YANNIS (Cretan Saga Book 1)

by Beryl Darby

  ‘You can’t……’

  The doctor’s voice tailed away as Yannis slammed the door, his footsteps sounding loud in his ears as he ran down the corridor and out through the heavy wooden door. He continued to run until his breath came in gasping sobs and he was forced to rest in a doorway. He hated the doctor, with his hard, probing fingers. He wouldn’t go back. He would go… His thoughts failed him. Where would he go? There was nowhere to go. His parents would look after him, but at what cost? They would be ostracised by the rest of the village, maybe catch the disease themselves.

  Certainly if the villagers found out he was a leper he would be driven into the hills to fend for himself until the authorities finally found him and sent him to Spinalonga. He shuddered. Anything would be better than that. He could not return home, he could not stay at the taverna. There was no choice but to return to the hospital.

  Slowly he regained his breath and began to plod miserably along the wet streets. The rain had stopped, but the sky was a sullen grey, promising to rain again shortly. By the time he reached the taverna Louisa had lit the oil lamps in an effort to attract customers and also add a little cheer to the day. For the first time Yannis wondered how he was going to explain his leaving. Ignoring her greeting he mounted the stairs to his room.

  Systematically he sorted through his belongings and placed his books in the bottom of the sack he had unpacked such a short while ago. He added his underclothes, three good shirts, two pairs of trousers and the two pullovers his mother had knitted for him. His razor he wrapped carefully in a piece of newspaper and placed it in the pocket of his jacket, along with his collection of pens and pencils.

  He stood in the middle of the room and looked around, tears coming into his eyes. It looked bare and deserted without his belongings strewn about. He would have to explain his sudden departure, but there was no way he could tell them the truth. He chewed the end of a pencil as he tried to think of an excuse.

  Finally he wrote, “I have to leave on personal business. You can let my room if you wish. Thank you. Yannis.” He read the note over and thought they would probably assume he had returned home. With a sigh he placed it on the table and weighted it with a book that belonged to Yiorgo. If he could leave unseen they might not find it until the next day.

  Sadly he closed the door behind him and made his way quietly down the stairs, wishing his sack was not so heavy and did not bump against each step. Holding it in front of him he walked through the taverna, feeling Louisa’s eyes on his back.

  Once outside he breathed more easily. The rain was falling now, a strong wind blowing it in his face. Head down, the sack on his back, he made his way towards the church to keep his promise to Father Minos. The church was in darkness and Yannis knocked at the door of the house, waiting until an elderly woman whom he took to be the priest’s housekeeper, opened it to him. ‘May I see Father Minos, please?’

  She shook her head, setting her large gold earrings swinging. ‘He’s out. He had a message this morning to say that old Dimitris was dying and could he go to him. As far as I know he’s still there. You can wait for him if you like, although I don’t know how long he’ll be, or I can direct you to their house.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ Yannis turned to go.

  ‘Can I give him a message?’

  Yannis hesitated. ‘Could you tell him it was Yannis on his way to the hospital.’

  ‘Of course. God be with you,’ she called after him as he walked along the wet street.

  The sack grew heavier, the ground seemed slippery beneath his feet, and three times Yannis lowered his burden to regain his breath before he saw the bare walls of the hospital loom up in front of him. He leaned against the doorway, shivering from the cold as well as the fear inside him. He felt the door give beneath him and stepped aside hurriedly.

  ‘Are you waiting to go in? There’s no need to knock. The door’s open.’

  Yannis passed through into the hall and walked down the passage to the room where he had seen the doctor and knocked tentatively on the door.

  ‘Come in and wait.’

  He stood just inside the room, his sack on the floor beside him, and waited. After an interminable time the doctor looked out from his inner room.

  ‘Well, well, I was certain I’d not see you again for a few weeks.’

  ‘I said I would come back. What do I do now?’

  ‘A few formalities, and then I’ll take you to the ward.’

  Yannis nodded. He no longer cared very much. Emotionally he was drained and exhausted. He sat down on the chair opposite the doctor and waited.

  ‘We’ll need the name of your family and their address.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They will have to be checked. You could have caught it from them or given it to them.’

  Yannis thought rapidly. ‘I have no family.’

  The doctor frowned. ‘You told me earlier you went home at Christmas.’

  ‘I went to my home.’

  The doctor looked at him suspiciously. ‘And where is that?’

  ‘Thrapsano.’ Yannis named the first town that sprang to his mind.

  ‘We can check up, you know.’

  Yannis shrugged. ‘Do so.’

  ‘Have you any money to pay for your treatment?’

  ‘How much does it cost?’

  ‘That depends how long it takes. If you hand over what you have I’ll give you a receipt. When you leave your expenses will be deducted.’

  Yannis pulled a bundle of notes from the top of his sack and placed them on the table in front of the doctor. The doctor counted the notes quickly, wrote the amount down on a piece of paper, signed it and handed it to Yannis.

  ‘Keep that, it’s your receipt. Now, if you’d like to follow me.’

  Yannis pushed the piece of paper into his pocket and followed the doctor from the room, down a maze of passages and up a flight of worn stone steps until they stopped before a stout door that had a grill inset at eye level. Taking a bunch of keys from his pocket the doctor unlocked the door. Curious eyes studied Yannis as he entered.

  Yannis gazed back. Everyone had a look of resignation, but none of them looked ill. The doctor indicated a bed at the end of the ward and Yannis walked towards it. The doctor took a last look round, nodded and left the ward, locking the door behind him. Yannis sat on the bed, not knowing what to do next.

  ‘I should take your things out of that wet sack,’ advised a voice.

  ‘Yes, yes, I will.’ Slowly Yannis began to remove his clothes, followed by his books. As he laid them on his bed they were picked up, thumbed through, commented upon and placed back again.

  ‘Please, leave them alone.’

  ‘We’re not hurting them.’ A book was tossed back carelessly and Yannis stretched out his hand to prevent it falling to the floor.

  ‘Is there anywhere I can put them?’

  ‘Your box is there.’

  Yannis looked where the finger pointed. At the head of the bed stood an open wooden box. ‘Do I put everything in there?’

  ‘Where else?’

  For the first time Yannis took stock of his surroundings. At the end of the ward there were two washbasins and a small, screened area that he took to be the lavatory. The beds were placed a few feet apart against the walls, each having a box at its head. Running down the centre between the beds was a long table with upright wooden chairs. Light filtered in through grimy windows set high up in the walls, but now oil lamps, making the shadows of the patients look like giants, lighted the ward.

  As he placed the last of his belongings into the box he heard the key turn in the lock. An orderly pushed a trolley containing food into the room, called “supper” and withdrew, locking the door after him.

  ‘May as well see what it is. Come on.’ The man who had advised Yannis to unpack had stood watching his every move, now he pushed Yannis before him towards the trolley.

  ‘I’m not very hungry,’ p
rotested Yannis.

  ‘You will be if you don’t eat,’ remarked Yannis’s new acquaintance as he helped Yannis to a spoonful of a doubtful looking mixture from a large bowl.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Yannis.

  ‘I’ve no idea. Doesn’t taste too bad.’ He licked the finger he had dipped into the mixture; then ladled some onto his own plate. ‘Take plenty of bread.’

  Seating himself next to Yannis he proceeded to introduce himself and the other occupants of the ward. Hardly registering their names Yannis nodded in acknowledgement, wishing his companion would stop talking and leave him with his own melancholy thoughts. Finally he turned to Yannis, laying down his spoon and fork.

  ‘Are you always this unsociable?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You will be, unless you loosen up. You haven’t even told us your name!’

  ‘I’m Yannis. I don’t mean to be rude. I can’t quite get used to the idea that I’m in hospital.’

  ‘You will. Everyone does in time.’

  ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘Some months. They say I’m responding to treatment, so it may not be too much longer.’

  Yannis nodded. ‘What about everyone else?’

  ‘Various stages of treatment. Different people respond differently.’

  ‘What happens if you don’t respond?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. We’ve about an hour before the lamps will be burnt out. Would you like a game of backgammon?’

  Yannis shook his head. ‘I’d rather read; if you don’t mind.’

  ‘All the same to me.’ Vassilakis returned his plate to the trolley.

  Yannis sat at the table, his book before him. The words danced before his eyes and he soon gave up any pretence of reading and gazed furtively around the room. There was laughter and talk, games of dice, backgammon and cards being played. Men looked back at him, some curiously, some friendly, some disinterested, but to his relief none of them looked ill. If they did not look ill, he reasoned, they were obviously not seriously ill. If they were not seriously ill, he could not be either. The thought gave him comfort. If Vassilakis was responding to treatment he would respond also and his stay would only be of a few months duration.

  Yiorgo Pavlakis read the note left by Yannis and frowned. ‘How strange,’ he remarked to Louisa. ‘What could have been so urgent that he had to leave without saying goodbye?’

  Louisa shrugged. She had her own ideas why Yannis had left and she had no wish to discuss them with her fiancé.

  ‘I suppose his father needed him,’ continued Yiorgo. ‘Why come back at all? He had most of his belongings with him. We could have packed the rest and sent them down to him, or even given them to my old landlady to give to his relatives when she comes up for our wedding. Oh, Louisa, I am the happiest of men. I can hardly believe that in a few weeks time I’m to be your husband.’ He dropped a kiss on her hair and caressed her cheek with his hand.

  ‘I hope you’ll not be disappointed.’

  ‘I shall never be disappointed in you,’ he assured her.

  Louisa’s eyes flickered upwards. ‘I shall remind you of your words if necessary.’ She spoke quietly and Yiorgo imagined the words held a hidden threat. He looked into the unfathomable depths of her eyes; then kissed her passionately.

  ‘I shall always love you, Louisa,’ he vowed.

  Father Minos eyed the letter that sat on his table. What should he do? The boy had not come back. A whole week had gone by without a sign of him. He sighed. The hospital must have declared him well, so he had no further need of comfort from a priest. It was a sad fact of life that he was gradually accepting, but he had thought Yannis to be different from the usual distressed people he tried to help. Obviously he had been wrong. The boy was the same as anyone else. He picked the letter up and tapped it against his hand. Should he send it? There was probably little point. Yannis would have written another by now. He had it in his hand when his housekeeper appeared with his tray.

  ‘He didn’t come back,’ observed Father Minos as he placed the letter back on the table and took the tray.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The boy who was here last week.’

  A look of consternation came over the old woman’s face. ‘I forgot!’ Her hand went to her mouth in horror. ‘I’ve never forgotten to give you a message before.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  The woman’s brow wrinkled. ‘I’m not sure now. I think he said his name was Yannis and he was going home.’

  Father Minos smiled. ‘I’m very pleased for him.’

  ‘It won’t happen again. I never usually forget to give you a message.’

  ‘I know you don’t. This one wasn’t important. No need to worry.’ He glossed over her mistake and turned his attention to the tray.

  Maria was worried. Why had Yannis not written to say he had arrived safely in Heraklion? Her husband assured her that Yannis would be too busy to write, he would be catching up on the work he had missed at school.

  ‘He’s always written before,’ grumbled his mother.

  ‘I’ll write to him, Mamma,’ promised Maria. She sat and wrote a long letter to her brother, explaining that they had not heard from him, maybe a letter had gone astray in the post, and her mother was worried. She told him how their father was progressing, how she had sold another drawing, and that Yiorgo was working very hard in the fields, finishing by sending him love from all of them.

  The letter sat on the shelf for three days before Maria remembered to go down to the general store and pay for it to be taken to Heraklion. Smiling contentedly she returned home, hoping her brother would write soon to put her mother’s mind at rest.

  Annita wrote to Yannis each week and waited anxiously for a reply. She had received his first letter to say he had arrived; then there was silence. At first she excused this by saying he must have work to catch up on, but she began to feel resentful. What was more important to Yannis; spending time socialising with his friends and working at the museum or writing a letter to her? She became convinced that he had succumbed to the charms of a girl from Heraklion and spent her nights tossing and turning, tormented by her own miserable thoughts.

  Finally Annita confided in her brother and persuaded him to make her a promise. A promise that he hoped fervently he would not have to keep. He had arranged to spend the Easter holiday at the monastery at Ierapetra, now he had promised Annita that if she had not heard from Yannis by then he would visit Heraklion and talk to him, finding out the reason for his silence.

  As Easter drew nearer he was beset by a further problem. He would need money to stay in Heraklion. His parents would give him sufficient for his fare, ostensibly to Ierapetra and a little over, but even that might not be sufficient to take him to Heraklion. He approached Annita, and she gave him the ten drachmas she had saved since starting work at the hospital. With this Andreas had to be content.

  The journey was uneventful to the driver, but every mile was a delight to Andreas. At times there was a sheer drop down to the sea and the road seemed far too narrow for them to travel safely. Rocks had fallen from the bank that rose up steeply and in some stretches the driver had to take the vehicle sickeningly close to the edge to avoid hitting them. Andreas rose to leave the bus as they coasted into Malia.

  ‘Thought you were going to Heraklion?’

  ‘I thought we were there,’ explained Andreas feeling foolish.

  ‘Not yet.’

  The driver accelerated and Andreas was almost catapulted onto the floor. He gripped the edge of the seat, feeling excitement beginning to build up inside. He tried to suppress the emotion, reminding himself that he had deceived his parents.

  The bus ground wearily up the hill towards the town and then hurtled dangerously down the other side to stop abruptly, once again nearly shooting Andreas from his seat. The driver jumped out, followed by the few other passengers who had joined them during the journey. Andreas waited until la
st, not wishing to repeat his earlier mistake.

  He looked around him. Which way should he go? He pulled the scrap of paper from his pocket and studied the address of the taverna before approaching the bus driver.

  ‘Can you tell me the way to this address, please?’

  The driver shook his head. ‘Can’t help you there. I suggest you go to a taverna and ask.’

  Andreas shouldered his bundle and made his way up the hill. He had expected to find the town busy, but Heraklion appeared to have most of the world’s population milling in Eleftherias Square. He stood and watched, fascinated, as the people moved about their business. Deciding that the middle road would lead him to the centre of the town he began to weave his way through the people, donkeys, carts and small, three-wheel trucks. On reaching the road he felt more bewildered than ever, and realised the suggestion from the bus driver made sense. A boy, probably not as old as he, asked what he wanted, and reeled off a list of food and drink that made his head spin.

  ‘I’d just like some directions, please.’ Andreas pulled the crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. ‘Can you tell me the way to that address?’

  Screwing up his eyes the boy looked at it and shook his head. ‘I’ll ask inside.’

  Fidgeting, Andreas looked after him, hoping he would return with the information quickly and not forget. It was like being in the centre of Aghios Nikolaos, but with many more people. The same activities were going on all around him, but with more speed, a hurried intensity seemed to emanate from everyone as they pushed, jostled, shouted, laughed and talked. Diving in and out amongst them were men of various ages with swinging trays of coffee, stopping only long enough to collect their few coins before returning to a taverna for further supplies.

  ‘You go along the main road here, past the market,’ the voice made Andreas jump, so engrossed was he in the scene before his eyes. ‘Then about four or five roads on you turn to your right. Better ask again then. It’s in one of the side roads.’

  Following the waiter’s instructions he joined the throng on the main road. The market was not hard to find and it seemed that most people he was walking with were destined for that area. Not sure how many roads he had crossed he looked around for someone to ask. On the corner stood a man with a cart loaded with oranges. Andreas approached cautiously, half expecting to be knocked over by someone racing round the corner, but his only encounter was with a bent, old lady who pushed past him and began to handle the fruit.