Mykonos After Midnight

by Jeffrey Siger

  “Okay,” said a trio of hungry men.

  “Be right back,” she said.

  “I love it here,” said Andreas.

  “Me too,” said Kouros.

  “To tradition,” said Tassos raising his glass.

  “And kicking the butts of those who don’t get it,” said Kouros.

  “Until they do,” said Andreas.

  “Yamas!”

  ***

  The reflective, neon green and yellow athletic shoes tied in very nicely with the just as brightly colored green linen pants and yellow Hawaiian shirt embroidered with silver and gold sequin images of buxom nude women in profile. Sergey couldn’t see Wacki’s eyes because they were covered in white-frame, oversize Chanel sunglasses, but he assumed the pupils were the size of donuts.

  Wacki was standing just inside the hotel lobby, and a young American couple talking with the concierge couldn’t take their eyes off of him.

  “I thought you said tonight was casual,” said Sergey.

  “It is casual. This is my look of the night.” Wacki waved his hand at Sergey as if it were a magic wand. “And I think you look perfect as a boss out for a night on Mykonos.”

  Sergey was wearing Dolce & Gabbana black jeans, a white Giorgio Armani tee-shirt, and black Louis Vuitton loafers. A black elastic band held his long silver hair in a tight knot. He’d found the clothes in his closet in a box marked “casual.” He wondered, but didn’t ask, whether Wacki was his mysterious personal shopper.

  “So, where to?”

  “It’s only midnight, boss, and too early for the sort of night life you’re interested in seeing. I thought I’d show you Matogianni Street. It’s what gets most of the big spender tourists shopping.”

  Like Alice after her rabbit, Sergey followed Wacki out the hotel door and through its gardens toward an archway into Wonderland.

  “For years that place to the right, on the edge of the harbor just past the beach, was the closest bit of competition to Christos’ place in town.”

  They stood directly in front of the hotel, swarmed by mainly thirty-year-olds and younger headed into town and older folk headed out.

  “But its business died when Athenian black money dried up. Too much cheaper competition elsewhere for the booze and other things it offered. Rumor has it that some connected locals are planning to open a titty-bar there, offering lap dances and all that goes with it.”

  “That should give tourists an interesting first impression of ‘magical Mykonos.’”

  “Yeah, I was surprised, too. But a club like that a couple of miles outside of town is making a hell of a lot of money, so it was only a matter of time before someone copied it. That’s how things work here.”

  “So, the key is to come up with something that can’t be copied.”

  “Yeah, but what’s unique? Titties are titties. Besides, if you come up with a big money-making idea the Mykonian mafia will find some way to take a cut of it or open their own place.”

  “Mafia?”

  “No, not the sort you’re used to. This mafia isn’t leg breakers. They use connections to destroy your business if you don’t play ball.”

  “But, it’s still a titty bar at the entrance to the historic old harbor.”

  Wacki shrugged. “Most Mykonians avoid town at night during the busy season, and know only what they hear. Those who run the night make sure that whatever shit a few might raise is drowned out in promises of how much money it will make the town from foreigners. And with Greece in the middle of financial meltdown, that sort of talk is music to voters’ ears, even though most should know by now that very little of that money will ever find its way into any one’s pockets but those in control and their patrons.

  “The bottom line is most don’t care what happens during tourist season and those who do are afraid that if they take a stand the mafia will retaliate against their businesses or property.”

  “Sounds like a terrific place to do business.”

  Wacki smiled. “I thought you’d like that.”

  As they walked toward town, Wacki nodded at a building on the right at the end of the beach. “That’s the original hotel on the island. The same family opened the first hotel outside of town. Their new one’s on a large piece of property overlooking the new port in Tourlos. I thought you might like to know. Just in case you’re interested in buying another hotel.”

  Wacki smiled.

  Sergey did not.

  “And up ahead begin the jewelry stores. I sometimes think there must be more of them per square foot in the old town than anywhere else on earth.”

  The road funneled down between buildings until it was only inches wider than the taxis forced to creep along at the pace of the crowds in front of them. Sergey stopped to look at a jewelry store on the right, three doors before the taxi stand.

  “This one’s the most famous jeweler in Greece. The shop draws a high-end, world-class clientele.”

  Sergey looked in windows filled with bowls, candlesticks, and other objects of hammered silver, and finely detailed works of art expressed in gold: necklaces, earrings, and rings. He recognized a necklace as one Anna had worn when she first came to see him.

  He moved on.

  Ten paces later the road opened into the town’s main square. It sat at the north end of the harbor, on the other side of town from the bus station, and though officially named Manto Matogianni Square in honor of the island’s Greek War of Independence heroine, everyone called it the “taxi square.” Here you stood in line and prayed for one of the island’s thirty or so taxis to come quickly.

  They crossed down through the square behind the statue of Manto and onto a lane between a kiosk on the right selling breath mints, cigarettes, and condoms, and the Greek equivalent of a fast food place on the left. A quick right and another left had them in a tiny square filled with mostly empty chairs and tables, bordered by two bars on the left and a church straight ahead.

  “This is a good place to start our tour. The church is Saint Kiriake, it’s one of the three main ones in the town of Mykonos. If you lived in town you belonged to one of them, unless you’re Catholic. Their church is in Little Venice.”

  Wacki turned away from the church to face the bars. “But that’s not why this square is famous. It’s famous because of what once was over there.” He pointed at the bar on the left.

  The place had a porch big enough for a dozen to sit comfortably, three-dozen when crammed. Inside the bar looked hardly big enough to hold more than a hundred.

  “That’s where Mykonos’ famed international gay nightlife scene got its start. The tables here used to be packed all night with customers of Alberto’s.”

  “Does Mykonos still draw a lot of gays?”

  “You better believe it. By far most of its tourists are straight, but without the gay influence this island would go into cardiac arrest. They’re big spenders and bring style to the island. The places they like are always the busiest in town.”

  Wacki waved at the square. “But the scene’s not happening here anymore. A few years back you couldn’t squeeze through this square between now and four in the morning.”

  He shook his head. “It’s all gone except for a tiny mention of its name beneath a sign on the bar next to where Alberto’s used to be.”

  “What happened?”

  “The same as happened to a lot of places in Greece. Landlords blinded by memories of extraordinary good times didn’t appreciate the financial realities of a country in crisis and refused to reduce skyrocketed rents. That gave inventive, connected competition with lower overhead a chance. It shouldn’t come as a surprise what happened on a party island where the loyalty of most tourists to even their favorite places is best described as, ‘The king is dead, long live the new king.’”

  “Is there a new king in town?”

  “Yes, on the oth
er side of the harbor. We’ll get there when it’s jumping. But that won’t be for a couple more hours. The magic starts building up in town after sunset but doesn’t really get pumping until around two and keeps on rolling straight through dawn.”

  Matogianni was more like a stone path than a street, varying between six and twelve feet wide. Beyond the church an array of shops lined both sides of the lane, and for as far as the eye could see the path was packed with people studying shop windows and each other.

  Color, style, practicality, fashion sense meant nothing. If there were a perceptible dress code it was that anything goes, except for those women and their imitators who followed another rule: Do whatever it takes to emphasize your boobs and butt. If it shimmers, stretches, shakes, or shines, sooner or later you’d see it strut by on Matogianni.

  Wacki didn’t bother to stop as he walked past the shops. “The bars along here aren’t a big draw. Hit or miss. No real followings except for friends of people who work in them and, if the place happens to be tied to a bar in Athens, customers from Athens who come here.”

  They passed a jewelry shop on the right advertising the world’s most expensive brands of watches. “This place does a huge business. A lot of people off cruise boats and yachts come to Mykonos just to buy their watches here.”

  Sergey studied the name above the door.

  “The island’s high-end places are still making money. More and more wealthy Arabs are coming each year and they like to shop. Louis Vuitton just opened a place and is doing very well, mainly off the cruise boats. Tour groups from Asia head straight for it.”

  It’s all true, thought Sergey. This is an island paradise with a monied, holiday-minded crowd prepared to spend big on high-end jewelry, expensive watches, and pricey clothing; a rapidly growing Arab and Asian clientele; and a civic ethos where the guiding moral principle was “Will it make us money?”

  “Come on, boss, there’s a lot more to see. The evening hasn’t even started.”

  I’ve found heaven.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Andreas knew tomorrow would be a long day. That’s why he made sure Tassos and Kouros understood that their requested “quick drink in town” would be just that. He’d made his point three hours ago.

  They’d parked at the base of the six windmills, overlooking a bay on the backside of the old harbor. The dozen or so multicolored, three-story former pirate-captain homes along the bay––virtually the only such structures in otherwise mandatory white, two-stories maximum Mykonos––gave the area its name: Little Venice. At sunset its bars and restaurants were packed with tourists staring west across the water. And from then until sunrise with partiers seeking a less spiritual sort of satisfaction.

  They’d headed toward one of the old captain’s houses, and a local hangout on the ground floor known for its traditional Greek music; but Tassos made them stop first at a piano bar next door. The bar was gay, but filled with a mixed crowd, as were most of the gay bars in this area of town. Tassos said he loved the singer and every time he was in town he made a point of going there.

  Tassos found a seat next to the piano and sat mesmerized through two sets. Andreas and Kouros stayed at the bar talking with the owners and a neighboring bar owner who’d popped in to listen to a couple of songs but stayed when he recognized Andreas. Their conversation was the same as everywhere else in Greece: Damn the politicians and how can our country get out of the mess it’s in without them.

  By the time they dragged Tassos out of the bar it was after one, but the owner of another bar saw them and insisted they come in for a drink in his place. It was filled with locals anxious to give the three cops an earful on what they should do to fight the increasing crime rate. Kouros’ suggestion that they hire more cops, double the starting salary of eight hundred euros a month, and stop asking for favors every time one of their relatives was arrested, didn’t go over well.

  But it did get them out of the place, and Andreas steered them back toward the car. The street was crowded with drunken kids, so Andreas cut through a bar on the right out onto a slightly less crowded stone path running between the bars and the sea. They’d made it as far as the narrowest part of the path when waves brought on by some distant passing cruise ship splashed up onto the path ahead, forcing them to pause.

  Just as the way was passable again Tassos tapped Andreas in the middle of his back and whispered. “Coming right at us, that’s him. The big one with silver hair. The one behind him is Wacki.”

  Andreas stepped back to let the men pass. He smiled at them as they went by. Sergey stared straight ahead as if he hadn’t seen him, Wacki nodded and said, “Thank you.”

  “Silver head’s a friendly guy,” said Kouros.

  “Big guy,” said Andreas. “And he looks in shape.”

  “Prison gives you a lot of time to work out,” said Tassos.

  “Looks like Wacki’s showing him the town,” said Kouros as he stared at the legs of a tall, young blond woman coming from the same direction as Sergey and Wacki. She wore a denim micro-skirt, white tank top, and platform sandals, and clung to a thin, swarthy Greek boy in his twenties wearing a white tee-shirt, torn jeans, and dirty athletic shoes.

  “Looks like that sucker’s going to get lucky,” said Kouros.

  “I doubt it,” said Tassos. “He didn’t want to work tonight. It’s his wife’s birthday.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “That’s not his wife. They’re cops. They work for me and they’re tailing Sergey.”

  “Son of a bitch.” Kouros looked at Andreas. “How come I never draw that kind of duty?”

  Andreas smiled. “If you’d like, I’m sure we could substitute you for the blonde.”

  Tassos nodded. “From where they look to be headed, you two would make a far less conspicuous couple.”

  They watched Sergey stroll off into the heart of Little Venice as if he had not a care in the world.

  “I really want to nail that guy,” said Tassos.

  “Avrio,” said Kouros.

  “It’s already ‘tomorrow,’” said Andreas looking at his watch. “As of two hours ago.”

  ***

  Sergey and Wacki had spent an hour amid the coffee shops and bars at the T-shape end of Matogianni. “To give you an idea of the type of people on the island,” according to Wacki.

  It was the heart of Mykonos’ late-night café society and hosted a number of world-class restaurants tucked away in the branching warren of narrow lanes. Barely thirty yards long, that tiny bit of Matogianni still managed to attract everyone who wanted to see or be seen at some point during the evening.

  The next stretch of road offered additional expensive fashion shops, high-end jewelers, and clustered bars trying to offer something unique to passersby.

  Wacki walked by them all and stopped at a garden-like setting on the right, just beyond two churches bordering the lane. It was separated from the street by a velvet rope guarded by two attractive, well-dressed women. One immediately lifted the rope. “Good evening, Mr. Wacki.”

  “This is the monied crowd’s primary hangout. Inside the music’s deafening, outside the talk and hustle is nonstop. Everyone wants one of those tables on top of the steps by the door. It means you’re a big shot. Or willing to spend like one. All you’ll see here are beautiful people.” Wacki smiled, “And those who can afford to pay for them.”

  They sat at a table closest to the front door. Women kept passing by to say hello to Wacki and smile at Sergey. Sergey ignored them. His mind was on all the money the island attracted.

  Twenty minutes later they were off to Little Venice and what Wacki called, “the wilder side of town.”

  The street into Little Venice was about as wide as Matogianni but here the shops were more attuned to the tastes and needs of locals and the more practical-minded tourist. It was not of interest to Sergey.
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  Wacki took a left just beyond a large church and then a right into a crowd of what looked to be high school and college kids. “This area has a lot of bars, mainly down along the water. It gets action all night, mostly from the young, straight crowd.” He went through a doorway to the left and through another into an enclosed patio next to a bar crammed with people.

  “This one gets partiers of all ages. It gets so crowded in there late at night that a fart could blow out the windows.” He pointed at a door opening to the sea.

  “That way, it’s less crowded. Take a right outside and keep going all the way to the end.”

  Sergey went first and reached the doorway just as a wave hit the path in front of the bar, soaking everyone on the path. He waited for the waves to subside, then squeezed past three men who had also been waiting to cross in front of the bar.

  He saw nothing to distinguish one bar from another. All were geared to marketing the same great view and nightlife vibe to twenty-something-year-olds who’d downed bottles of cheap booze in their hotel rooms in the hope of getting on a buzz that would keep them high enough to nurse one purchased drink in the bar as they worked their routines to get laid.

  This wasn’t the way Sergey planned on making his fortune.

  At the first captain’s house the path veered away from the sea. Wacki led the way along a lane winding behind the houses up to a large, all-white domed-church off to the right. It sat overlooking the sea just beyond the last captain’s house. Wacki stopped in front of the church to tie his shoelace.

  “This is the most photographed church in the Cyclades, the Fifteenth-Century Paraportiani. It’s really five churches in one. Its roots go back to service as part of a gate to a thirteenth century castle that once stood here. That’s why they call this area the Kastro, for castle.”

  Sergey kept walking but stopped where the path took a sharp right at the far side of the church. Beyond that point the path and church sat masked in darkness. He looked back at Wacki but a flash of light on his left made him instinctively swing toward it.