Fire on the Island

by Timothy Jay Smith

  Takis had been checking him out, too, and a couple of times their eyes met. When the meeting ended, and everyone jostled to leave the church, he was suddenly at Nick’s side. “You haven’t forgotten about your free drink, have you?”

  “I never forget a free drink, but what about last call? I might prefer to coordinate with that.”

  “Come twice.”

  Nick grinned. “I can do that.”

  “Good.”

  They parted and Nick continued down the village path. Coming around a bend, he had a view of the morning’s refugees hunkered down in a field, tucked against a rocky outcropping that gave little protection from the midday sun. In the church, he’d heard people commenting that the bus to take them to the detention center in the island’s main town had broken down, so they were destined to spend the night there.

  Back in his room, Nick removed the three plastic bags with the detonators from his daypack. Nothing about what remained of the smooth egg-shaped blobs, peppered with cigarette butts, was recognizable as the puckered Styrofoam they had once been. He pulled on rubber gloves, and with a scalpel from his forensic kit exhumed the cigarettes into three small piles and used tweezers to look through them. Some still had traces of lipstick; a couple, gold paper filters; the number of Greek versus foreign brands was roughly equal; and among foreign cigarettes, Marlboro was most prominent, which was true for the whole country. There was no discernible trend in brands or nationality over the eleven months, and nothing to suggest where the butts had originated, except for the obvious: one of the island’s many restaurants and bars frequented by tourists. He put the detonators bag into their plastic bags and slipped them into the dresser’s bottom drawer.

  He felt coated by cigarette breath and smelled his hands. They disgusted him. In the distance, the sun sparkled on the sea. He wanted to be in it. Grabbing his trunks, a change of clothes, and a towel, he went out the door. From guidebooks, he’d scoped out the best swimming spots. He looked at his map before driving out of the village to cross the headland.

  As he crested a hill, he saw the first refugees coming over it. They straggled up both sides of the road. He slowed, glancing at them, never immune to their fretful dark eyes. They had survived the channel, but what next? How far now to their final destination? Where would it even be?

  He wound down the other side of the hill. Discarded life jackets peppered the way. He reached a secluded cove and pulled over. Standing next to the car, he stripped and tossed his clothes into the back seat. He put on his trunks, and then slipped on his shoes leaving them untied. He walked clumsily over the pebble beach to the water, where he took them off and lined them up. He looked around to make sure no one was watching and buried the car key between them. In case someone stole the shoes, he arrayed stones in a way that would mark the key without being obvious. Seconds later, he was in the water, pulling himself deeper, seeking the chilly currents streaming south from the Black Sea through the narrow and deep channel. He stayed down as long as he could before kicking to the surface. Breaking into a steady crawl, he headed straight for Turkey’s shore.

  With every stroke, he felt the rancid smell of his childhood washing away. He’d grown up in a cloud of cigarette smoke. Around the house, his mother had scattered lumpish glass ashtrays big enough to hold a mountain of butts, and usually did before anyone thought to empty them. Sometimes his parents’ heads disappeared in smoke when they stood up in the living room. Chain-smoking killed his mother, though not from the usual cancer. When a burner wouldn’t light on their restaurant’s stove, she set aside her cigarette to check the problem. Nick, a year shy of being a teenager, walked into the kitchen carrying his new puppy, when a ball of flames whooshed up. His mother screamed Get out! Get out! and he turned to run. In that instant, the propane tank exploded, blowing apart the stove and launching the deep fryer across the room, hitting Nick squarely on the shoulders and dousing him with scalding oil that trickled down his back. That happened more than twenty years ago, and he still hadn’t forgiven his mother’s smoking. Not for his scars, but because he had loved her so much that he still missed her. He wanted an adult friendship with her that he would always be denied. Cigarettes had stolen that from him.

  Those were the thoughts beleaguering Nick as he pulled himself through the water, his strokes strong and steady, stopping only when he felt the currents streaming from the north grow colder and stronger, signaling an approaching storm. Ahead of him, Turkey didn’t seem that distant. A good strong swimmer could make it across the channel in decent weather. He imagined many lesser swimmers had drowned trying. From the Turkish side, the narrow channel made Europe so close, too tempting for any desperate person who could swim not to try. A channel so narrow that whole populations had been exchanged across it, yet wide enough to nurture enduring enmities. Glancing back, Nick wasn’t out as far as he thought. The channel was wider than it seemed. He wouldn’t necessarily count himself among those who could swim the distance, but out of desperation he would have tried. Fortunately he never had to. Life had not put him on that far shore looking west.

  He turned around and swam back.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  BACK IN HIS ROOM, NICK showered, splashed himself with talc, and decided that the burn on his forehead wasn’t worth another bandage. He dressed and carried a glass of wine to the terrace to catch the last of the sunset. The muggy breeze carried laughter and snippets of conversations up to him. He’d finished his wine and left to find dinner.

  The cobbled road pitched steeply downhill. Then, with a quick turn of a corner, he found himself on the wharf with its string of restaurants and tables pushed close to the water’s edge. Fishermen, balancing on their rocking boats, untangled nets and deftly repaired holes caused by the day’s catch. Restaurant owners tried to tempt Nick with I saved you a table by the water and Nobody has fresher fish! but he aimed for the dock, wanting to walk out it for the view back across the harbor of the whole village.

  Outside Vassoula’s Bar, Takis was serving ouzo to a trio of old guys flicking their worry beads. “Yeia sas,” he greeted them.

  “Yeia sas.”

  “If you’re looking for happy hour, you found it,” Takis said.

  “I thought I’d take a walk. I need some exercise.”

  “You look like you get plenty.”

  “Aftos einai Superman?” asked one of the old men. Is he Superman?

  The old guys chuckled, showing damaged teeth behind their nicotine-stained moustaches.

  “Eimai,” Nick confirmed. I am.

  Surprised he spoke some Greek, they insisted that he join them for an ouzo. “I guess you’ll have to take that walk later,” Takis said, and went to fetch another glass.

  Immediately Nick was bombarded with what had become a familiar litany of questions. Was he a Greek American? was always the first one, and they nodded knowingly when he said his father owned a restaurant in Baltimore. What good Greek American in Baltimore didn’t own a restaurant?

  “Eixei akoma lepta styn Ameriki?” one of them asked. Is there still money in America?

  “Not as much as before,” Nick told them. Though no one still believed that America’s streets were paved with gold, at least they weren’t paved with worthless money; and in those old guys’ lifetimes, they had seen the streets paved with two types of money—drachmas and euros—and only the second had ever sparkled as bright as gold for a fleeting moment.

  Takis returned with glasses, a bottle of ouzo, and a heaping plate of fried anchovies that he slid onto the table. “These are from my sister. The ouzo is on me.” He filled two glasses and handed one to Nick. “I thought I would join you for a shot before the hordes arrive.”

  “Hordes?” Nick asked skeptically. Inside the bar was empty.

  “It gets busy enough. Styn eyeia mas!” Takis lifted his glass.

  To our health! they all repeated and drank.

  Vassoula appeared in the doorway, and they toasted her health as well—though there appeared to be n
othing unhealthy about her. The old guys couldn’t ogle her enough, their wives having grown as square as boxes, while there was definitely nothing square about Vassoula’s curves. She paid no attention to them, instead fixing her raven eyes on Nick. “I thought Superman might need some nourishment,” she said, meaning the anchovies.

  Nick, wishing his new nickname would disappear as easily as it had been bestowed, tipped his glass in her direction. “Efharisto,” he thanked her.

  “Tipota.” Vassoula slipped onto her stool by the door and lit a cigarette. Sometime during the day, she had put on fishnet stockings, and crossed her long legs in a move that went unremarked but not unnoticed.

  Night fell fast, and when it did, customers started showing up. Takis went inside to help, and left the ouzo bottle behind, which Nick and the old guys managed to polish off while downing two more platefuls of the small fish. When the conversation lagged, Nick signaled Takis for the bill. The men refused to let him pay for anything, going so far as to clutch his arm to stop him from reaching for his money while shoving bills in Takis’s direction.

  He refused their money. “It’s all on the house tonight.”

  The old guys, happy they had offered but didn’t have to pay, drifted off.

  The bar had filled up, and Nick commented, “You were right about the hordes.”

  “Yeah, I’ll be busy for a while.”

  “I think I’ll take that walk now.”

  “How about a nightcap on your way back?”

  “I’ve reached my limit for one night.”

  “You look more fun than that.”

  “Than a half bottle of ouzo?”

  “I’ll be here if you change your mind. I’m here every night, unless someone gives me a good excuse to be somewhere else.”

  Vassoula, working the bar, watched him walk off. She knew her brother was attracted to Nick, spending money he didn’t have on a bottle of ouzo to impress him. How crudely had he propositioned him? she wondered. What did men say to each other when it was all about sex to start with? Would Nick be interested? She didn’t think so. He reminded her too much of Omar, his tan skin as brown, his hair as sandy, his beard as trim. He walked like him, too. A man’s walk. She only had to watch him move to know Takis had guessed wrong. She could tell, too, how a man made love by how he moved, and especially how he danced. She definitely wanted to dance with Nick.

  He pulled up his collar and zipped up his jacket. The weather had deteriorated quickly. Lydia had already closed her restaurant for the night. He glanced up the drive between it and the Coast Guard station, wide enough for small trucks, which was the only access to the fuel tank. He could see it looming in the night, but only gave it a passing glance, not wanting to appear too interested in it. He didn’t want to give himself away to whoever’s eyes might be watching along the shadowy wharf.

  He climbed the narrow steps to the long dock. A roughening sea crashed into it, but along its protected side, boats were tied up, mostly excursion crafts and rowboats, and a few yachts seeking refuge in the stormy night. Midway along, a sleek black yacht had docked. Birch Runner was painted on its stern and its gangplank had been raised. Some light escaped from inside, as did the voices of two men arguing. Nick noted its flag indicating a Monaco registration before continuing to the dock’s end where a commercial trawler had tied up. In the light cast by its swinging bare bulbs, swarthy men in stained undershirts culled the day’s catch. More than one caught his eye, but none friendly, and Nick retraced his steps. By the time he passed the sleek yacht again, its lights had been extinguished.

  A full amber moon appeared balanced on the castle’s tallest turret. Along the wharf, everything had closed except Vassoula’s Bar, which had grown rowdier. Her smoky laughter reached him over the water. At the drive between the Coast Guard station and Lydia’s place, he saw no one around, and decided to take a closer look at the fuel tank. He darted behind the buildings.

  The tank was even more imposing in the moonlight than during the day. A platform, roughly at eye level, and constructed with massive crossbeams, held a black metal drum looming some twenty feet high. Attached to its front, a long hose, wound around a reel, was secured with a heavy padlock. It was sturdy; not a structure easily set aflame by a few cigarettes stuck in Styrofoam, and Nick wondered how the arsonist planned to deal with that challenge. He smelled petrol, strong enough to suggest a leak, and stepped behind it to investigate.

  While there, he decided to answer nature’s call, and was in midstream pissing when the back door to Vassoula’s Bar opened. The noise of the crowd momentarily burst outside. He heard steps approaching and zipped up. Whoever it was passed close to the fuel tank and knocked lightly on Captain Tsounis’s window. Curious who had a secret rendezvous with the handsome captain, Nick took a step to peek out, accidentally crunching a stone.

  Vassoula, eyes flashing in the moonlight, whirled around looking for a spy.

  The door opened to flickering candlelight. With a last searching glance, she slipped inside.

  The captain, bare chested, closed the door behind her.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE BUZZING OUTSIDE THE HOUSE steered Shirley’s dreams to Zanzibar, where she had spent some shameless weeks in her decadent youth traveling like young Aussies did back then: for so many months that they ran into years. It was too far and too expensive to go anywhere for a shorter period of time. At least that was her excuse for staying away, when the truth was she simply wanted to travel. With that era of traveling coinciding with free love, Shirley slept her way from Melbourne to Vourvoulos along a zigzag route that dipped to the Spice Island—where blue plastic bags, snagged in trees, buzzed in the steady wind outside her beach shack. She associated the sound with afternoon trysts; and that morning, hearing buzzing, she was dreaming of a lover’s touch before the sound grew menacing and woke her with a start.

  Chainsaws.

  Outside, men were cutting up the beauties.

  She reached for Lukas. He was gone. Of course he was gone. No doubt he held one of the chainsaws. He was that kind of man. He would take on the hardest tasks without a whimper, yet tear up over some sentimental commercial on the telly.

  Dingo, on the floor, groaned, dropped his chin onto his legs, and shivered for good measure. “Oh Dingo! Don’t be so dramatic!”

  “Mum!” Lydia appeared in the doorway. “I came when I heard the chainsaws.”

  “Good morning, precious.”

  “You must be really upset if you are calling me precious.”

  “I was dreaming about Zanzibar.”

  “Of course you were. You only have dirty dreams.”

  “You make them sound dirty because you’ve never experienced so much passion.”

  “So much or so many?”

  “Have you ever made love in a bed filled with blue plastic bags?”

  “No, Mum, I haven’t. I didn’t know that you had.”

  “Well, you don’t know real passion until you’ve done that.”

  “Do they have to be blue?”

  “Oh, you know what I mean, and that’s all I’m going to say about it!” Shirley tossed aside her covers and went into the WC. Dingo tried to follow, and she pushed him out by his snout.

  “Come here, Dingo,” Lydia said, but the anxious dog stayed put, pressing his nose to the closed door.

  From the window, she watched the cloud of sawdust grow over the men. They’d been at it since daybreak, trimming off the limbs, slicing the beauties into rounds, and then halving those so people could manage to carry them away. Word had been spread that Lukas would be giving away the wood, and already a half dozen guys were loading pickups.

  The toilet flushed and Shirley emerged.

  Lydia said, “Dad must be so upset.”

  “He hasn’t said a word.”

  “That’s when he’s most upset.”

  “After forty-five years, I know how to interpret your father, and yes, he is upset. If you talk about it, I’ll start crying, too.”

>   “Oh, Mum.”

  “Don’t ‘oh, Mum’ me or I really will cry. Now what shall I wear today?” Shirley searched her closet, sliding hangers back and forth and rummaging through untidy piles of clothes, finally whirling around to display a green satin blouse paired with even shinier leopard pants. “What do you think?”

  “It’s a little over the top for daytime, don’t you think?”

  “Good. Over the top is the only way I can bear today.”

  “That won’t surprise anybody.”

  “I am also going to ignore anything unpleasant that you say.”

  “Well, I do have some bad news.”

  “Can it wait until I’m dressed? I’ll be all prickly without my shower.”

  “Of course it can wait. I wouldn’t want you to be all prickly.”

  Shirley inched her nightgown over her head, revealing a sagging belly and defeated breasts, and the stretch marks from being a mother four times over. On the spot Lydia redoubled her commitment to exercise, though she knew she couldn’t ward off gravity’s pull. She sought to see beauty in her mother’s aging body, but instead begrudged its window onto her own future.

  “It smells like your dad made coffee,” Shirley said, and closed the bathroom door. A moment later the shower was running.

  Lydia went into the kitchen. Sipping coffee, she watched more men arrive to start their saws and cart away a stash of wood. It was only wood, she had to remind herself, and not the real beauties, though the whole scene was unfolding with the drama of a mass murder.