Without warning a resounding crash shook the house. Davonna flew out of her chair and tore out of the kitchen. The door to the terrace swung on its hinges. Thanos, his reflective coat whipping in the wind, sprinted across the garden, darting through the shrubs and trees and across the stretches of lawn. Davonna clutched her robe tight around her and stood frozen with terror; craning her head to see Thanos.
He came walking back, not ten minutes later, gulping air and clutching a stitch in his side.
"There was someone in the house. He tore off across the lawn and scaled the wall into your neighbor's property. I’ll go ask if I can search," he said. He sat on the half wall and hung his head.
"No. I'm sure he's long gone by now," she sighed, and motioned Thanos inside.
"Let's make sure nothing was stolen."
Davonna showed Thanos to John's study where the lamp shone. She peered into corners. There wasn't a shard of glass or fleck of dust out of place.
"Anything?"
Davonna moved closer to the desk. There was something odd. She leaned over, what was it? There, on the desk, glinting in the light of the lamp was a used staple. It was bent out of shape and a leg was gone. Davonna picked it up and stared at it before passing it to Thanos.
"A staple?" Thanos scratched his head looking too confused for his own good.
"John keeps his desk scrupulously clean. What is it?"
Thanos frowned at the bit of metal in his hand before he passed it back to Davonna. "I'm not sure. It doesn't make sense. There's a lot in this house worth stealing and nothing was touched."
"Maybe they knew what they were looking for," Davonna mused.
Thanos glanced at her and nodded. "Let's walk through to make sure nothing else is missing."
Davonna scoured the lower level, checking paintings, small bronze statues, even the bar cart in the corner of the drawing room that bore an unopened 32-year-old bottle of Laphroaig. She shook her head and led Thanos to the front door.
"I'm sorry," she said, as she unlocked the door.
Cool, crisp air came rushing in. It smelled of the sea, fresh and yet with an ever-present tang. It ticked Davonna's nose and pushed her forward an inch or two where she was close enough to see sweat pooled on Thanos' temples.
"I'll stay parked outside for an hour or two, to make sure he doesn't come back. I'll file the report tomorrow."
"Do you think he'll come back?"
"It isn’t likely, but it's better to be safe than sorry," he said with a sad smile. “Do you want to call your husband and see if he can come home?"
"Oh no. No, he's at the hotel, I don't want to bother him."
Thanos frowned.” All right." He turned to descend the steps but paused, looking over his shoulder. “Are you sure you're ok? I’ll sit with you for a while, make you a cup of tea?"
"No, I'm fine on my own."
Thanos shuffled his feet as though unsure where to put them. "I don't mind."
Davonna sighed and shook her head. "It's fine. Thank you for chasing him away."
They stood for a moment, staring at each other, both wanting to say something they never would. Davonna was the first to turn away. Thanos stood on the steps outside and stared for a long while at the closed doors.
Davonna walked back through the house, bathed in light, at odds with the oppressive darkness. At the door to the library she turned and strode over to one of the leather couches. She pulled out a red plaid blanket, wrapped it around herself, and stared at the opposite wall.
After the earlier commotion, it was disconcerting to sit alone in the silence and the dark. Her ears perked at every noise. As frightening as it was to sit in the library, exposed, the thought of ascending the stairs, with no way to escape, was infinitely worse. But the house stilled and Davonna with it.
An image of Thanos framed in the kitchen doorway, rose, unbidden to her mind. She smiled and her heart lightened with just the memory. His kind eyes, the perfume of his muscular body, and the ease of existing next to him ... it intoxicated her. She wanted to call him back and fall into his strong arms and leave her prison. She glanced at the floor and shook her head; her eyes heavy with exhaustion and disdain. What use was dreaming when there was no escape?
At 5 a.m., the sky now more blue than black, Davonna heard the crunch of gravel echo from the front driveway. Davonna uncurled her body from the chair. She bit her lip as she stepped onto the floor. One leg was numb and shooting pain exploded up her calf and thigh. She hobbled to the front door and reached it as John put his key into the lock.
"You're awake, are you?" he asked blandly.
"Someone broke into the house last night," she said, and took John's trench coat and briefcase, which he pushed toward her.
"I know, doubtless the local hooligans."
"You know?"
John rolled his eyes. "The police rang the hotel."
"Oh."
"Was anything taken?"
"Not that I saw. There was a staple on your desk. A broken one."
John blanched, rushed to his office, and slammed the door behind him. Long minutes dragged by before the door to the office opened again. John emerged; his face pale.
"What's wrong?"
But John didn't say a word. He looked across the wide hall with blank eyes, then squinted and leaned forward as though he was on the cusp of a decision.
"I'm off to bed," he said, with a stifled yawn.
"All right."
"You should sleep for a few hours. You've been up all night, but use one of the guest bedrooms."
Davonna watched him go with trepidation. Surely her luck couldn't hold this far? The burglar had taken nothing and even though John was shaken, he wasn't angry with her.
"Oh and don't use those bloody pruning shears," John shouted from the second floor.
"I won't."
The door to the master bedroom slammed. Davonna turned, hung up John's coat, and walked to his office to deposit his briefcase. The room was dark, even with the faint glow of the small desk lamp. Davonna put the briefcase on the floor and walked over to the desk. The image of the broken staple flashed through her mind.
What had the person been looking for? Why were they only in his office? Did they find it? What was it? Had they known John was at the hotel? Why were they unafraid to turn on the light? A burglar would have brought their own, a small handy flashlight to get around the house, right? And why was John so flustered?
Davonna slumped against the desk. Her body lay limp with exhaustion but her mind whirled and spun with a thousand questions. The windows in the office faced the small olive grove on the north west side of the house. She walked over and put her palm flat against the glass. She pulled back. The front door was closer. Why hadn't he left that way? Even though it would lead Thanos toward his car, there were innumerable off-road paths to take, where he might escape.
Davonna retraced the steps the burglar must have taken: out through the office and to the back of the house. A shard of light trickled through the slats of the shutters and fell disjointedly to the floor. She stopped at the entrance to the morning room. It wasn't difficult to find, if someone had studied the house.
Unsteadily, she walked around the furniture, her eyes on the doors. The metal handle was cold and stiff. The door creaked, chirping like a hungry baby bird. Davonna frowned at the hinges. She stepped out onto the tiled terrace; the stone cool and damp.
She walked out through the garden. There were huge divots in the gravel where the two men had run. She walked on, keeping one eye on the prints and another on where she placed her bare feet. The prints veered off the gravel and into the grass. On and on the prints continued, to the edge of the property, against the thick stone property wall. She placed her hand against the damp stone; it was a straight line to Megan's home. The grounds were thick with trees and six-foot tall shrubs; anyone could have hid there. Should she go? Should she ask Megan if she had seen or heard anyone?
But as Davonna looked longer at Megan's home with
its marble queerly looked more blue than white, a wave of futility washed over her. What was the use? Why bother? With a sigh, she slumped against the wall, wrapped her arms around her legs, and closed her eyes. As the minutes dragged by, the island awoke around her. Golden orioles chirped merrily, cicadas thrummed, and the sky lightened inch by inch.
Davonna lifted her head and looked at her house. Its delicate pink plaster gleamed in the dawn and the greens of the garden shone like a beacon of life. The cool rock and the magic of the morning became a balm.
The crackle of gravel in the distance caught her attention. She looked up and headed towards the house. A white and blue striped police car drove around the side of the house and parked by the garage.
"Kalimera, Davonna."
"Kalimera," she said with a smile.
Thanos exited the car, pulled on his cap and adjusted his thick vest. They stood in an awkward silence before he cleared his throat.
"I wanted to check and see whether the burglar dropped evidence when he ran across the property. Oh and to check on you," he added, blushing crimson.
"I walked the garden, but I didn't find anything."
"That's unfortunate," Thanos sighed. "Were you able to get any sleep?"
"No, my mind never settled."
"Is your husband home?"
"Yes. He got home at five."
Thanos stared at her and forced himself not to roll his eyes. "Please let me know if anything else happens."
"It's just this week that John is working nights. I think someone is ill. He will be home after that."
"Okay," Thanos said. He dithered for a moment.
"Thank you for coming." She smiled, clasping her hands together.
"Sure … take care, Davonna."
She watched him go. The car rumbled over the rock, pulled out of the driveway, and turned left toward town. What was it like for Thanos, to drive the island while everyone else slept? What did he do during those long hours? Did he pack a lunch (dinner?) or did he get snacks out of a vending machine? What did he do when he got home? What did his home looked like? Did he want to leave Lesvos? Did he want more out of his life? Did he have someone to go home to? There wasn't a ring ... but was there a woman? What was it in his eyes when he looked at her? Did he know what she'd daydreamed about in the early hours; curled on the couch in the library.
Davonna blinked, a thick ray of sun broke over the horizon and lit up the gravel driveway. She turned and looked at the house, did something catch her eye? Then ... there in the large circular window where the staircase was, a figure moved. She shaded her eyes. It was John. He stood there, unmoving, watching. She waved, but he just stood there. She couldn't make out his expression. Did she have to? How long had he been there? Had he heard the gravel as well?
A rush of fear clutched at her heart. He'd watched. He must have. He'd seen Thanos come back. He'd seen Thanos blush and shuffle his feet in embarrassment. He knew. He had to know that she'd been daydreaming of Thanos. And then she blinked, and the window was empty. But it didn't matter, she couldn't move. The threat of what was sure to come was enough to bind her to the rocky drive.
Davonna walked inside, her hand brushed against the cool wooden kitchen table. She stopped mid-stride. She frowned and stared ahead and looked around for what had made her pause. On the far counter, flapping in the light breeze, lay a folded dog-eared newspaper. She blinked, as though caught in a net, which dragged her mercilessly backward, backward and down into the past.
Davonna sat on a metal chair, on the terrace of Galvin at the Athenaeum, an expensive London restaurant, that overlooked Green Park. A goblet of sparkling water perched on top of a wrinkled copy of The Times.
The paper's headline blared like a foghorn: Wife Kills Husband in a Spiteful Rage. It had been a cold-blooded, month-long trial. She wasn't a beautiful woman, the woman on the page. What once must have been her youthful comeliness had been sucked from her, as if from an ancient ritual, leaving behind a dry husk.
The story screamed from the pages of every newspaper in London. People flocked to it, like moths to a flame. It was intoxicating to know what the police knew, to dig into another person's life, and to comment on what you saw there. The murderess was from good stock, distantly related to the royal family. The paper threw it in, to get a jab at the posh snobs. They couldn’t control the black sheep of their families either.
Davonna Wolfe leaned back in the chair and stared at the paper. It ruffled on the table, its pages flopped in the breeze; in the wake of cars and black London cabs. The woman in the paper: she'd claimed her husband was abusive. Decades of torment. The thin cord, which bound her to reality; snapped. She couldn't take any more.
The public was with her. Who wouldn't be? Davonna rolled her eyes and flipped her hair out of her face. She looked at her thin silver watch and sighed. Two more minutes and he'd be late. Ten more and he'd be inexcusably late. Fifteen and she'd leave.
The time passed with dizzying monotony. Ten ... Eleven ... Twelve minutes ...Thirteen ... Fourteen and then, around the corner, he came, with a swagger in his shoulders like he owned the street. Davonna smiled and her stomach squirmed like a pubescent girl's. He sat in the chair next to her, John Fitzroy, the handsome hotel manager. He was tall and muscular, but not overtly so. Just quietly strong, she decided.
"You look stunning," he said, and leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. Davonna caught a whiff of his cologne, it smelled expensive, exclusive.
He sat next to her, perched in the chair in the comfortable way that the aristocracy has bred into them. Davonna wasn't able to fake the superiority or relaxation, which came naturally to John. But she didn't know how many men stared as she sat, her back against the metal of the chair, one arm casually on the armrest. She wore a supple Burberry trench coat, tied around her waist. Her hair rippled out in soft curls behind her. She might have thought herself plain, without a gleam of seduction in her eye, but she was entrancing on and by her own.
"Lady Carlisle checked in this afternoon, she's being given an MBE by the Queen. It’s why I'm late, she invited me to tea. I knew her son at Eton."
"I haven't heard of Lady Carlisle," Davonna said. "But I haven't been in the UK for a few years."
"Oh, never mind her," John said with a grin. His teeth were brilliantly white, and straight as soldiers. "You can't imagine how horrified I was, running along The Mall, worried that you'd left."
"You had one more minute."
"How fortuitous," he said. "I am so glad you stayed."
"It's polite, after what you did for me at the hotel."
"I have to confess," he said as he colored, "... I was happy to have an excuse to come and talk to you."
"Well: here I am."
John frowned and stiffened as his eyes caught the flutter of the newspaper's pages from a wisp of a breeze.
"What are you reading?"
"Oh, it was on the table," Davonna said, and pushed over the copy of The Times.
"It's horrid."
"Yes."
They stared at each other for a moment, the face of the older society woman gazing unseeing at the sky, between them. Davonna laughed first, a nervous giggle.
"I'm so sorry, I haven't done this in a long time."
"What do you mean?" John said, a faint glimmer in his eyes.
"Been out on a date. I work so much. I never have time. Maybe I'm not that interesting."
"Come on," John said, and offered his hand. "Let's go."
Through the afternoon and evening they strolled across London. At eleven they exited a playhouse on Shaftesbury Avenue. John pulled her close as a throng of late-night revelers threatened to tear them apart. He guided her into a nearby pub and offered to get drinks. A three-piece band played in the corner. The guitarist and singer, in jeans and a corduroy vest, was singing The Drunk Scotsman, tapping his foot on the black, wooden stage. Davonna settled into a red faux-leather upholstered booth, which overlooked the busy street.
The pub smelled o
f home; the cheap leather of the bar seats, the beer, and the battered fish and chips. John broke through the crowd, like a ship out of a storm and Davonna chuckled as a drunk staggered in front of him. He grimaced as he sat.
"Cheers," he said as he handed over her wine glass.
"Cheers."
The bubble popped and the smells of a lively English pub and the warbling tones of a questionable singer dissipated in the dry Greek air. Davonna's fingers brushed the old paper. There wasn't a headline about a husband killer. They were just stories detailing Greece's solitary struggle through depression and bank closures. A picture of an old grandmother, white headscarf, sunbaked wrinkled face, stood next to a wall of colorfully depressive graffiti.
A shudder, premature tears, rattled Davonna. She shook and swallowed those tears. Those memories. Those long lost dreams.
III
καμήλα δεν βλέπει την καμπούρα της.
The camel does not see her own hump.
John's week of night shifts flew by in a haze of exhaustion. Davonna only slept for three hours at a time. She woke in the night, dreaming of broken doors, and Thanos' face bathed in shadow, and the stone wall at the edge of the property collapsing, stone by stone. John crept around her like he knew, a strange sinister smile, which turned her stomach to jelly.
In a haze, she tripped through her normal errands in town; the basket filled with produce, bunches of flowers, a small bag of chocolate, and a damp package of steak. She looked up at the road through the flopping brim of her hat, diminutive rays of light filtered through the gaps in the weaving. An uncomfortable tickling sensation, the way bread crackles and shrivels as it burns, broke over her back and her bare calves as she wove her way out of Mitilini, past the cobblestone streets of the marketplace which reeked of lavender and piss and sweat.
She pulled the brim of the hat lower on her neck and trudged through the dirt. The reddish brown particles even seeped in through the cracks of her house as though determined to reclaim the land. As she walked it settled onto her calves, onto the gold buckles on her leather sandals, and in between her toes. It ground across her skin like sandpaper. It grated on her mind. The handle of the basket dug into her palm. The old calluses rubbed against it.
Mrs Fitzroy Page 4
