Songs of Blue and Gold

by Deborah Lawrenson

  But in the Greek landscape, in the great blue eye of the light and the seas, he found a world of possibility, of myth and magic, and of freedom. He ruled a sensuous empire of his own making.

  As Adie himself admitted in The Gates of Paradise, when you describe something several years after the event, it is already overlaid with nostalgia, sentiment. It has been transformed by time already, and represents another, remade past. Any interpretation I could make of Julian Adie was bound to be based on my own needs and preconceptions.

  Now I was peering in, trying to understand, trying to place my mother in the picture too – but I had no clue how she featured. The Corfu that Julian Adie recreated in his book belonged to another era, decades before she could have met him. His words were useful only in that they painted a background picture of him and the place. They cast no light on what came later.

  Part Four: Sea Music

  I

  ‘YOU MUST COME!’

  Melissa had only been back in the apartment for twenty minutes, still dusty and hot from walking, when there was a battering on the door. Eleni stood there, flushed as if she had run down the hill.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Come up to the house!’

  Her excitement was infectious. Melissa followed her without question, breaking into a run to keep up as Eleni bustled ahead up the lane, past the office and round to the back of the house, then across the vegetable garden to the stone outhouse, lower than a barn but longer and more substantial than a shed. Inside the dust motes played in a sequence of sun shafts through crude windows. Along the far wall stood items of heavy old-fashioned furniture, armoires and dressers. Wooden crates, cardboard boxes, plastic chairs, engine parts around a disembowelled motor, an upright piano, its wood warped and cracking, crockery, jugs, picture frames gave it the choked appearance of a junk shop.

  Eleni went to one of the sagging cupboards.

  ‘It was here! I had a feeling I knew where it was, and then this afternoon I thought I would just have a look, and—’

  A black leather box, age spotted and partially rotted, stood on a scrubbed table. Next to it was a dented and tarnished brass horn. It was a gramophone, in several pieces. Beside it, standing proudly to attention, was Manos.

  ‘It was his!’ said Eleni.

  Melissa stared, not understanding.

  ‘His! Julian Adie’s!’

  The gramophone didn’t look as if it had been assembled let alone played for half a century or more. Manos bent over the contraption, clicking his tongue and blowing away dust. ‘The needle is still there,’ he said, his head sideways, almost on the record table.

  Melissa wasn’t hopeful. ‘Surely it won’t play after all these years. . . .’

  Eleni dived back into the cavern of the cupboard, until only her legs were visible. She emerged triumphant after a minute or so of inaudible commentary from within. ‘Now we will see!’ she cried, holding up an ancient disc in a torn and brittle brown-paper sleeve. From the grin on her face, she was having fun anyway, pleased she had been right all along, even if this was as good as it got.

  Manos wound the handle, and astonishingly the table turned. He set the horn, and it clicked into place. Eleni clapped her hands in anticipation, wanting to help, offering a heavy black disc.

  Gently Manos lowered the crude tall needle on to the outside groove. There was a sudden crackling and the sound of notes.

  But in the briefest moment when Eleni and Melissa exchanged excited glances, Manos abruptly flipped the needle up again.

  ‘Hey!’

  ‘What?’

  Manos shook his head. ‘Not now. Come on.’

  He picked up the gramophone effortlessly, belying his advancing years, and carried it like a baby back through the garden, round the side of the house, and down the hill. Eleni and Melissa followed wordlessly in procession.

  Outside the boat hire office they halted. Manos said something in Greek to Eleni, and she smiled in sudden realisation before ducking into the office. She came out with a key, and crossed the road to the White House. Up the steps under the marble plaque which announced Adie’s long ago residence, she unlocked the front door and motioned Melissa to go in first.

  Inside, she was at the head of a long spacious room which ended in the sea and the famous balcony over the sea. Manos set the gramophone on a low table, taking a chuckling pleasure in making this a drama.

  There was so much to take in all at once, it was giddying. Light speckled floor tiles set in diamond formation echoed the winking sequins outside. Sea craft of all sorts rippled past. The plain white walls held pictures of Adie (but none of Grace) and the house in the 1930s, a publisher’s portrait from the 1980s, photographs of the White House taken from the sea showing its eminent yet nestling position on the rocks. British newspaper articles were also framed, on closer inspection written as glowing references to the beauty of Kalami and the special interest deriving from the Adie connection. How much of the layout was the same then as now? It was a substantial apartment, bedrooms leading off both sides of the long sitting room, just as Adie had described it. Were the walls, the wooden ceiling, the bookshelves the same as he would have seen every day?

  Melissa was overwhelmed by so many questions the words dried on her lips.

  Eleni slid open the glass and went outside, beckoning her to follow.

  When they were standing silently on the balcony, over the wide expanse of sea as if on the prow of some great steady steamer, a crackling and hissing released the first grainy notes from the gramophone. A familiar rise and fall of soft muffled piano notes began: slow, entrancing ripples of music Melissa recognised as ‘Clair de Lune’, long-ago touch of hands on a keyboard, preserved under the blanket of scratches, through the kicks and swooshes of the turntable pulling round in regular rhythm, like waves or a baby’s heartbeat heard on ultrasound.

  The same notes Julian and Grace would have heard, in the same place.

  The music died and there were only catches and clicks which slowly wound down.

  They stayed still. Ahead and all around the sea was constantly moving, forming patterns of light and dark. The spray thrown up against the far rocks was a wisp of silk.

  Melissa turned round.

  Eleni and Manos were beaming.

  ‘Thank you . . . that was just wonderful.’

  ‘His table where he wrote his books is here too,’ said Manos proudly.

  ‘Really?’

  Eleni pointed to a large dining table covered with a colourful plastic cloth, from which sturdy white-painted pine legs protruded. As a desk it would have been enormous, a truly serious expanse on which to write.

  ‘I wonder where he placed it to work,’ said Melissa.’ By a window, maybe.’

  She looked to Manos but he only shrugged. ‘Go on, have a look around,’ he said to her.

  So she drifted from room to room, as Manos, as generous with his thoughtfulness as with his time, cranked up the gramophone again and let the sounds from the frozen, forgotten recordings float on the air once more.

  Church pew-like seats crouched against the wall. Ceiling fans in the bedrooms stood waiting for summer when the heat could stifle sleep. All was spotlessly clean.

  Another record went on, a jumping ticking version of a great classical symphony. With a jolt of recognition, Melissa remembered a passage in The Gates of Paradise describing an obsessive few months when Adie could only work with Beethoven’s Fourth blaring through the rooms, played over and over until its symmetries and sequences had burned themselves into every cell of his body.

  The possibility that this was one of his records was like being let in on an ancient secret, at the heart of which was Adie’s complex hedonism and the clues to what came next. The music combined with the sound of wavelets stroking the rocks below, and filled her senses with a sense of wonder, and profound uneasiness at the extent of all the questions yet to be answered.

  Alexandros appeared in the doorway. ‘The boys told me you were all down here. Lo
oks like you have a full schedule for your research on Julian Adie,’ he said.

  ‘It’s amazing,’ said Melissa, ignoring his curt tone. ‘Thank you so much,’ she added, to all of the others.

  ‘I have to go back now,’ said Eleni, looking at her watch. ‘Will you have dinner with us?’

  She accepted with pleasure. So did Alexandros.

  It was a relaxed evening. Melissa felt easy with the family’s undemanding hospitality. By ten she could feel her eyelids dropping. When she stood to thank them and say goodnight, Alexandros said, ‘I’ll walk you back.’

  He ushered her out of the door with a slightly stiff formality. Melissa wondered what it was he really wanted. His offer to accompany her had been firm, with no option of refusal.

  They reached the road. Across it, the dining terrace of the White House taverna was almost empty. Intriguingly, the waiter was posed with binoculars in the same spot where she had seen him that first evening.

  She pointed him out. ‘What’s he doing?’

  ‘Checking out the competition. The taverna on the beach always does better business when the nights get colder. It’s not so exposed, and much cosier with the heaters on.’

  ‘Nothing more sinister than that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I thought maybe—’

  ‘Just that.’

  Further down the main road, a couple of bars were brightly lit, fronted by blackboards announcing dubious-sounding cocktails. Both were quiet, no music, no loud voices. It seemed unlikely that Alexandros had been worried about letting her walk back alone though a rowdy night scene.

  Perhaps he wanted to ask her something. At the steps to the apartment he turned to her. He was close enough for her to see the flecks of silver in the curls on his head, catching the cold neon of a night light on the neighbouring building. She wondered what it was he was about to say.

  When he did open, there was an edge to his voice again. ‘Why are you so interested? What is this really all about?’

  ‘What?’ Melissa had not been expecting that.

  ‘Julian Adie. The White House. Why do you want to know all this?’

  ‘I – I told you.’

  Alexandros waved a hand dismissively.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ She was incredulous at his reaction. ‘You are the one who hasn’t been honest with me!’

  It was his turn to baulk.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me about the drowning? The woman who drowned at the shrine? That’s the story most people around here know – and you didn’t even mention it!’

  Alexandros looked rattled. ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Have you been down to the shrine again?’

  ‘So what if I have? Why did you tell me all about the shrine, but nothing about the woman who drowned?’

  ‘Because we don’t talk about it. Because in any case, she did not drown at the shrine. That’s just a story that’s taken hold. It was further up the coast.’

  But Melissa was riled. She couldn’t help pushing it. ‘Why don’t you talk about it?’

  He scrutinised her for a few seconds, long enough for her to feel uncomfortable. ‘Why are you doing this? Julian Adie, Kalami, telling me about your mother? What is it for?’

  She was about to defend herself with some reasoned plausibilities, but none came. How could she have told him the real reason?

  So I can focus on something that can’t hurt me. So I don’t have to think about what’s really happening, in my own life, in the present.

  In the absence of being able to say the words, she felt the silence like lead. She had no idea why they were arguing. It was just a silly story, nothing to do with why she was here.

  When she did speak, her throat felt sore. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve annoyed you. I don’t mean to,’ she said.

  ‘No . . .’

  ‘I was very grateful for your time yesterday, at the shrine.’

  Silence.

  ‘I want to find out about my mother and Julian Adie. Because I don’t know. It might be too late ever to know. And you’re right, the shrine is nothing to do with her story, but was the only way in that I could think of. I had to do something, or . . .’ Or I might crack, she thought miserably.

  He seemed about to say something, but then looked away.

  She went to climb the stairs. ‘Well, goodnight then.’

  He cleared his throat. ‘I, er, I shall be in Corfu Town tomorrow, having lunch with an . . . acquaintance.’

  Well, good for you, she wanted to say.

  ‘It’s Theodora, the woman I mentioned to you, she knew Julian Adie when he came back to Corfu in the nineteen sixties,’ he said rapidly. ‘If you wanted to join us, you would be welcome.’ He stood awkwardly, not meeting her eyes. A hint of defensiveness was rapidly replaced by self-importance. It wasn’t hard to see why he and Christos did not get on.

  Melissa could not understand him. He was clearly as irritated with her as she was with him. Yet he was willing to help. Was he playing her along for some reason? It was quite possible. But then, if he was going to lead her to someone who might tell her something new, she had to find out what she could.

  ‘Thank you. That would be . . . interesting,’ she said warily.

  He bowed his head. ‘I have to go now. Theodora and I will be at the Liston at twelve noon tomorrow. I have to be in Kerkyra early, but I could still offer you a lift if you would like.’

  ‘Thank you, but I’ll get there myself.’

  ‘Good night, then.’

  His diffidence was quite charming in its way; perhaps it was the welcome change from the driven, self-obsessed London men who had surrounded her for too many years.

  II

  SHE TOOK THE local bus to Corfu Town – or Kerkyra, as Alexandros had called it – excited about seeing the capital, discovering its landmarks for herself: the famed confection of Venetian, French, Greek and British identity that lay behind the sea mists. In her bag was a street map marked with her ultimate destination, scribbled from Alexandros’s instructions: the Liston, facing the Esplanade.

  The interior of the bus was infused with garlic and diesel fumes, but she was happy enough. Somehow she hadn’t felt up to hiring a car, even though the Blue Bay travel office and its functional little white Fiats for rent were easy to find. The idea of the mountain road snaking around Nissiki and down to Barbati was dizzying even without the lorries and buses hurtling around the narrow bends.

  From her seat over the wheel arch, Melissa was high enough to see over walls and hedges, and stare into private spaces. Olive trees were being cut and burned. Severed branches littered the road, and they were stopped at one point by a man with a red flag as a farm vehicle cleared the knotty limbs and curling bayonets of wood. The unmistakable scent of bonfires seeped under the rattling, badly-fitting window frames as the bus pitched and jolted south.

  In contrast, as if the seasons had become confused, a profusion of flowers bloomed, white-blue solanum scrambling everywhere it could get a hold, and the raspberry and cream of the Marvel of Peru, so delicate-seeming yet hardy, rooted in cracks between road and wall. And above, looming cloud-topped was the great surge of Mount Pantokrator, shrugging off small scattered settlements like so many colonies of white lice.

  The bus took the east road into Corfu Town. In the old port, cruise ships were docked as if they had simply pulled up and parked on the seaward side of the road. Italianate arches on the buildings opposite still formed the first glimpse at the town for travellers. Now tired hotels and shipping offices, they must have been the same ones in essence that had once greeted Adie and Grace. A version of the same dust and noise would have set their nerves jangling in anticipation, the smells of the docks pungent in the heat.

  The traffic was dreadful. The bus finally stopped with a tired wheeze under the authoritarian blank walls of the New Fortress. Melissa climbed down and followed her fellow passengers. They disappeared quickly, bustling away with scrap-paper l
ists and baskets.

  A market was in progress: stalls on both sides of the street held tumbling banks of velvety figs, red plums, apples, oranges, grapes, prickly pears. Between these, other stands released pungent sea smells where silvery fish caught lustrous streaks of green and lilac on their speckled skin, squid lay milky and spent on marble slabs, streaming tangled black-streaked ribbons, and octopus offered tan suckers to the air. Vegetables were displayed shining as if polished, while others were left still dusted with earth.

  It was a while before she realised they were in the dry moat of the fortress, which might have accounted for the vague but uneasy sense of oppression. Further on were a few clothes stalls offering sweatshirts and trainers, aprons and leather coats. After nearly a week in a quiet village, Corfu Town seemed crowded and noisy. Melissa felt more vulnerable here, exposed to the hydraulic hiss of dirty buses, the ill-tempered blares of car horns and the hustle of people on the main pavements. The streets were unexpectedly imposing and sophisticated.

  Suddenly uncomfortable in one of the hubs, a square full of shoppers and office workers as well as tourists, she sheered off down a wide emptier street, gambling that it was in the direction of the sea. A pervasive smell of drains counterpointed the elegant buildings from the turn of the last century, and apartment blocks like those found in well-to-do towns on the French Riviera. She passed a museum housed in a villa that must once have been a great symbol of wealth.

  At the end of the street lay a sea wall of low stone, and to the left, a fair walk away was framed the intriguing scene she had found on a postcard back in Kalami: a perfect Greek temple on a rocky mound. It took her by surprise, if only because she had thought of trying to find it and had assumed it was an isolated site, perhaps in the south of the island, not here as a centrepiece in the capital. But a glance at the map showed clearly that this was the Old Fortress. She was charmed by the ease of stumbling so effortlessly across something she’d wanted to see. Soon the fortifications above the temple came into focus, and left her wondering how she could possibly have interpreted them simply as rocks between the green trees when she saw the postcard, or even missed all signs that the whole was set on a tiny island.