Aphrodite's Tears

by Hannah Fielding

  As she watched, a group of people moved to obscure Oriel’s view and she shook herself, sighing. Her gaze wandered upwards. The moon was low; it looked so close, touching the landscape with silver, accentuating the mystery around them. As the breeze swept through the trees and echoed against the stone of the nearby temple, a hint of nostalgic sadness hung in the velvety night sky, where alien stars blazed in place of the more familiar Southern Cross that spread its kite-like shape over the Thames. Oriel wondered, was she homesick? No, she was heartsick from hankering after a man to whom she was fatally attracted but who would never love her, even though he lusted after her, and who would eventually break her heart if she ever gave in to the enchantment of their chemistry.

  It was getting late. Wine, retsina and ouzo were still flowing freely. The meal went on endlessly as more and more appetizers were brought to the table. Some of the locals, who had been sitting in the taverna, were beginning to spill out on to the courtyard and, not for the first time tonight, Oriel noted that the Greeks were a happy lot, liking to be surrounded by their friends, laughter and music.

  Vassilis glanced at his watch. ‘Ah, it is almost time for Yolanda to sing.’

  Oriel tensed. In the noisy atmosphere of the taverna and her conversation with Vassilis, she’d almost forgotten about the nightclub singer, but not quite. ‘I hear she’s quite something,’ she murmured. Her gaze caught Damian, who had returned to the table and had lit up another Gitane. After the boisterous dancing, he was now oddly distracted once more.

  Vassilis refilled his glass. ‘She’s certainly got an incredible voice. Very Greek,’ he answered. ‘You just wait until you hear her. She’s sung all over the world, you know. She has a recording deal, too, but she still likes to return home in the summer months. She is the aidóni, the nightingale of the island, well known for her improvised rebetiko songs, a sort of urban blues.’ He took a gulp of retsina. ‘She’s been courted by millionaires, film stars, even royalty. But Yolanda Christodoulou has only ever had eyes for one man … Damian Lekkas.’

  Even though this wasn’t news to her, the name brought a swift, sharp pang to Oriel’s stomach; still, she managed to laugh. ‘Yes, he seems to be quite the ladies’ man.’ A thought then struck her. ‘Christodoulou … the same surname as Kyrios Lekkas’s estate manager.’

  ‘Yes, Yorgos is Yolanda’s brother. Some people say he’s there to keep an eye on Damian, who’s always had women vying for his attention. He’s a very good catch, even more so since he became not only a widower but the sole heir to a great fortune. Trust me, more women than I care to count fight like cats over him, and Yorgos is hoping that Damian will eventually marry Yolanda.’

  ‘How awkward for him.’ No wonder the estate manager took such evident glee in pointing out that the singer would be here at Manoli’s tonight.

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about Damian. So far he’s managed to elude them all and, apart from Yolanda, no one has had a hold on him … yet.’

  ‘I think I heard somewhere that they were childhood sweethearts.’

  Vassilis nodded, sipping his retsina. ‘But they were forbidden to marry because Yolanda comes from a totally different background. There were rumours at the time that she had no intention of marrying because her career was just taking off and she didn’t want any ties. Who can say? Anyhow, he ended up marrying the rich heiress, Cassandra. And we know how that ended.’

  Oriel forbore from quizzing him on the subject of Cassandra. Besides, she was too busy processing the information about Yolanda. Instead, she couldn’t help herself asking: ‘He’s a widower now, so what stops him from marrying Yolanda?’

  ‘I don’t think Damian will ever marry again. This is a small island and there’s always gossip floating around. Some say Yolanda is his mistress, and always was, even when he was married.’

  Before Oriel could utter a rejoinder, Vassilis nudged her. ‘Speak of the devil,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Here she comes. Ravishing, isn’t she?’

  At first, all that Oriel could wonder was how a woman so petite could emit such a strong charisma. There was subtlety there too, as if the singer knew that her striking looks needed nothing more than a simple black dress, with no other embellishment, to set off her beauty. Everything about the young woman was feminine and she had an aura of dark sensuality that Oriel realized, with a uneasy twinge, reminded her of Damian’s.

  Oriel and Vassilis continued to watch Yolanda as she made her way sinuously through the groups of standing drinkers, some of whom broke off from their conversation and laughter to stare, while others were bold enough to engage her in a word. A moment later, the dark beauty was standing beside Vassilis, who had enough presence of mind not to look flustered by her attentions.

  Oriel couldn’t help staring at Yolanda’s face as she spoke to Vassilis. The elegant outline of the woman she’d seen in the paparazzo photo only hinted at her full impact. There was something imperious about the singer’s perfect Greek profile – almost austere – and, together with the mass of shining hair, dark as a raven’s wing, that tumbled down her back in luxuriant waves, she looked almost as if sculpted by some ancient master.

  That illusion of coolness was banished, however, by her striking, velvet-black eyes, fringed with thick dark lashes and flashing a blaze in their depths that countered that first impression. Flawless copper skin added extra warmth to the singer’s beauty, and Oriel’s eyes moved instinctively to Yolanda’s vermilion mouth as she spoke to Vassilis, taking in the perfect white teeth. She reflected for a moment that the canines had a sharpness to them that gave the singer an almost mustelid quality; indeed there was something mink-like in the quick, neat gestures Yolanda made as she spoke, and a rapaciousness in the way her pointed little tongue darted over her teeth when she laughed.

  ‘So, Vassilis, it’s good to see you here,’ Yolanda was saying. ‘I miss all the fun we used to have with Damian. Wasn’t it wild? He’s more intense these days, don’t you think? Though I can’t say that doesn’t have its attractions.’ She gave a dimpled, wicked little smile, and Vassilis laughed. She had that way, Oriel realized, of making the person she was addressing feel like they were the centre of her world. It seemed that Vassilis wasn’t immune to such flattery, but he didn’t forget himself so far that he failed to remember his manners.

  ‘Yolanda, I don’t think you’ve met Oriel Anderson,’ he said, breaking the intimacy of the tête à tête the singer had orchestrated. ‘She’s joined the dive team as archaeologist.’

  Yolanda held out a perfectly manicured hand with crimson nails, offering it almost regally. Oriel found herself holding it for a split-second before it was sharply withdrawn, and the singer’s eyes were once more fixed on those of Vassilis. ‘Another of Damian’s lovely interns.’ She dimpled again as she spoke, and Oriel couldn’t be certain if Vassilis was aware of the rudeness of Yolanda’s appraisal, or the fact that the singer couldn’t be bothered to look at her when she spoke.

  Vassilis gave Oriel a reassuring wink. ‘Goodness, no. Oriel outdoes any of us when it comes to her knowledge of archaeology. The team is more than a little impressed. We’re finding it hard to keep up with her, isn’t that right, Oriel?’

  Oriel laughed, a little embarrassed, but glad to see that Vassilis’s comments had been met with a swiftly veiled look of annoyance in Yolanda’s eyes. It was then that she realized that he had the exact measure of Yolanda and was perfectly happy to thwart her.

  Yolanda gave a tight smile. ‘I hope you are being looked after. Vassilis has always had perfect manners, and would never let a wallflower stand around on her own.’ Oriel and Vassilis’s eyes met for a brief second, both acknowledging the rudeness implicit in Yolanda’s words.

  ‘I’m certainly not doing my gentlemanly duty tonight,’ said Vassilis smoothly. ‘I couldn’t see another person in the room whom I would rather be with, so I got in quickly and monopolized Oriel,’ he said, smiling deep into her eyes.

  He turned back to Yolanda, with a little grin of devil
ment. ‘Damian is making sure to look after her, too. Oriel’s lucky enough to be staying at Heliades,’ he said.

  For the slightest moment Oriel thought she could detect a narrowing of Yolanda’s eyes, as if the diva were sizing her up. Then, once again, the singer showed her dazzling row of perfect pointy teeth in a bright smile, although now her eyes held ice rather than fire. ‘Well, I’ll leave you both to it then,’ she said shortly, before walking away towards the stage, her hips moving fluidly as she went.

  Vassilis laughed, his eyes gleaming with amusement. ‘Well, that showed her. I couldn’t resist winding up the little vixen. To be honest, I don’t know what Damian sees in her.’ He paused before qualifying his statement. ‘Of course, I do see she has some rather obvious attractions, but he should know better by now. She’s had him dancing to her tune for far too long.’

  Oriel, her spirits dampened, suddenly imagined Yolanda’s perfect caramel-coloured body entwined with Damian’s and the muscles in her stomach contracted painfully again. Luckily she was saved from responding. A hush had fallen over the courtyard. Waiters were setting chairs in a semicircle and a man with an aquiline face and black moustache appeared, wearing a black-beaded kerchief on his forehead and jackboots on his feet. With almost reverential respect, he announced: ‘The great Yolanda Christodoulou will sing to you Agapi Pou Gines Dilopo Maxairi, which Oriel mentally translated as: My Love You Turned into a Double-Edged Knife, a well known song that Melina Mercouri had made famous twenty years before in the film Stella.

  A more extensive band now appeared and took up their places around an imaginary stage. The ensemble was a traditional lineup of two bouzoúkia, a baglamadaki, the long-necked bowl-lute, a guitar, an accordion, a set of cochilias seashells that the Greeks use as percussion instruments, and a portable piano. The silence was so profound you could have heard a pin fall. And then the diva appeared to a shower of applause.

  The song was full of passion and melancholy, a plaintive melody with an exotic, flagrant Mediterranean feel to it. Without shame, Yolanda sung of her yearning and her nostalgia for the man who filled her soul with fire. Her dark eyes fixed on Damian, glittering almost with tears, and it seemed as though her heart spilled out her desire and pain.

  Once upon a time you gave me nothing but joy,

  But now you drown the joy in tears.

  I can’t find a way out of this, I can’t find a cure.

  I can see fire burning in his eyes,

  The stars disappear when he looks at me.

  Turn off the lights, turn off the moonlight,

  Don’t let him see my pain when he takes me …

  Damian had turned his chair, his back to Oriel. He was still smoking but the expression on his face and his eyes were hidden from her. What was he feeling? Was he moved, like Yolanda’s audience, who watched spellbound by her half-vampish, half-waiflike image and that languid look that transferred itself to her voice? Was he mesmerized, electrified under the magic she seemed to weave around her, like every man in the taverna who stared at her, goggle-eyed, with undisguised longing, tugging at their moustaches and sucking on their cigarettes? Or, unlike them, was he unaffected by that sexual frenzy she was stirring in her male admirers? Oriel hoped fiercely it was the latter.

  An involuntary shiver ran down her spine as, nevertheless, for one horrifying moment, she held a clear vision of their bodies interlocked in lovemaking. Images of Damian lying with this diva flashed before her: his strong, beautiful, masculine body stretched against hers, his muscled arms holding her, clasping her, moulding her to his hardness. Oriel was not a jealous person by nature. Never before had she experienced the piercing pain that was twisting in her heart now and the need for this man whom she hardly knew.

  Her eyes were stinging; involuntary tears poured down her cheeks. Vassilis’s hand covered hers. She glanced at it but couldn’t move. How ironic. He probably thought that she had been moved by Yolanda’s song, like other members of the audience who had taken out their handkerchiefs. It brought her abruptly back to reality and she told herself staunchly not to think about Damian’s love life; he could sleep with whomever he pleased and it was absolutely nothing to do with her. Still, who was she fooling? Deep down, Oriel knew those were empty words and she hated herself for being so weak.

  The night was wearing on. The song had ended now to a shower of applause and flowers. Yolanda bowed and blew kisses to her fans, who were shouting and asking for more. And then, suddenly, Damian stood up and approached the band. As he slipped a banknote to the bandleader, he whispered something to him. The musician nodded and he stepped away.

  Almost immediately there was a noticeable quieting of the crowd as the familiar notes of the rebetiko song demanded everyone’s attention. Oriel recognized it immediately. She had heard it many times in the tavernas around Greece. Sa Maghemeno To Myalo Mou – As if Enchanted, my Mind – it told the story of a man who loves a woman who shuns him, and he languishes over his ill-fated love.

  What Oriel had not expected was that Damian was going to dance the zeibekiko, a highly expressive, freeform dance performed by a solo male dancer for himself, which she had read about but had never seen.

  Damian stretched out his arms as though they were the wings of a bird, and started his slow-moving circular dance, his manner introspective, eyes downcast as though in a trance, while a group of men and women knelt around him, clapping their hands to the rhythm, symbolizing the friends that would not leave a man alone with his pain.

  Yolanda sang the emotional words: ‘As if enchanted my mind hovers, and my every thought dangles around you,’ and Damian, his eyes still fixed on the floor, danced around an imaginary antagonist, bending to touch the ground and hissing from time to time like a hawk on attack. His motion kept within limited movements to start off with, then evolved into more elaborate ones as the song became more poignant. It was a dance of passion and sorrow, full of sighs and heartbreak, of fears and pain, full of despair and unfulfilled love; the grief of a tortured soul in a dreamlike, slow-motion rhythm. The mixture of deep introspection and flamboyant display was as enticing as a peacock’s tail.

  Looking at them from a distance, Oriel sensed a strange current at war between Damian and Yolanda. Proud-boned, their silent dialogue seemed cruel at times. They were two of a kind, meant by all the laws of Greek blood to be together instead of held apart by conventional traditions, she thought. The passion in Damian’s dance told of homage to the thwarted love he felt for his old flame, who stood before him, serenading his pain.

  There was no applause at the end; it didn’t seem to be expected. Some of Damian’s friends came up and hugged him, and kissed Yolanda.

  ‘Did you enjoy it?’ Vassilis asked, turning to Oriel.

  ‘Yes, immensely,’ she said, distrait, and forcing a smile to her lips.

  ‘Have you seen the zeibekiko performed before?’

  ‘Yes, no … but I’ve read about it.’

  Vassilis was talking to her, but Oriel was not really listening any more, answering him in monosyllables. She longed to run away and find some dark corner so she could gather her thoughts privately but, instead, the dictates of convention, not to mention her own pride, demanded that she should stay in this crowded, noisy place, sipping wine and talking to Vassilis as if her heart weren’t being sliced into pieces. She could not possibly have said what subjects they talked about; it was enough that she did talk, that she was giving the impression that she was thoroughly enjoying herself with no hint at all of the turmoil inside.

  Oriel never knew that she had it in her to be such an accomplished actress. Damian and Yolanda were two charismatic people, childhood lovers whose passion had defeated the passage of time and she had seen it for herself – her Greek god’s heart was already given to a glamorous Greek goddess. The force of this reality suddenly hit home with a hard, cruel blow.

  How very naïve of her, she thought. Common sense dictated that Damian must inevitably have someone in his life to whirl to the very he
ights of heaven with one of his special kisses, to bewitch utterly with his sensual words, to capture body, soul and spirit by the sheer magic of his personality. And still, she’d been sure that his desire for her was equal to her own. The moments when he had held her in his arms, Oriel had felt his tall, lean body tremble with emotion like an aspen quivering in the breeze, and had been aware of the tumultuous pounding of his heart. How could he at the same time justify these feelings for Yolanda, his all-time love? Was he so fickle that he could court one woman while swearing undivided love to another?

  Now groups of people were dispersing, and Oriel looked at her watch: it was past two in the morning. The air was warm, and the stars burned hazily overhead. Moonlight lay on the temple, and the smooth black waters of the Ionian were broken only by the long bands of phosphorescence lighting their lapping darkness.

  ‘Can I give you a lift back to Heliades?’ Vassilis asked as he saw Oriel gathering her shawl and bag.

  ‘Thanks, but since I came with Kyrios Lekkas, I think it’s only polite to leave with him.’

  Vassilis raised an eyebrow. ‘I understand. But consider too that maybe it would be a relief for Damian if he didn’t have to drive you. Yolanda’s villa is in the opposite direction to Heliades …’

  Vassilis had a point: the last thing she wanted was to be a burden. She glanced over at Damian, and saw him bidding farewell to his friends. Oriel watched him toss back a last glass of wine abruptly, and then he was coming towards her. He resembled a dark, brooding force – lethal, she acknowledged, noting the long strides he took and the glitter in his gaze, which was riveted on her for the first time since she had sat at the table with Vassilis.