by Nadia Marks
Inside his modest apartment, his rooms were pleasant enough, if a little ascetic, containing everything a man of the cloth could possibly need. In winter the living room was warm and cosy and in the summer the large ceiling fans in every room kept the place cool; yet his excuse for his frequent visits to Katerina was that it was much cooler outside on her veranda than in the oppressive heat of his rooms. The truth was that he had no need to make any excuses for these visits. Katerina was as happy in his company as he was in hers. In fact, she had never enjoyed the company of anybody as much as she was enjoying his.
In the course of those summer months he came to realize that being with Katerina was the highlight of his day. He found pleasure in her presence almost as much as he had cherished his time with Carmen in another life so many years before. He started to become aware that this young Greek Cypriot woman had a quality about her that was reminiscent of his one and only love. Perhaps not so much physically, although Katerina did possess those burning dark eyes that could penetrate into his soul as Carmen’s had. But apart from their soulful eyes, the two women couldn’t have looked more different. Carmen was small-boned and lightly built like a little bird; he could scoop her up and lift her with one arm and when she was pregnant no one knew about it, it hardly showed. She had the figure of a girl and the short haircut like a boy’s that most of the partisan women wore then for practical reasons. Katerina, on the other hand, was curvaceous and womanly, and in height almost as tall as him. She was full-breasted, her waist tiny and her legs shapely and long. She did nothing to accentuate her figure – on the contrary she tried to hide it – but it was obvious, one couldn’t help but notice. Her hair was a mass of chestnut curls that rested on her shoulders when she didn’t have them tightly pulled back while working, which was most of the time.
Nevertheless, despite Katerina’s obvious physical differences to Carmen, he saw the beauty in her and the same gentle kindness and spirit. Both women possessed an innocent curiosity, a passion for their country, and natural wisdom. Katerina reminded him without doubt of the young woman he had taken as his wife a lifetime ago and whom he had never stopped loving.
During the long hot summer Padre Bernardino acknowledged gradually, secretly and reluctantly that his feelings towards Katerina went much further than the pure friendship that had existed between them at first. The small spark that had been kindled during their tranquil evenings on the veranda, encouraging memories of earthy human feelings, slowly developed into a forest fire, which try as he might and must, he could not extinguish. When he was with her he felt happier than he had felt in years – free, elated. When he was alone he was troubled and fearful. When he tried to process what was happening to him it always resulted in torment, guilt and remorse for these newly awakened feelings towards a woman. Carmen was the only woman he had loved or would ever love, he had made that pledge and kept it – till now. He tried to find solace in prayer. I am not a man, I am a priest, I have no right to these feelings, my path is chosen, he would berate himself over and over again.
While he busied himself with his priestly duties or officiated at the ceremony of Mass he would became a priest once again, not a man; thoughts of Katerina melted away. The vows of priesthood he had taken were solemn and sacred; he had taken them knowingly and willingly and they had given him the peace and comfort he had sought since he was a boy. It was true that he had been just a man once. But that was a long time ago and the memories and feelings that he had buried deep down and were now resurfacing had to be banished and fought against. Again and again he reminded himself that he had taken vows to God, to his Church, to his faith and to chastity. They were equally as binding as each other and to break them would be a mortal sin.
But the flesh is weak and all too human. When he saw her again those emotions welled up once more. What he felt for Katerina he had to accept was love. A profound and deep love, a love he had only ever experienced once in his life before. His guilt was redoubled, for he was betraying his faith but also the memory of his wife. To begin with he told himself that what he felt for Katerina was a platonic and chaste love. But as time went on and when he was quite alone in the deep of the night, either in his bed or awake in contemplation, he had to acknowledge that this love of his was more than all of those things. The unwelcome and disturbing presence of carnal desire had captured his body and spirit and he was brought low by its torments.
Katerina had never been in love. Her heart was bursting with love for those she cared for, and she felt it deeply and sincerely, but never had she harboured a secret physical longing for a man, or felt that which Greeks called erotas. Aphrodite’s love child had given her a wide berth and she was perfectly content and resigned to the fact that she would remain immune for the rest of her life. Both Anita and Sonia had talked to her about it when cupid’s arrow had taken his aim at them, but she didn’t care much for the idea. Men, as Olga had always firmly told her, were an unreliable species, their uses limited, and looking around her she decided her mistress was probably right. By then she was twenty-eight years old, and had accepted that she would never feel sexual passion run through her veins for anyone. She was more than happy with the people she loved.
When she first started to feel what she imagined must be love of the kind she had heard and read about in romantic novels, she was shocked and appalled – while also feeling helplessly at its mercy. It had happened so unexpectedly, was so unwelcome and, worst of all, it was aimed at the wrong person. This can’t be happening, she insisted to herself. Surely it was delusion even to dream that what she felt could be reciprocated. She wondered perhaps if she was losing her mind. Padre Bernardino was a dear beloved friend, not an object of desire. He was like Anita and Sonia, Olga or Ernestina; that was the kind of love she knew about, those were the kind of loyal nurturing feelings she was accustomed to having towards those she dearly cared about. Feelings of tenderness and concern, not disturbing longings.
He was her friend, her mentor, her spiritual educator; there should be no place in her heart for these unsettling emotions and desires. She was normally a grounded, pious, sensible person in control of her emotions and her actions – why then this sudden state of madness? Her head was full of unanswered questions. Why on earth was she behaving like a silly adolescent girl, anticipating his arrival with trembling anxiety when in the past she had looked forward to seeing him with pleasing composure? She wasn’t a vain person, so why did she start wearing her hair loose, making sure it was brushed and shining even when she was doing her chores, and taking care to look her best at all times just in case he came to visit? Why was she catching herself in secret indulgences like sneaking into Olga’s room to spray Parisian perfume behind her ears and in her bosom, before his arrival? She was certainly unhinged.
She had been worried about Anita, supposing that her misfortunes had sent her a little mad – but look who’s mad now, she kept telling herself. This is surely the behaviour of an unstable person. Her head swirled with guilt. Mostly she tried to block it out, not to think about it, or about anything of significance at all, because if she did, she was flooded with confusion and shame. The padre had always treated her like a cherished friend, he was honest and truthful, he had opened his heart, taken her into his confidence and spoken of personal matters that no one else knew or would ever know about him. Her infatuation, she decided, was a form of betrayal and unworthy of his trust. He had been nothing but honourable and virtuous towards her; he was a priest, a man of God. He had never given her reason to think of him otherwise. The padre, as Ernestina had told her once when Katerina had asked her to explain the difference between Orthodoxy and Catholicism, is married to the Church, and that is why he could never be married to a woman, unlike an Orthodox priest.
Katerina knew that a Greek Orthodox priest could have a wife and a family, and indeed many of them did. The priest in her village had twelve children – she had been friendly with some of them as they were of similar ages to her and her siblings. Her grandmot
her used to feel sorry for his poor wife who seemed to be perpetually pregnant. But Padre Bernardino, Ernestina had told her, was a Catholic and he had taken the vows of celibacy, which could never be broken.
When she looked at herself in the mirror she didn’t recognize what she saw. Who had she become? What did she want? Did she ever imagine that he would leave the Church and break his vows for her? He had had a wife once, but that was a long time ago, before he had dedicated his life to the Church and God.
She longed for composure. She needed to govern her feelings, do something to save herself from humiliation and shame, which her actions and emotions, if they ever betrayed her, would surely bring upon her.
She decided she must distance herself from him, for a time at least. Going to the mountains to visit her ladies, put space between herself and this fixation, instil order into her thoughts – that was the solution.
‘I had a letter from Anita,’ she told him, avoiding his gaze, when he next visited. They were about to sit down for the midday meal and she was busy bringing food to the table. ‘She wrote to invite me to join them at the sanatorium.’ She turned away and walked to the sink to fill the water jug from the tap.
There had been something of a heatwave during the past few days; the barometer had risen to forty degrees and Katerina had kept all the shutters closed in an attempt to keep the house as cool as possible. Padre Bernardino hadn’t come to visit for several days, and she was nervous at the prospect of meeting him again. She wore her apron over a floral short-sleeved summer dress and had put a little rouge on her cheeks. Looking in the mirror that morning she was alarmed to see how pale she was. She had missed him, and her mind was full of imaginings about why he hadn’t come. She reassured herself that it must have been the heat that had kept him away, or matters of the Church or perhaps he was unwell; but mostly she told herself that he must have been trying to avoid her. Obviously my behaviour has put him off. He must think me such a fool and worse. But Katerina couldn’t have been more wrong. She had given nothing away; he thought she acted the same as always, friendly, courteous and hospitable, and it was his actions he had been afraid of. They were both swimming in a sea of guilt and lovesickness, each too far out of their depth to notice anything of each other’s behaviour.
‘How long will you be away?’ he asked now, trying to hide his disappointment. ‘It will be good to escape this heat,’ he quickly added in an attempt to sound sincere.
She tried to avoid his question. ‘Anita says it’s cool up there and at night they even cover themselves with a blanket. Hard to imagine in this inferno.’
‘How is Anita?’ he asked awkwardly, at a loss as to what else to say.
‘She is improving; it has done her good to be there.’ Her reply was as stilted as his question.
‘Will you stay long?’ he ventured again, as casually as he could, hoping for an answer this time.
‘Not long …’ she said and the thought of being away from him made her feel sick to her stomach. ‘Anita has been asking me to visit, it’s time I did before they have to return.’
‘When will that be?’ Alarm rose in his voice. The thought of their return and a full house again distressed him.
‘You have no idea how much I have missed you!’ Anita said the minute she stepped out of the bus in the square. ‘You’ll love it up here as much as we do,’ she continued excitedly. ‘Come, follow me, the sanatorium is just a walk away. It’s not a hospital, you know, it’s like a hotel. They cook and clean and look after us and all we have to do is sleep, eat, walk and relax. I even play the piano a little … You will like it, you’ll see, and you’ll have a rest – God knows you need it too, Katerina mou.’
Anita was well aware of how much energy and emotional effort Katerina had put into helping her during those months she had been ill. ‘Mama and Nonna love it here too, and like me they’re so glad you decided to join us. Come, let’s go, they’re waiting for us.’
Anita was far too excited to stop talking; her vigour had returned along with the colour in her cheeks, which was more than Katerina could say about herself. The hours she had spent sitting on the bus had been taken up with exhausting thoughts of the padre; thoughts that filled her mind with further confusion and bewilderment. Almost for the first time since she had entered the Linser house as a girl, Katerina felt alone. Olga, the girls, even the padre had always been there to consult and support her when she was in need. This time, she realized, she was on her own. This was her problem and hers only, and no one else could help her.
Olga and Ernestina were sitting waiting for them on the veranda with a jug of lemonade and a plate of sesame koulourakia, which were all the more welcome to Katerina for having been prepared by someone else.
‘Welcome, Katerina mou,’ Olga said, kissing her on both cheeks. ‘We have missed you.’
‘Come, sit down, my girl,’ Ernestina added. ‘What news do you bring for us? How is the padre?’
At this mention of the very person who occupied her thoughts, Katerina’s face flushed crimson and she turned away, praying to God that no one had noticed. She was in luck as Olga was busy pouring a glass of lemonade for her, Anita had walked away to drag another chair over, and Ernestina’s eyesight, she knew, was rapidly failing her. Settling back in one of the deckchairs, she took in a deep breath of pine-scented air and tried to banish thoughts of the priest. Perhaps, she thought, Anita was right – a little rest would do her good and clear her thoughts.
‘How is Oscar?’ Anita asked cheerfully, taking a seat next to her friend.
‘He is fine and sleeps all day long. What else do cats do apart from sleep and eat? He doesn’t even chase mice any more,’ she said and they all laughed like old times.
‘He’s getting old, ill and decrepit like me,’ Ernestina said with a sigh and a little chuckle. Looking at these three women whom she loved most in the world, women who until now had been her whole world, Katerina was flooded with a sense of well-being and relief. As much as she had loved being alone in the house and with the padre, she had missed them. They were her family, her life, her reality and stability. She even wondered if perhaps the separation from them was the reason that she had developed such inappropriate feelings towards the priest. Sitting with them now she welcomed the calm and peace these women gave her and yearned for tranquillity instead of the turmoil and anguish that falling in love had brought her.
She shared a room with Anita, as they had sometimes done when they were girls and the two young women talked late into the night. Anita did most of the talking and for that Katerina was grateful.
‘Sometimes I forget I am married,’ she confessed one night. ‘Not once have I missed Costas since I came here, nor do I miss him when he stays in Nicosia; I feel more relief than anything. I often wonder why I married him.’
‘You were in love with Mario, Anita mou,’ Katerina replied, avoiding any critical comments she might have been tempted to make about Costas. ‘No one could have taken his place.’
‘If Mario had lived everything would be different now.’
‘He was exceptional.’ Katerina shook her head and sighed with the memory of him.
‘And he was the love of my life …’ Anita hesitated a moment. ‘Sometimes I think by marrying Costas, I have betrayed Mario.’ She lifted herself up on one elbow and looked at Katerina. ‘Perhaps,’ she said in a whisper, her eyes glistening with tears in the dark, ‘I am being punished for that.’
Focusing on Anita, talking and listening to her, allowed Katerina to banish the confusing voice in her own head and pretend that what had taken place in her heart during the past few weeks was a fancy or a dream. Since her arrival, long walks in the forest, and the fresh air, had done wonders for the nervous exhaustion she had brought with her, and had contributed to her ability to relax. For the first time in many days Katerina had stopped thinking about herself and delighted in her friend’s recovery.
Anita was at last emerging from her deadening melancholy and along with her
physical improvement came the ability to speak about her grief.
‘Nature heals,’ she said one day as the two friends made their way gingerly down a steep trail which led to a small waterfall and a stream. ‘Nature reminds us that we are a part of her, and not apart from her,’ she said, emphasizing the words, and stopped to fill her lungs with mountain air.
‘We are all God’s creatures,’ Katerina replied softly.
They had woken early that morning and left as dawn was breaking. They wanted to walk before the temperature rose by mid-morning as it always did. They had taken a small backpack to carry fruit, bread and olives and a flask of coffee for breakfast, which they would have once they reached the waterfall. By the time they arrived at their designated spot they were both more than ready for a rest. The ground was covered in green ferns, and pine needles provided a soft surface on which to lay their tablecloth, spread out the food, and enjoy their early-morning picnic to the sound of cascading water and birdsong.
‘It’s almost too cold to drink,’ Anita called, crouching over the stream and scooping water into her mouth with her hand. ‘This water, this forest, this waterfall, they are marvels of nature,’ she enthused again, walking back to Katerina who had already laid out the tablecloth and was now biting into a juicy peach. ‘We must never take the small pleasures of life for granted,’ Anita added as she sat down next to her friend, tucking her legs beneath her dress.
