Oriel’s hunger for Damian consumed her, just like the mouth of a great sea anemone devouring its prey of little fish. She pulled away, forcing herself to avert her gaze in case what she felt for him was showing nakedly in her eyes.

  Already the loud music of the taverna could be heard from afar, floating on the air. They entered through an arch in the ancient wall and walked along a vast corridor, down which spilled a broad pathway of golden light from the taverna. From a distance, its glowing lights beneath the moon’s soft splendour gave Manoli’s the outward appearance of a serene bethel at heaven’s door. Inside, though, it was almost a shock to find whitewashed walls decorated with crude drawings of fish, crayfish and a giant mermaid. There were shelves of hollow gourds and empty wine bottles filled with dried herbs. Copper pots and pans hung from the ceiling, interspersed with strings of garlic and large bunches of red onions. Brightly coloured chequered cloths covered the tables and in the far corner stood a gleaming copper brazier. There were a surprising number of people inside, seated at the tables, enjoying good food and wine or at the bar that took up a whole wall at the end of the room.

  Some of the men, Oriel noticed, were wearing the Greek traditional costume, which consisted of a shirt with very wide sleeves, knee-length baggy trousers supported by a cummerbund, and leather sandals worn over short black stockings. Men and women alike seemed all to be in high spirits, talking at once, arguing and roaring with laughter, their voices competing with the blasts of Greek pop music coming from a 1950s jukebox. Beside her, Damian gestured to it and leaned in, speaking into her ear in a raised voice. ‘Manoli’s new acquisition,’ he explained. ‘He’s very proud of it.’

  The noise was horrendous; the whole place looked as if it had been overcome in a delirium of wine and song, and Oriel was relieved when, taking her arm, Damian guided her to the open courtyard.

  ‘Our table is outside,’ he told her as they walked towards a tall arched doorway and stepped out again into the fresh air.

  The first thing Oriel saw as they left the crowded room were the remains of a temple set on a promontory, jutting out to sea. Although roofless and almost in ruins, its twenty-four Ionic columns of incomparable grace and beauty still stood, braving the harshness of time and weathered by the winds of more than two thousand years. They seemed to possess a life of their own as they caught the silver beams of the moon. The phosphorescent light, the glory of night, poured down on to the whitened stone of the monument where once stood the foundations of an ancient civilization, chipped out of the earth’s rock.

  ‘This site is enormous, and those columns … twenty-four of them, so white, so pure, so intimidating. Awesome!’ Oriel gasped.

  Damian gazed out at the distant ruin. ‘The temple is usually lit up at night, except when the moonlight is as bright as it is tonight. But this isn’t the best time to see it. Its true beauty appears at dusk and at sunrise when colour floods over the columns. I’ve seen them pearly pink at dawn and golden at sunset, when bathed in the vermilion shades of twilight. They’re like actors taking on the character and personality of their surroundings.’

  A long table was set further down, next to the parapet that looked over the cliffs to the sea. It stood on a wide paved terrace, surrounded by tall cedar pines and old gnarled olive trees, dimly lit by lamps hanging from low branches. A large group of about twenty or so islanders was already seated, including Stavros and the rest of the crew, who raised their glasses as Damian and Oriel appeared, and the whole table began clamouring.

  Someone she didn’t recognize called out above the noise of greetings: ‘Hey, Damian, we’ve been waiting for you!’ Then another voice: ‘You haven’t shown up here for months, where have you been? These evenings aren’t the same when you’re not around!’ And at that, all the others started to stamp their feet and bang the table, shouting out his name.

  Oriel glanced at him. This was a man who was clearly loved, giving her, once again, a totally different picture from the one Yorgos had painted of him on the first day, and much more akin to the person she had discovered in the past two.

  Damian laughed at the affectionate reception of his friends. Suddenly he looked happy, relaxed and so much younger, Oriel thought. ‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder, isn’t that the way the saying goes?’ he called out, his deep, strong voice rising above the noise.

  ‘Not always,’ came the booming shout from the giant Yanni, winking at Spyros and giving him a playful slap on the back, making the young man nearly choke on his drink. ‘This sprat’s just got back from the mainland, and I’m wishing he’d stayed there.’

  ‘Clean bill of health!’ Spyros coughed and lifted his glass to Damian and Oriel, grinning.

  Some of the group left their places and came to greet Damian, pulling him away towards the table and, for a few minutes, there was a lot of hugging and kissing amid the outburst of chatter, while Oriel stood, a little awkwardly, where he’d left her. Though she had witnessed this custom of tactile greeting many times in Mediterranean co
untries, as well as in the Middle East and Latin America, the fact never ceased to surprise her; it was so alien to England, where some fathers still never kissed or even hugged their sons. She loved the warmth of these people of the sun, as she called them; she’d always believed that the weather had a lot to do with their behaviour.

  As she waited for the euphoria to calm down, a man wearing chinos and a black T-shirt detached himself from the group and came towards her. The slight tension she felt at standing alone, mostly among strangers, waiting for Damian to return, melted away as she realized that the man was Vassilis Markopoulos, the archaeologist friend of Damian’s she’d met at the temple site, and a smile of recognition lit up her face. He strode up to her, grabbing both of her hands in his, an answering grin showing even white teeth against his tanned skin.

  ‘Despinis Anderson!’ he said, kissing her on both cheeks. He stood back to admire her outfit. ‘You look fabulous.’ His eyebrow quirked. ‘That’s not to say you don’t look ravishing in your work clothes, but this takes a man’s breath away.’

  Oriel couldn’t help but laugh. She had been warned so vociferously about the men in Damian’s crew and their vulgar ways, not least of all the unwanted attention she was bound to receive from them, yet there was something honest and straightforward about Vassilis. She found his boyish charm appealing – the black curls that flopped over his forehead, the cleft chin and the college-boy mannerisms that he must have picked up in the States when he was studying there. It helped too that, having spent an afternoon working with him at the Minoan excavation site, Oriel was certain he respected her. She did not doubt for an instant that he thought of her as anything but an equal, so she entered into the relaxed flirtation willingly.

  ‘You don’t look so bad yourself. Amazing, isn’t it, how different we look once the dust has been brushed off?’ She beamed at him. ‘Actually, I’m very happy you’re here. It was a little intimidating standing here among all these strangers.’

  ‘Well, if Damian’s foolish enough to leave you untended for a moment, then he has only himself to blame if I spirit you away.’ He winked and gave her another engaging smile. ‘Here, let me get you a drink and we can sit down. What will you have, ouzo, retsina, or would you prefer a gin and tonic, or perhaps a Martini?’

  ‘Ouzo will be perfect, thank you.’

  Vassilis snapped his fingers at a waiter who was hovering, ready to take orders. ‘Ena ouzo, parakaló, for the young lady here,’ he said, before guiding her to the table where he had been seated. Oriel was just about to take her place next to him when a large hand gripped her arm in a vice.

  ‘Ah, Vassilis, you moved fast, my friend. I leave Despinis Anderson for one moment and she’s already been appropriated by you, I see. Always on the lookout for a pretty woman, eh?’ The deep voice that had spoken sounded friendly enough, but as Oriel turned her head to look at Damian’s fingers curled around the bare skin just above her elbow, she felt something hard as flint beneath his words. She lifted her eyes with express slowness to meet his, colliding with the laser-sharp irises. The look she gave him was almost as cutting as his, and he let go of her arm.

  ‘Where would men be without women, eh? You tell me, my friend,’ Vassilis joked, still relaxed on the surface, but Oriel was sure the undercurrents hadn’t escaped him either.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure we’d manage,’ came the laconic answer.

  ‘Then you’ll not object if I monopolize Despinis Anderson tonight.’

  ‘It depends if Despinis Anderson wants to be monopolized, eh?’ He was studying Oriel, his grey eyes sweeping her with the slow deliberation that never failed to send colour flooding her cheeks.

  An involuntary sound of protest escaped her lips and she smiled at Vassilis. ‘I’m perfectly happy here with Kyrios Markopoulos, thank you.’

  Damian bowed mockingly. ‘Your wishes are my command, Kyria,’ he laughed, the sound low and sensual, and infinitely disturbing. ‘I’ll leave you then. Have a pleasant evening.’ Then, turning on his heel, he went to join the group sitting at the other end of the table, leaving Oriel with a hollow feeling in her stomach.

  Vassilis grinned and pulled a chair out for her. ‘Now that’s settled, let’s enjoy the evening. By the way, do call me Vassilis. And I will, if I may, call you Oriel?’

  ‘Of course. I’ve been carefully trying to follow the Greek code of politeness, but it’ll be a relief not to have to be so formal.’

  The long table was soon covered in small plates of mezedes, displayed like works of art on the red chequered tablecloth. There were little pies of spinach, cheese and seafood wrapped in filo pastry, chunks of saganaki, a fried yellow cheese, black Kalamata olives, cod’s roe, tzatziki and kolokythoanthoi, zucchini flowers stuffed with rice and herbs.

  Once they had both helped themselves from the plates of food, Vassilis continued their conversation. ‘This can’t be your first visit to Greece as you speak the language so fluently.’

  ‘Oyhee, no, six years ago I spent months travelling all over Greece, although my main base was Aegina.’

  ‘Well, you must have had a good teacher. You’ve hardly any accent at all.’ His eyes sparkled mischievously. ‘A Greek boyfriend too, eh?’

  She almost rolled her eyes at the comment, refusing to take the bait. ‘No, I’m afraid it wasn’t a Greek boyfriend who taught me how to speak your language. I read classical and modern Greek at university because I wanted to become an archaeologist, and I was fascinated by Greek history in particular.’

  ‘Of course,’ Vassilis had the good grace to look sheepish at her slightly pointed tone. ‘That makes sense. By the way, congratulations on bringing up the Alexander bronze. What a find!’

  ‘Yes, it was very exciting.’ She lowered her voice. ‘We’ll have to keep it under our hats, though. We don’t want treasure hunters appearing from all directions.’

  ‘Absolutely. Just the close team,’ nodded Vassilis.

  After the mezedes they ordered briàm, an oven-baked Greek version of ratatouille and kleftiko, which Vassilis explained was cooked ‘bandit-style’. ‘The lamb is first marinated in lemon juice and garlic, and then slow-baked on the bone in a pit oven. The story goes that the Klephts, who were bandits in the hills and didn’t have flocks of their own, used to steal the lambs in the valley and cook the meat in a sealed pit to avoid the smoke being noticed.’

  The night air was fresh and cool on Oriel’s face. The atmosphere was relaxed and carefree. Some of the crew came over to speak to her and Vassilis from time to time, and clinked glasses with them before staggering off to find more ouzo or brandy. It felt good having people talk to her warmly and without restraint – she was made to feel part of the group, not a mere stranger.

  Vassilis was entertaining and witty. He told her about his years spent in the United States after studying archaeology there, and how he’d set up his own company, getting commissions on sites all over the world. His flirting was subtle and he made Oriel laugh. He wasn’t the first sophisticated man she’d spent an evening with. Over the years she had been wined and dined, and had received her fair share of compliments. She’d been flattered by some and left cold by others, but none had touched a special chord in her soul as Damian had.

  Oriel was enjoying her evening, and yet she found that her thoughts turned often to the man who was sitting at the head of the table, and to whom her eyes were drawn from time to time, despite herself. But he seemed oblivious to her and appeared to be half listening to two young women clearly competing for his attention.

  As he threw back small glasses of ouzo, she noticed he smoked one cigarette after another, the famous Gitanes. The brand suited him well, she thought; the sensual blue graphic of a gypsy dancing archly against a cloud of smoke, her wispy undulations in space casting imaginative and passionate reveries before the smoker’s vacant gaze. Oriel’s eyes travelled to Damian’s face. What was he thinking? What was he dreaming of? The shadows hid his expression but somehow she felt his loneliness. Angry with herself
now for thinking about him again, she made a concerted effort to push him from her mind, but to no avail.

  Midnight was on the threshold. Inside, the taverna had become noisier as people were dancing the sirtaki, a dance that had become popular after the film Zorba the Greek, for which it had been invented. Oriel had tried it once, a long time ago, when she was still engaged to Rob, and had found it fun. Even in an isolated place like Helios, it seemed some influences from the outside world had penetrated, she thought to herself. Perhaps the island wasn’t so trapped in its own time bubble after all.

  Once the dancing had finished inside, more people spilled out on to the terrace. In the corner, a couple of musicians, one on the bouzoúki, the long-necked Greek mandolin, and another on the clarinet, now struck up a song. Oriel watched as men and women gathered to dance in a ring, holding their hands high in the air, feet crossing nimbly as they stepped from side to side with the swinging rhythm of the music. Another group of women joined in, singing along in unison with a meandering melody. She suddenly saw that Damian had moved from his seat and was now taking his place on the right end of the curved line of dancers to whistles from the crowd.

  He led the circle of dancers, pulling a twisted handkerchief from the back pocket of his jeans that were slung above his hips with a belt, and Oriel couldn’t help but notice how they showed the tapered outline of his torso. The appearance of the handkerchief was a signal that the men were dancing alone, and the women fell back into the throng of onlookers who clapped in time to the lilting music.

  Damian’s body was gracefully masculine, his hips swivelling with each bouncing step as he waved the handkerchief, swaying along with the other men. He kicked up his foot in front then behind the other leg, as the others followed suit. Oriel’s eyes were fastened on Damian’s back, the muscles rippling visibly under his shirt as he lifted his hands to place them on the shoulders of his fellow dancers while they all did likewise. Every now and then, a man would detach himself from the circle and leap up, slapping his heel to the approving cries of ‘Ópa!’ from the ring of dancers, who dragged their feet smoothly with a skip and a hop along to the beat. The music began speeding up and the men began shouting ‘Ópa! Ópa!’ with glee as they got caught up in the relentless pull of the dance.