“Thanks. It’s all so unlike Eve.”
Yet I got the opposite impression: that Peregrine always liked to do things her way, with a touch of high drama. I ended the call, shaking my head. Just when I thought I’d never have reason to think about her again, she’d legged it.
“What’s all that about?” said Angus. He was still eating his bread and butter.
“Should you be eating all that butter?” I asked, noting how much he’d slapped on while I was on the phone.
“Don’t worry about lipids right now. What’s going on with this Eve woman?”
I told him about her disappearance.
“What should I do?” I asked him.
He dipped his knife into the pat of melting butter and spread it thickly on another fat slice of the volcanic-looking bread from the local bakery. Then he slathered the lot with fig jam, trying to eat and talk at the same time.
“Well, it looks like you’ve upset poor old Eve somehow. I mean … I’ve felt the nip of your razor tongue at times and wanted to leg it,” he said, half-jokingly, referring to some heated arguments we had at the beginning when I came to Greece, before our relationship was ironed out.
“Oh, very funny. I’m being serious now.”
“Well, why don’t you go back to her house and nose around.”
I had another week’s column to write that day and didn’t need a disappearing novelist to get angsty over. I might almost have taken umbrage over the agent’s suggestion that I’d upset Peregrine but the fact was that she’d been very touchy about the work in progress and her blocky problem. And I remembered too that she’d said the whole thing had made her feel pretty low. Was she depressed perhaps? Had talking about the book stuff pushed her over the edge?
“Come with me to her house after breakfast, Angus. Maybe you can talk to the Greek neighbours for me.”
“If you like,” he said, with a lazy smile, as a man might when he’s consumed half his body weight in low-density lipids.
Before we set off for Peregrine’s villa, I tried her mobile number a few times but every call was diverted to voicemail. When we pulled up outside her house a bit later, Angus whistled lightly.
“Very smart little holiday hangout. I’ve passed it dozens of times coming up from the beach road and never thought for a minute Peregrine lived there. She keeps herself to herself anyway.” Angus didn’t read her books but I knew he remembered her from her early TV career.
There was no car parked outside, as there had been on the day of my interview: a small red rental car. We knocked on the front door. No answer. All the windows were shuttered. All was quiet. A side gate led to the back of the house. Surprisingly, the gate was unlocked. We went in. As we turned into the back garden, we both jumped when we saw the figure of a short woman in a navy dress, tipping soapy water into the flower beds. She looked uneasy when she saw us, wiping her sudsy hands on the sides of the dress. Angus spoke to her in Greek, then turned to me.
“This is Eve’s cleaning lady. She comes on this day every week to clean the house. She doesn’t know where Eve is. She doesn’t have to. She has keys to the place and when Eve’s not here she just does her cleaning and leaves.”
“Ask her if Eve could be away on a trip, and where.”
Angus rattled away for a bit. The woman shrugged.
“She has no idea, but if she’s gone on some jaunt it would only be for a short while. Usually Eve tells this woman when she’s off on a longer trip or going back to the UK.”
“Ask the woman for her contact number, a mobile or something, in case we need to talk to her again.”
I raked around in my bag for my notebook and Angus gave me a number for the woman, called Sophia.
“Give her yours, Angus, and ask her to call us when Eve gets back or, of course, if she doesn’t.”
We were about to leave when I had another thought.
“Ask the woman if we could go inside a moment to see if everything looks okay. Tell her a good friend wanted us to check.”
“Sophia says she’s been in there. Nothing seems amiss.”
“Tell her I’d like to see inside the house again, just to settle my mind that everything’s like it was the day I was there.”
Angus rattled away again. The woman eyed us both up suspiciously. There was a bit more discussion with Angus, then reluctantly she said yes, but insisted on coming with us. The back door led into the kitchen, which was very neat and clean, and then a dining room. I walked through to the sitting room. It looked just the same as it had on my first visit: very neat and tidy, as if no-one had lived here for a while. We walked about, with Sophia trailing behind us.
I looked again at the wall with the three large black and white prints. On a sideboard in front of them there were a couple of small neat piles of some of Peregrine’s books, as if she were about to have a book signing of sorts. Everything looked to be in order, in fact too much so, as if it had been tidied in preparation for a long trip. I was certain she’d booked a flight back to the UK but had told no-one, not even Sophia.
“Everything looks okay,” I told Angus.
The cleaning woman was visibly relieved when she saw us out the front door. She stood in the doorway and watched as we got into the car. As we wound our way up the hill towards the village, a sudden thought began to worm away in my head.
“You don’t suppose it’s got something to do with that weirdo Dionysos, who’s been harassing me? Maybe he knows Eve’s a foreigner too and he’s maybe part of a gang of thugs, trying to drive out foreigners, especially well-heeled, classy-looking foreigners like Eve Peregrine. Maybe they’ve been casing her house.”
“What, you mean like she’s been kidnapped? That’s a bit far-fetched. I agree there’s a lot of sinister things going on in Greece at present, especially in rural areas. But picking on a high-profile kind of ‘celebrity’, if you like, would bring them a heap of trouble, wouldn’t it?”
“Just a thought. But should we go to the police?”
Angus shook his head. “We’ve got no proof she’s come to any grief. Maybe she just wanted to get away from it all, especially the whining agent.”
“There’s a bit more to it all than that.” I told Angus about Peregrine’s writer’s block and the delay with the book. He guffawed.
“What’s funny?”
“Sorry, pet. It’s kind of comical; not what you expect from a high-rolling scribe. I mean, what’s a block anyway? It just shows a lack of real talent. Imagine a top brain surgeon getting up one day and saying, ‘I’m sorry but I can’t seem to hold my scalpel straight any more. I’ve just forgotten how’.”
“Well, your cynicism surprises me. I’ve seen you lately at your computer, dithering with a blank screen. You know how hard it is – writing.”
“Yeah, I know it’s torture sometimes but that’s because I’m not really a writer. End of story.”
“Why are you doing the book then?”
“Buggered if I know,” he said petulantly.
I shot him an angry look. “Angus, I can’t deal with your writerly jitters as well – not today.”
“I was just winding you up, that’s all.”
“You’re not though, are you? You’re having a wee crisis of confidence yourself. Forget it, you can write. I’ve looked over your shoulder now and then at the computer.”
“That’s not fair!” he girned.
“Shh! Listen. You’ve got a passion for the subject and a great story to tell. That’s pure gold for a writer. You’re not Eve Peregrine.”
“Whatever!” he said, smiling to himself and humming a tune as we neared the village.
“Don’t you think we really should contact the police,” I said when we stopped in front of Villa Anemos. “It does seem a bit strange for her to leg it without telling the cleaning woman.”
Angus shook his head. “Not yet. The cops in this region can be pretty slack about following anything up. And think about it. If we go to the police, well, you’re the last person to
see her, it’s true. It might look like you’ve had something to do with it. Awkward.”
I hadn’t thought that through properly. I might end up in a story about Peregrine instead of writing one. I bit on my bottom lip. Damn the woman for making my life complicated right now.
Back home, I got stuck into my column for the week and tried to forget about runaway Peregrine. I was writing a piece about the coping mechanisms of Greeks in crisis, without referring to the fact that some were failing to cope at all. It was never hard, at least, to find Greeks to comment on the crisis, or any subject. Unlike most interview subjects I’d ever met, Greeks were refreshingly candid and funny. Generous with their opinions. After I’d finished the column, I succumbed to an afternoon siesta. When I woke, I emailed Peregrine’s agent and updated her on the house visit. She replied immediately and wasn’t well pleased and emphasised yet again it was all out of character. I told her I’d definitely call the police if I didn’t hear anything in another few days.
I rang Leonidas early in the evening. He was on his way back to his surgery for his evening consultations. He sounded tired, like he’d had no time to rest in the afternoon.
“Do you still have the dog Zeffy?”
“Of course. Strange that you should ask. Did you think I’d abandon it so quickly?”
“No, my love, I knew you wouldn’t.” I heard him laugh at least. The sound of his laughter always delighted me.
“You’re not sorry I’ve still got him?”
“No, of course not. I like your sense of loyalty, Bronte.”
“Don’t worry, I never take him to your villa. I’d be scared he might break something.”
“I’m scared he will do worse than that,” he said with a derisory chuckle.
I told him about Eve Peregrine. I needed some other input. He was as mystified as I was.
“Should Angus and I go to the police?”
He sighed heavily. “I wouldn’t do that yet. After all, wouldn’t she be annoyed if she came back from her little trip and found the police running about her property, asking questions?”
“True enough. Maybe she’s run off with a man,” I said, chuckling because it somehow seemed unlikely.
“This is most intriguing, Bronte. But I am afraid I have to go now. I miss you very much, agapi mou. See you at the weekend.”
That’s another thing I loved about Leonidas. Although there was often a gremlin of mischief in his dark eyes that I knew so well now, at heart he was always sensible. Always the good doctor. He had a calming influence. He made me act sensibly. Oh yes, indeed!
“Angus, I’ve just had a great idea,” I said as he emerged from his afternoon siesta. “Let’s go out and look for Eve tomorrow.”
“Are you mad, Bronte? Look where exactly?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Somewhere. I have this terrible feeling that all is not well.”
Chapter 10
A date with Hades
We set off in the morning in the Fiat with Zeffy on the back seat, sitting in his soft dog bed, panting and excited about his first proper road trip. We drove the mountainous road south, zigzagging along endless hairpin bends with giddy views of the gulf and occasional roadside shrines with flickering candles dedicated to those ropey drivers who’d gambled with crumbing edges and sheer drops – and lost. I tried to explain to Angus my choice of destination – the Mesa Mani, the Deep Mani. I’d had a hunch the day before after we’d traipsed around Peregrine’s house. Those black and white framed photos meant something to her; the way she’d directed me to them after the interview with strange enthusiasm. Hades at Cape Tainaron, Porto Kayio and the deserted village on the hill. And how she said the Mesa Mani was one of her favourite places – “a place to escape the rat race” – and she’d urged me to go. Was it a hint? For what exactly?
Angus said nothing as he watched the road and I chuntered on with my theory.
“The thing is, if she hasn’t been abducted by aliens, rural pests, or obsessed fans, she might be hiding out somewhere at the bottom of this peninsula,” I said.
“What? Just because of a few photos on the wall and because she likes places like Hades,” he said, with a derisory grunt. “Seems appropriate somehow that the tormented one would be happier in Hades than anywhere else.”
The thought had crossed my mind as well.
“Good of you to drive me down here though, and to go along with this ….”
“Fantasy?” he offered.
I laughed.
“Ah, well, Bronte, what else would I be doing today but trying to deal with my own writer’s constipation.”
“Your problem’s different, Angus. When you see a blank screen on the computer, you automatically think of five other places you’d rather be, like down at the kafeneio with your paidia, scoffing a few more deadly lipids and a bottle of ouzo.”
I made a mental note to email Polly and try to winkle out her plans; to see if she was coming back soon. Angus had seemed a lot more motivated when she was in our lives.
It took over two hours to get down to the bottom of the peninsula. In that time, we passed the whole spine of the Taygetos mountains and the Pentadaktylos (Five Fingers), the highest peaks. The range was also known in the Mesa Mani as Kakovounia, the Bad Mountains, because of their glowering aspect and because they’re near-impossible to cross. Even as they began to peter out further south into low barren humps, they remained an inhospitable, parched backdrop to land strewn with gorse and prickly pear. Offset with this High Noon vibe, however, there were deep sapphire coves overlooked by Byzantine chapels and tall, solitary stone towers. It was still only spring and yet the Mesa Mani seemed to sizzle, particularly at the point where a long, thin peninsula called Tigani, the frying pan, jutted into the sea.
Zeffy kept his face at the window, tongue lolling, filling the car with hot vibrant breath, as if the sight of the Deep Mani had ramped up a mortal thirst. A few times we stopped for cool drinks and to water the dog.
“When we get to the cape we have to go first to the cave of Hades. Peregrine talked about that a lot.”
I’d boned up on the cave of Hades and thought the mythology surrounding it would have piqued her sense of drama. This was the mythical portal to the underworld, where Hercules carried out his 12 labours and where he dragged out Cerberus, the feared three-headed Hound of Hades, who guarded Hades and stopped dead souls from legging it. A portal to Hades is not just the figment of ancient imagination, it has a real entrance that is said to have been mentioned by Homer. According to my Mani guidebook, the entrance had long been identified as a cave near the water’s edge beyond a temple in what was once ancient Tainaron.
When we reached the car park at Cape Tainaron, it felt like we’d reached not only the most southerly point of mainland Greece but had taken a passage into some hypervisual outpost. The colours were indelible, like the blue of the water on the pebbled coves that carved into the rocky treeless shore of the Bay of Asomatis, and the bright colours of two small boats pulled up on the shingle. A cluster of wild purple thistles seemed so perfect and vibrant as not to be real. The scene was stark yet beautiful, like nothing I’d ever seen. There were no people or animals. Where were they all? One narrow track led across a flat promontory to the cape’s lighthouse, passing the remains of an ancient temple dedicated to Poseidon, with a mosaic featuring his mythical motif of rolling waves. I had read in my guide book that Ancient Tainaron was perhaps built over certain lay lines that had special mystical powers. Was this what had lured Eve Peregrine towards it?
The other track passed a sign for the Sanctuary and Nekromanteio (Death Oracle) of Poseidon, which was a stone ruin, once a Byzantine chapel, built over an ancient temple dedicated to Poseidon. It was nothing more than a single-vaulted room with a rough floor and large gaping holes in the roof. A weathered stone altar was covered in an array of modern votive junk: coins, plastic cups, one small leather sandal, a hammer – and then there was the book.
“Angus, come and look at this,” I
said, as I eased it out from under the hammer.
He trailed over and scoffed at the junk. “Looks like people come here and empty out their rucksacks of things they don’t want. Clarty old nonsense.”
“Yes, but look,” I said, holding up the book that had a cover with a wind-blown, red-haired heroine standing on a clifftop: Against the Storm by Eve Peregrine.
“How weird is this?”
Angus laughed vibrantly. “Eve in Hell. Of course!”
“No, I mean this is spooky, isn’t it? She shows me a photo of this place and I find one of her books here. What’s the chance of that? She’s obviously been here lately. This book’s in good condition, so it’s a sign.”
“Of what?”
“I don’t know … that I was right; she’s down here and that she wants me to know that,” I said, flicking quickly through the book in case there was a note, or some other cryptic scribble.
Angus gave me a mocking look.
“So, it’s a sign … what … like Hansel and Gretel leaving a trail of crumbs in the forest so somebody will find them?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
“If that’s the case, what the hell’s she playing at?”
“Don’t know. But why would she go on about this place? And now this,” I said, waving the book in the air.
Angus chortled. “Maybe this is Poseidon’s remainders’ pile. Eve really does need to lift her game.”
“You old duffer!” I said, laughing and shoving the book into my shoulder bag. “Let’s get to the cave of Hades then. Maybe she’s there.”
“Maybe Cerberus has already dealt with her. Better send Zeffy in first. He’ll get things sorted.” Angus was warming to his subject now, enjoying himself immensely.
“You know where it is, I take it?”
“It’s years since I came here but, if I remember rightly, we need to scramble down a track just beyond the chapel and onto the cove below.”
Zeffy was straining on his lead to get to the water. I could tell he wanted a swim. The dog was mad about the water, one of the things he hadn’t enjoyed as a homeless waif, unless it was a night spent in the pouring rain. Since there was no-one about, I let him off the lead and he scarpered down the track to the beach and dived straight in. I could almost hear him sizzle like a hot pan hitting cold water and felt a twinge of jealously, so much so that I thought of taking off my clothes and skinny dipping, but thought better of it. Zeffy swam round and round in wide circles, barking madly and snapping at his watery slipstream, as if celebrating his own small life, enjoying perhaps for the first time ever, real animalistic joy.
How Greek Is Your Love Page 8
