The Honey Is Bitter

by Violet Winspear

  He spoke the words with chilliness and irony, and Domini found herself flinching from him as though he had struck her. His words echoed and re-echoed in her mind, and their blatant honesty roused her to a blaze of stormy anger.

  "I see, Paul," her eyes shot blue daggers at him. "you smashed my life just to satisfy a passing whim. You took my pride and bludgeoned me into marriage with you, just for the sake of possessing me for a few months. I always knew those were your reasons for marrying me, but I never thought you would have the gall and the cruelty to tell me outright.

  "Well," her bosom lifted on a breath of anger shot with pain, "thanks for telling me. Now I shan't care that it's wrong to hate another person ... I shall feel justified."

  "Yes, feel yourself justified." He spoke almost lazily. "It is surprising how a feeling of justification eases the conscience."

  "I doubt whether you have a conscience," she re­torted. "I know you haven't a heart."

  With a smile of irony he touched his hard-muscled chest, then with a shrug he leant over to the bed table and took hold of the book that lay there. He opened it and read a translated sentence or two of a masterly, earthy, colourful novel by Nikos Kazantzakis.

  "Are you attempting to fathom the Greek person­ality?" Paul quirked an eyebrow at her.

  "I read Kazantzakis for pleasure," she said coldly. "That, for me, is the main function of a novel."

  "For each man is a prisoner within his own reactions to life and he cannot speak for everyone," Paul half-smiled. "Kazantzakis writes of love as though it were a sword slipping into the heart. Do you think he is right?"

  "I wouldn't know," she shrugged.

  "Yet you have loved, have you not, in a calflike way?" Paul said, his tawny eyes narrowing as he spoke.

  "To fall in love is to hand yourself over to the whims and possible cruelties of another person," she said icily. "I shall not risk that again."

  Paul gestured at the door she had locked on him last night. "You did that because I sent back Sothern's painting," he said. "Not exactly a sign of indifference, eh?"

  "Indifference towards whom?" Their eyes fenced, then Domini was borne back against her pillows as Paul leant towards her, bringing his darkly handsome face within an inch of her own. Her iris-blue eyes were filled with him, then his laugh feathered her mouth as he withdrew and got to his feet.

  "I have to go and see someone this morning," he replaced her book on the bed table, "but I will join you later for an alfresco lunch down on the beach. I will give orders for a basket of food to be packed."

  "As you please, Paul," she said, and watched him go from the room and close the door behind him. She put an arm across her eyes and lay very still for several minutes, but there were no tears in her. Her pain and bitterness went too deep for tears.

  After a light Greek breakfast of coffee, rolls and honey, Domini took her book and made for a grape arbour that was tucked away in the garden, shadowy with vines and clustering bunches of small grapes not yet ripe. The cicadas were glazed hints in the green boughs of the pepper-trees and the umbrella-pines. Honeysuckle and junipers scented the air, and there were patches of irises blue as sapphires.

  Domini sat in the arbour and buried herself in her novel with determination. Yannis came looking for her at about eleven o'clock, carrying the picnic lunch which Paul had ordered. The basket wasn't really heavy, but Yannis insisted on carrying it down to the beach. Domini liked this grave-eyed manservant of Paul's, who could name all the island birds and the wild flowers that grew in drifts beside the path they took to the beach. He and Lita were childless, and it seemed to Domini that in a way they regarded her as a child. They ran the house on the crag with such smoothness that there was little for Domini to do beyond exploring the big rooms and the winding stairways that led to lumber lofts.

  "How beautiful and calm the island is this morning, Yannis." Domini paused on the down-winding path to take in the sheer blue of the Ionian, and the pearl-shot light of Greece shining on sea and sand and the water-silked rocks.

  Yannis smiled as Domini stood looking about her, a light breeze playing with her hair, young and seemingly carefree in a halter-top and beach skirt.

  "Oh, look at that, Yannis!" She pointed towards the lagoon where a sleek dolphin shot upwards as though on wings, and then went under in a show-off dive.

  Domini was sun-basking when Paul joined her on the beach. She didn't hear him come across the sands, but felt the long shadow of him fall across her. He seemed to tower into the sun above her, proud and Apollo-like, not smiling. As she sat up and saw his face more clearly, it seemed to her that he looked a little weary.

  "Do you want lunch right now?" she asked.

  "Not if you don't." I thought we might go out in the caique for a while."

  "Right you are." She jumped to her feet before he could assist her. Again her eyes flashed over his face; she realised that his head was aching and he hoped to assuage the pain in the sea-wind.

  "Paul," she touched his arm with nervous fingers, "what do the doctors say about your bad heads?"

  "My dear," his smile was mocking, his eyes unreadable behind his sunglasses, "are you actually concerned for me?"

  "I don't like to see anyone in pain." She withdrew her hand from his arm as though stung. "Sorry if I'm intruding."

  "The pain will go in a while." He strode to where the caique was beached, untied the rope that secured it to a bollard and pushed it down into the water. He tossed off his shirt, and as he swung Domini into the boat she felt his hard muscles against her. He held her a moment, recklessly smiling as a Greek pirate. "Sometimes, my little piece of plunder, I don't think you quite hate me," he murmured.

  She stared up at him and was vividly conscious again of the things he had said that morning. "I'm making the best of a bad bargain," she said coolly, "now I know my sentence isn't a lifetime one."

  He laughed and let her go. He swung to the tiller and headed the boat out to sea, and in a while the tangy salt-breezes and leaping dolphins were bringing the sparkle back to Domini's eyes. "How is your head­ache?" Domini shouted above the singing of the spray, and the snoring of their motor.

  "Much better," he threw over his shoulder. "The dolphins are full of play, eh? Look at that bronze-blue fellow, he has his share of pallikari."

  The big dolphin was a little too daring and bold, for several times he rocked the boat, almost sending Domini toppling into the water. As she laughed and clutched the side, Paul warned her to be careful. "There are not only dolphins in these waters," he added.

  He meant sharks, and he refused to let Domini dive in for a swim until they were safe inside the coralline reef of the lagoon, where the fish were too small to attract the fierce, greedy sea-tigers.

  Domini stirred out of her abstraction by the rockpool, where she had been sitting so still, so absorbed in her thoughts, that the sand had dried to grits between her toes. She rose and was running towards the surf to wash them out when something stabbed the underside of her left foot and she gave a cry of pain.

  She had stepped on a prickly sea-urchin and upon taking a look at her foot she saw that several dark spines had penetrated under the skin. Domini knew they would fester if not pulled out, and she sat down on a nearby boulder and tried to extricate them with her fingernails.

  "What have you done?" Paul had come to her side.

  "Oh," she glanced up through a tousled wing of hair, "I stepped on a sea-urchin and collected a few of his spines."

  "Let me see." He knelt in front of her and took her small foot in his hand. After a moment he looked at her. "These will have to be taken out with tweezers, but if you walk on the foot they will go in deeper. Come, I will carry you to the house."

  "Not up the cliffside, Paul!" She drew back from him, laughing nervously. "I've put on a little weight since coming to Greece."

  "One ounce, or two?" he mocked. His arms came round her and he lifted her with easy strength against his naked chest, where his Greek medal was meshed in the tri
angle of crisp dark hair. Their eyes met as she lay in his arms, then his glance moved to her throat, where a nerve pulsed under her pale honey skin.

  "Are you still so nervous in my arms, Domini?" he chided her. "You should be well used to them by now."

  He trod sand cavernously and carried her across the beach and in under the arch of the cave that led to the house. The sea-green shadows enclosed them, and she could feel the strong beat of his heart like a touch against her breast. Suddenly, as in the caique an hour or more ago, her body felt weak, shot through with a knowledge not yet made clear to her mind. In the caique she had been able to escape over the side from Paul, but here in his arms she was held captive. The arrogant jut of his chin above her head was a warning that she lie still and let herself be borne like Undine to the castle.

  The cave grew dimmer as they penetrated to the heart of it, and then like the growl of a hidden beast, there echoed above them, running along the damp stone walls, an ominous grumbling noise. Paul stood stock still, his arms tightening to bruising point about Domini.

  "What is it, Paul?" Her hand tightened on his naked shoulder and her fingernails bit into him, unaware.

  He didn’t answer right away, but stood straining his ears, sparking as a cat does in the presence of sudden danger. Something cracked, the ground shuddered, and Paul dropped Domini to her feet and said urgently: "Run, child . . . there is going to be a cave-in!"

  Her heart pounded as she ran. She knew they were only minutes away from the door that would release them from the danger of the cave into the grounds of the house. Again there was that awful cracking sound and Domini was looking up, horrified, as the cave roof opened and with a sound like coals through a hole the time-worn stone came tumbling down, throwing her to her knees . . . forcing a cry out of her that was quickly choked by a rush of dust and pain . . .

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  PAUL'S den was shadowy, its ceiling of carved juniper wood and plain white walls lending it a calm, monastic air that was not echoed by the man who paced the room, back and forth, tigerishly.

  He had long since changed his torn and dusty trousers, and the lacerations on his hands had been treated by Yannis. The doctor was busy upstairs. He had been up there for hours, it seemed to Paul.

  He crushed out his half-smoked cheroot and went out on the balcony that had only a delicate iron balustrade between the enclosure and a sheer drop to the rocks and the shiny dark sea. Overhead the sky was webbed with star-beams and there was a musky tang of pines hang­ing on the night air. Lamps moved like fireflies far down on the water, where men were night-fishing from their caiques.

  Paul's gashed and iodined hands clenched on the balustrade. If this caused pain, he didn't appear to feel it. He waited, staring down at the sea which whispered as it met the rocks. The lamps on the drifting caiques were enticing the curious fish like moths to flame. They would be leaping blindly to the hook, struggling silver and slender as they were forced out of the sea to drown in the air.

  Footfalls were deadened by the carpet covering the floor of the den, and Paul sensed rather than heard the man who came to the open window behind him. He swung round. His expression could not be seen, for the shadows were too dense. "Tell me!" The words lashed out in Greek. "How is she now, Metros?"

  The Greek doctor came out on to the balcony. He cast a swift look at the flimsy barrier between Paul Stephanos and the sheer cliffs that ended far down on back-breaking rocks.

  "Come inside, Paul," he urged. "There we can talk better."

  "What is it, Metros?" Paul gestured at the drop from the balcony. "Are you afraid I shall damn my soul completely? Domini is dead, eh? I knew it when I lifted that last rock and saw how still she lay—"

  "We cannot talk out here!" Metros took hold of Paul's arm and drew him indoors. He closed the win­dows with a decisive slam, and pulled the curtains across them. "The lamp, man," he ordered. "The lamp!"

  There was a click and the desk lamp was slanting light at an odd angle on to Paul's face, showing its taut cheekbones and the hollows beneath them. His scar was livid, its edges drawn and pulsing.

  "Domini—" he caught his breath harshly. "She did not regain consciousness, did not ask for—anyone?"

  "Your wife is not dead." The Greek doctor took up a decanter and filled a small glass, which he thrust into Paul's hand. "Drink that, my friend. Come."

  Paul stared at the doctor, then with a jerk of his dark head he tossed back the brandy. Then with tousled hair and blue-shaded jaw he stood menacing the doc­tor with his tiger-eyes. "What did all that rock do to her?" he demanded. "Is she to be crippled? Is that it?"

  The doctor had a kindly, haggard face under grey-streaked dark hair, and looking at Paul he tapped a cigarette against his case and slipped it between his lips. He struck a match, lit up and puffed a plume of smoke. "Your young and beautiful wife," he said quietly, "has lost the child."

  "What?" Paul gazed at Metros, dumbfounded. "But I-I had no idea— a child! But she told me nothing "

  "She may not have been sure." Metros studied Paul with dark, shrewd eyes. "A young bride, far from her own people, and the pregnancy was but two months along."

  "Two months?" Paul seemed to look down the weeks to that first night with Domini; an intense sadness filled his eyes.

  "I am sorry, Paul." Metros gave his arm a grip of sympathy. "For you this child would have meant much, I know that. But the girl will survive the loss and the severe bruising she has sustained. She can have other children—there is time."

  "No!" Paul spoke harshly. "There will not be a second time. The child she would have loved is gone— gone like happiness, elusive, not to be found by us together."

  "What a way for a man to talk!" Metros spoke angrily. "That girl must not be denied a child to love in place of—"

  "Of me?" Paul said ironically. "My friend, that girl hates me, the very sight and sound and touch of me. Ah, you look shocked! But I assure you it is true. When you have lived side by side with that for almost two months—two months all but a few fleeting hours—you are in no doubt. It is a look in the eyes. A shrinking when I reach out to touch. A quaver in the voice as she holds on to the tears she was unacquainted with until she met me."

  "The girl married you, Paul."

  "You are a Greek, Metros." Paul's smile was a mere twist of the lips. "You know as well as I that love does not always enter into the marriage bargain for a woman."

  "I—see." Dr. Demetrios Suiza stubbed his cigarette. "Would such a state of affairs have anything to do with your refusal to reconsider that other decision of yours, the one we discussed in my office earlier today?"

  "Not really, Metros." Paul pulled away from his desk and stepped towards the door. "And now may I go up and see my wife?"

  "She is under sedation, Paul, and will sleep until the morning. I have put her in the charge of that extremely capable woman, Lita, but naturally you may take a look at her." Metros came across to Paul and being several inches shorter he had to look up at him. "Get some sleep yourself, my friend. The girl is young, healthy. Very soon she will be well again."

  "You will come again in the morning, Metros?"

  "Of course."

  "The damnable part is" Paul pushed a hand through black hair that was already standing on end, "if I had gone ahead of Domini in the cave, I would have taken the bulk of that rock fall. I told her to run ahead of me. I thought she would reach the door in time."

  "You must not reproach yourself for that," Metros said as they went out into the hall, where he collected his black bag and his driving-jacket. They shook hands at the door, after which Paul went upstairs and quietly entered Domini's bedroom, where in a chair beside a muted lamp Lita was occupying her hands with some knitting.

  Paul approached the bed, where Domini lay so small, so lost in drugged slumber after the ordeal of the rock fall and the subsequent loss of her child. Her lashes made dark fans on her cheek and her left hand was curled on the sheet, the wide band of gold looking too heavy for th
e slim finger that wore it. The silence in the room was complete, uncanny, for Lita had ceased to move her knitting needles. Then Paul said quietly: "You may get some rest, Lita. I will stay here."

  The woman hesitated, but it was plain from Paul's voice that he had made up his mind on staying, so, after taking a look at Domini, Lita slipped out of the big dim room with its faint smell of drugs. She did not go straight to bed, however, but made her way down­stairs and brewed a pot of dark Turkish coffee for Paul. She added a plate of biscuits to the tray, then carried it upstairs to him. He had placed an armchair at the side of the bed and was sitting there, his eyes gleaming in the shadows like those of a watchful tiger. Lita placed the coffee tray within easy reach of his hand, then she left him alone with his sleeping wife.

  The darkness was gradually lifting towards the east, and a fine steely line was cutting night from day when Domini stirred awake. She was vaguely aware that someone was with her, helping her to sit up a little so she could ease her dry throat with cool sips of lime juice. She felt oddly lightheaded, and she ached all over. Was this the 'flu again? she wondered.

  "Thank you," she murmured, not quite certain who it was who made her pillows comfortable and who laid her down so carefully. Her weighted eyelids just wouldn't lift, but she had a vague impression of shoul­ders above her like wings. She was asleep before she could think who the person might be, and when next she awoke Lita was with her, along with a stocky, kind-eyed man who turned out to be a Dr. Demetrios Suiza.

  Eight days later he discussed with her the miscarriage she had suffered. The shock of being half buried under the earth and rock of the cave-in had caused it, he said.

  Domini sat very still against the cushions of the lounger on which she was resting. On the day of the accident she had had an elusive awareness of the child, but her mind had not been ready to accept the fact. Now it was too late to be pleased, or disquieted.