by kc dyer
The main body—which may have once been a shade of blue or perhaps grey—appears to be the chassis of an old truck with parts of several other vehicles soldered, Frankenstein-like, onto it. Oxidation along every seam gives the impression that rust itself might be holding the whole thing together. The back of the vehicle is an open-bed truck framed in wood and edged in what looks like the remains of a repurposed picket fence. There is no roof, and in fact, no windscreen. The seats, of which there are three, are all long, bench-style, with the first tucked well under the giant steering wheel, and the subsequent seats sort of layered upward behind, like a mobile stadium section. It is a car chimera or—perhaps more accurately—a hybrid truck in the truest sense of the word.
The family all piles inside, with Giagiá being given the seat of honor next to Spiro, who is driving. My dad and Taki end up crammed together behind Giagiá on the seat, which appears to be engineered so she can most easily cling to Taki’s hand. As one of the youngs, I am shuffled along with a half dozen others into the open back of the truck, which gives me an unobstructed view.
I gather from the tiny bits of shouted conversation I can actually understand that we are being driven to our accommodation, which may or may not belong to a family member called Tira. When everyone is finally seated up front, we begin the slow process of backing out of the space. Of course there are no seat belts in the bed of the truck, so those of us in the back each grab hold of whatever the most solid-seeming section of picket fence nearby is and hold on. Around me, Taki’s younger family members are alternatively chatting to each other or beaming at me and repeating “Hello, how are you?” at odd intervals in heavily accented English.
None of them wait to hear a reply.
There are several false starts at reversing, until one of my companions in the back, a boy of fifteen or so, vaults over the fence and, standing to the side, offers directions that help Spiro make his way out of the parking spot. Once this is achieved, a cheer goes up and Spiro starts forward with a lurch. The direction-giving boy, whose name I determine from the cheer to be Nico, trots up behind us and easily scrambles back into the moving truck.
As the truck bumps along over the gravel surface, it seems we are taking a fairly circuitous route through airport parking. This may well be because everyone is still talking at once, with most of the family shouting directions at Spiro. Herman, whom I have come to think of as Taki’s navigator, has abandoned his place on Giagiá’s shoulder and fluttered up to roost behind the top row of seats out of the wind.
We haven’t gathered too much speed, which seems appropriate for a vehicle with no windscreen, and are cruising toward what might be a cashier’s booth. I’ve made myself fairly comfortable, sitting on my gym bag, and have just begun contemplating how this truck can be allowed to drive on any road legally when disaster strikes.
The volume of what I believe must be a combination of opinions, direction-giving, and just general cheerful chatter has not abated at all since we entered the lot, so when Spiro turns out of a row of parked cars toward the booth and there is a loud chorused shout, he slams on the brakes. Later, I will discover that he was about to turn the wrong way into a one-way lane. But in the moment, I join the rest of the untethered humans as we are flung forward into what is suddenly a giant pile of assorted body parts. This precipitous stop is followed by an equally sudden bang, as a car traveling behind us—a small red Mini Cooper station wagon—slams into our tailgate.
The collision serves to counteract our collective forward motion, and the group of Taki’s assorted younger family members, myself irretrievably tangled among them, soar backward, ending piled in a new heap against the wooden tailgate.
I should probably stress that none of this has been terribly painful, but as I haven’t known any of these people for more than ten minutes, it does feel a trifle intimate.
Not surprisingly, there is a great deal of fairly shrill verbiage springing from the forward section of our vehicle, but as I can’t understand most of it anyway, I concentrate on trying to get myself as upright as possible. Doing so requires unwrapping my legs from various other people’s limbs, with much awkward maneuvering involved. I’m just trying to apologize to the young man whose name I’m pretty sure is Nico for stepping on the palm of his hand when the doors to the Mini Cooper fly open.
While the loud voices from the front of the truck continue, sounding more acrimonious by the second, all conversation in the back fades away at the sight of the people pouring out of the Mini. I’m fairly certain that even with the sudden stop and the collision, I did not hit my head, but I can’t help doubting myself at the number of young men emerging from the vehicle behind us. The front end of their car has crumpled, and the bumper is wedged under the bed of the truck, so the windshield of the Mini is a mere foot or two from where I am peering over the tailgate. For a moment, all I can see through the windshield is a sea of faces staring upward, the whites of everyone’s eyes rounded in shock. And when the exodus begins, there are fully three or four people outside the car before I see they are all in uniform.
Basketball uniforms. We have been rear-ended by a basketball team. As I stare, openmouthed, more members of the team spill out of the Mini like clowns from a circus car. I’m fairly certain a Mini Cooper—even the station-wagon variety—has seating for a maximum of five or maybe six regular-sized people, but I count at least ten young men, all in their blue-and-white sleeveless jerseys and knee-length shorts, milling around outside the crushed remains of their car.
Like the members of my own vehicle, they are all shouting—at us and at each other. After a moment, with a bit of help from his teammates, the driver manages to unfold himself from behind the wheel and step out of the car. His shouting, by contrast, is entirely directed at us. Clearly incensed, he kicks the front tire and slams his door closed in such a fury that, somehow, the hatchback of the vehicle springs open, and dozens of basketballs, as though released from the barrel of a cannon, come surging out, bouncing off across the parking lot like they are making a getaway.
With a cheer, the younger contingent of Taki’s family leap over the tailgate as one and dash off to corral the escaping basketballs.
In the meantime, the driver storms past to confront Spiro, looming over the smaller man like an avenging giant. I have a brief moment of fear that he is going to take Spiro’s head right off, but at that moment, Giagiá leans out of the door and shakes her finger right in the younger driver’s face.
The power of Taki’s Giagiá is such that the driver immediately takes a step back. Holding his hands palm forward in an “I surrender” gesture, he listens wordlessly as she makes her opinion of just who was at fault perfectly clear.
* * *
—
After Giagiá’s intervention, things settle down quickly, and soon the airport police service arrives. Both the officers are women, which I find strangely comforting. And while things remain pretty confused for the next hour or so, there is exactly zero I can do to affect the outcome of any of this. I resume my comfy seat atop my gym bag in the back of the truck, share a package of something called Tsakiris Crisps—oregano-flavored potato chips—with Nico, and watch it all play out.
The airport policewomen handle things with utmost efficiency. The only injury turns out to be where Spiro bashed his forehead on the steering wheel when the Mini didn’t stop in time, but Giagiá has not only a clean linen handkerchief in her mammoth handbag, but a Band-Aid large enough to cover the wound entirely.
All the same, with two such passenger-heavy vehicles, there is a lot of milling about while the police take statements. The basketball team, who are here to pick up a member flying in from Olympic tryouts in Athens, are generally in good spirits. The car belongs to the team owner, luckily fully insured, though the driver is cautioned for carrying too many passengers.
Whether a similar admonition is offered to Spiro for his Panagiotakis-mobile, I never do discove
r.
Once the police wrap up their investigation, things begin to move quickly. The fact that both our truck and the Mini were heading the wrong direction on a one-way road goes a long way to calming the Mini driver. In the end, all the members of the basketball team each wrap their giant hands around the sheet of metal passing for a back bumper on the truck and lift it bodily off the Mini. The Mini proves to be too damaged to drive, but watching the team members tuck themselves into the back of the tow truck, I’m convinced they actually might have a bit more space for their onward journey.
More legroom, anyway.
chapter sixteen
STILL WEDNESDAY
Tea Bags and Sugar Packets: Notes to self
Gia Kostas, former food writer, now emaciated starvation victim, near Matala, Crete
Legend tells us that the saddest thing for an eager chef is an empty pantry. Foraging is indeed an art, but the sorry truth is, there is almost nothing more pathetic than a grown woman . . .
Once we leave the airport behind, a certain level of calm returns. My dad plans to scoot off to whatever dig Raj is working on, and my goal, of course, is to stay as far away from both of them as possible.
Also to rewrite my story and send it off to Charlotte.
It’s my last chance to get it right, and I need to find some way to add the magic she’s looking for.
Heraklion is the largest city on Crete, but we’re not staying here. After all the to-do at the airport, we’re soon bumping along a two-lane road that heads in the direction of the south coast, the sun lowering to one side. The road is lined with white walls overhung by gnarly trees with shiny green leaves. The terrain around us seems as dry as the mainland, and a fairly steep cliff below the highway leads down to the brilliant, crystalline waters of the Mediterranean Sea. A steady, cool breeze is blowing from off the water, and combined with the wind stirred up just from sitting in the open bed of the truck, I’m convinced I will never untangle my hair again.
More than an hour later, and shortly after ambling through a bustling, waterfront village, we pull up in front of the guesthouse in our giant, weird ride. It is a charming little villa, perched by itself at the end of a dusty gravel lane.
Unfortunately, standing by the front door is Raj Malik. I’ve been watching people’s faces on the journey from the airport, and to tell you the truth, nobody really bats an eye as we drive past. But as we pull up, I have time to watch Raj replace his initial look of shock with a carefully neutral expression.
He may think he’s got it covered, but I can read the amusement flowing off him in waves. For the first time, I feel a little defensive of my dad and his journey. If he has to surround himself with weirdos in order to achieve his lifetime goal—well, why shouldn’t he?
The truck gives a final shudder as it rolls to a stop, and Nico—the boy who shared his potato chips with me—gallantly vaults over the side, opens the tailgate, and offers me a hand down. In the meantime, my dad is slowly working his way through all of Taki’s family, each of them wringing his hand, or in the case of Giagiá, literally grabbing his head by the ears and firmly kissing each cheek twice.
Beside the front door, I spot Raj surreptitiously checking his watch. The accident in the parking lot has delayed our arrival by at least an hour, and this current goodbye ritual is also taking forever, so I lean in and link my arm with my dad’s, physically prying him away from the loving embrace of Spiro.
Yet as the truck finally lurches away, with Taki gazing slightly imploringly at us over one shoulder, Raj doesn’t look at all put out. Instead, he can’t seem to hold back a grin. “That vehicle is really—something.”
“Apologies for keeping you waiting, my friend,” my dad says, smiling wryly. “Taki hasn’t been back to Crete for two years, and his family are—you understand—clearly happy to see him.”
“Are they giving you all the credit for bringing him home?”
My dad shrugs and looks at his watch. “Perhaps. Listen, young man, we have maybe two hours of daylight left. What say we go look at your site?”
Raj nods and then glances politely over at me, but I wave him off. “I’ve got work to do,” I say quickly. “I’ll sign us into the guesthouse, Pops. You go on ahead.”
“Thank you, darling. See you for dinner, eh?”
He trots ahead with his suitcase and deposits it on the front step. I follow him up to the door and pause to wave before stepping inside. With some alarm, I see my dad is strapping on a motorcycle helmet. Raj is already wearing his, but instead of a motor bike, I notice he’s climbing onto a Vespa scooter. My dad hops on behind him and lifts his hand to me as Raj putt-putts away.
I can’t help grinning at the sight. Definitely not as cool as the black bike Raj was driving on the mainland, but still a huge step up from the Frankentruck that got us here. And likely safer too.
The guesthouse is a small whitewashed cottage clinging to the cliffside, with a sweeping vista of crystal clear sea as a backdrop. In the distance to the west, I can see the white sail of a yacht soaring across the waters of the Mediterranean.
The proprietress of this cottage, Tira, is waiting for me inside. She has ridden her own scooter from her home in the nearby village of Matala.
“Is used to be a fishing village, but now mostly tourists,” she explains while walking me through the cottage. “Though maybe we go back to fish if the tourists keep away, yes?”
The guesthouse is painted entirely white, inside and out, with the characteristic Hellenic blue as an accent. It is tiny and perfect, with two small bedrooms and a living area that opens onto a stone balcony above the ocean. Below us, the water takes on a dozen shades of blue as the waves crash into the base of the cliff, topped with a spray of snow white foam.
The one downside to this little piece of paradise is that the Wi-Fi is down, a fact I don’t discover until after my father is long gone.
“You come into the village tonight,” Tira says soothingly. “Matala has everything you need. Good food, perfect beach, nice taverna. You sit under stars and surf internet to your heart content, eh? And by tomorrow, the nice internet people promise is all fix.” She smiles apologetically and shrugs. “Life on Crete.”
I start to tell her that I need to be online to check in with my boss and then stop myself. “Life on Crete,” I echo instead, and even manage a smile in return.
After leaving me a key to the front door and pointing out a safe path down to a tiny beach, Tira heads back into town, and I am alone for the first time in so long memory fails me. I savor the silence for a few minutes. This is perfect—no distractions. And in spite of the fact that I feel a little cut off without Wi-Fi, it still means I should be able to focus on my edits undisturbed.
Instead of getting straight to work, I indulge in the luxury of my first shower of the day, washing all the travel dust—most of which was acquired while sitting in the back of the Taki family Frankentruck—down the drain. Refreshed, I pause only to slather myself in sunscreen before bringing my tablet and a bottle of water onto the flagstone balcony. The wall surrounding the small open space is whitewashed limestone, and one whole corner is covered in grapevine, which grows up to form a green canopy beside the cottage.
I crank open a faded blue umbrella furled in the center of a slightly rust-dappled metal table and set up a workstation beneath it: tablet, notebook, pen, and phone. The water bottle has beads of condensation coating the outside already. I pull up a metal garden chair, open my most recent file, and fingers poised above the keyboard, I take a deep breath, ready to write.
Nothing comes.
I read over my existing draft; the one I sent through to Charlotte.
Still nothing.
Over the course of the next two hours, I pace, drink the whole bottle of water, check out the inside of every cupboard for possible snacks, find nothing but a box of tea bags and three sugar packets, drink another w
hole bottle of water, consider eating one of the sugar packets, unpack my bag in case I’ve stashed a granola bar somewhere, find nothing except unwashed laundry, return to the balcony, stare at the first draft, add the word the twice, erasing it both times, and finally swallow the contents of all three sugar packets in despair.
I’m just hiding the evidence of my shame by jamming the torn little packets to the bottom of the trash pail I find under the sink when I hear a distant putt-putt-putt sound followed by a not-so-distant spray of gravel.
I hurriedly brush away the few remaining sugar grains adhering to the sunscreen on my face and plant myself back in my chair. When my dad walks in, I look up and then throw in a big stretch to add authenticity.
“Wow—hi! Has it been two hours already? I’ve been grinding away here the whole time,” I say, hastily exiting the barely touched document on my screen.
“Had a good afternoon, darling?” My dad swoops out onto the deck to give me a kiss on the top of my head, then strides over to the balcony rail and flings his arms wide.
“Look at this view, koritsi! Raj, come here and just look at this view! Isn’t it something?”
I turn to see Raj Malik has followed him out onto the deck. He smiles a little shyly and joins my dad by the balcony rail.
“This is a magical place,” he says softly.
His hair is sticking up in the back from the helmet he’s still carrying, but he closes his eyes for a minute, smiling into the evening breeze.
I don’t realize that I, too, am smiling until my dad turns back to face me, rubbing his hands together.
“What’s for dinner, darling? We’ve been walking around Rajnish’s site all afternoon, and I’m starving!”
My short-lived cheeriness evaporates and I stare at him pointedly without replying. This clearly does not get through his thick skull, as his benign, slightly inquiring expression doesn’t change.
