Fire on the Island

by Timothy Jay Smith

  Vassoula pressed her lips to the brandy glass, leaving a lipsticked impression of a kiss. She set it in front of Nick. “Vassoula does more than talk. You write about Vassoula, and everyone will read your book.”

  Walking away, her whole body wanted his attention.

  “Who’s Vassoula?” he called after her.

  She threw her head back with a throaty laugh.

  Careful not to smudge the lipstick, Nick sipped the brandy—it was the best produced in Greece—and made a final check of his messages before the lights dimmed fatally. The generator was running out of gas. Takis announced he was closing and the young pinballer grumbled that he hadn’t finished his game. The power notched down again, and the machine finished it for him by sounding its tilt alarm. Takis unplugged it. “Closing time,” he said. “Generator’s dying.”

  The Russian, leaving a wad of money on the bar, grabbed his bottle of vodka and told the pinballer to follow him. Takis locked up the money and came over to Nick’s table. “Do you want a bath?” he asked.

  “A bath?”

  “I know one big enough to share.”

  “You mean, you and me?”

  “That would be the idea.”

  Nick’s stomach knotted. Usually he liked to build toward intimacy, something akin to a first date, or at least a conversation that let him mention the burn scars on his back. “I didn’t bring a towel,” he said.

  “You won’t need one.”

  Nick shrugged. “Why not?” Knocking back his brandy, he said to Vassoula, “Thanks for the Seven Stars. It was definitely better than the ouzo.”

  She stubbed out her cigarette. “I’ll stay open, if you want something more.”

  Takis opened the door, bringing rain in with the wind. Nick followed him outside.

  “Be careful when he offers to wash your back!” Vassoula called after him.

  Her contemptuous laughter trailed them into the squally night.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  RIDI MOPPED THE FLOOR A second time when it hadn’t needed it the first. They had cooked little that night, and nothing spilled. He kept mulling over what Lydia had said about Athina’s many boyfriends. How naïve he had been to think that she had none. He had seen the boys, stupefied by hormones, come around to talk her up, never seeming to get anywhere. But her mother was right, girls had secrets, so maybe a lot was going on that Ridi hadn’t seen. He wasn’t immune to his own urges, and, when not conjuring fantasies of peeling off Vassoula’s stockings, he dreamed of kissing Athina’s soft, glossy lips. He wondered how many boyfriends had kissed them already, or maybe gone further.

  Wringing out the sour-smelling mop, he worried that he smelled sour, too. And why wouldn’t he? What else should a lousy waiter swabbing floors smell like other than a mop? Suddenly he saw himself as others must have seen him: wretched. How could he possibly convince Athina to marry him? Yet convince her he must. He loved her too much to fail. He would make her a crown so glorious that she would instantly see how his love truly came from his heart, not from stupefying hormones.

  How to make the complicated crown Athina wanted? When she first mentioned it, Ridi imagined the cardboard hoop that his sister had worn to a costume party; certainly nothing as elaborate as the double-decker contraption in her pictures. He couldn’t imagine what he would use to create such a thing. Pots and pans because they were silver? Too heavy. Aluminum foil wrapped around cardboard? Too fragile. Then his eyes landed on a piece of Styrofoam sticking out of the trash can, and it gave him an idea.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  NEXT DOOR, VASSOULA WATCHED RIDI put the mop in a closet, and poured herself another brandy. She was in no rush to go home where only cats waited for her. The ubiquitous cats that infected Greece. She fed them because Omar had. Ultimately, only they had continued to look at him with the same devotion as before his mutilation. They actually became affectionate—the mangier the cat, the sweeter—as if they could empathize with his outcast appearance. Vassoula had cast him out, too, though she’d tried hard not to. Some villagers shunned him, and shopkeepers went so far as to ask him not to come inside because he frightened customers. Omar stopped coming to their own restaurant for the same reason: he couldn’t afford to scare off customers.

  Vassoula simply couldn’t look at him. His gaping cheeks revealed his teeth, and when he ate—she shuddered remembering how he ate. It was obscene, like watching the functions of an internal organ with a seepage problem.

  Omar had stepped off the bus one day in the village, and not long after, they became lovers. Eventually the village grew to despise him: the men whom Vassoula had spurned; the women, envious of her passionate love, stuck as they were with Greek husbands only concerned with their own quick pleasure; and especially Vassoula’s mother, who threw her out of the house for their sinful relationship, made all the more disreputable because he was a Turk. When the economy crashed and jobs became even scarcer, his detractors made sure that Omar was detained by convincing the authorities in the island’s capital that he was there illegally. They arrived one morning demanding that Apostolis detain him in the village’s one jail cell pending clarification of his residency status. The next morning Vassoula did her own dragging, forcing the then-priest out of bed, making it clear that she’d have his balls if he refused to marry them on the spot. Suddenly Omar was destined to be a citizen and Apostolis felt obliged to free him.

  Freed to be mutilated.

  Vassoula poured herself another brandy.

  After Omar disappeared, she was immediately deemed a widow even though it would take years for him to be officially declared dead. Still, she was used goods, especially sullied by her consort with a Turk. She’d never marry again—who would want her?—but that didn’t stop the village guys from coming around almost demanding that she service them. Despite her own hounding desires, she refused to spread her legs for local germs. The Coast Guard captain didn’t count as local—he had been stationed there “temporarily” for three years— and besides, he kept her generator running with free fuel. Vassoula needed a man, and it was convenient to have a decent one next door.

  She sipped her brandy and thought how she hated the fucking cats meowing and rubbing her legs, pretending they loved her when they only wanted food, their humorless eyes barely concealing their willingness to scratch her for a taste of blood. She didn’t want to go home, but what else to do on a stormy night when her Coast Guardsman wasn’t there to relieve her essential emptiness; instead, he was cruising the channel on a rescue mission for refugees desperate enough to attempt their crossing that night. And crossing for what? Vassoula wondered. Xenophobia was a Greek word. A loathing of strangers. Hadn’t Omar proven that?

  Outside, she noticed Ridi rummaging through the communal trash bin. She liked to tease him; it embarrassed him, which made him seem a decent guy, and he wasn’t a local. He closed the bin, and went back inside carrying pieces of Styrofoam. Vassoula wondered what he could be doing. She decided to find out and blew out the candles scattered around the bar.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  RIDI COMPARED THE PIECES OF Styrofoam spread on the counter to the close-ups of the crown in the photographs Athina had sent him. No simple tiara for her but an architectural masterpiece. He wouldn’t let it daunt him. He was determined to make as exact a copy as possible. That’s how he would win her heart. He started by cutting a circle out of the thickest square of Styrofoam and tested how it fit on his head. It was snug, which was good—he could always make it bigger. He glanced at his reflection in the window to see his square white crown in the same instant that Vassoula peered inside. He cried out and jumped back.

  She let herself in. “I’m sorry if I frightened you.”

  Ridi’s heart was pounding. “Is something wrong?”

  “I saw a candle burning and wanted to make sure it hadn’t been forgotten. It looks like I managed to blow it out.” Vassoula produced a lighter, and flicked it. “I’ll relight it.”

  “Don’t bother,” he replied, and took
the square of plastic off his head. “I am finished for tonight.”

  She touched the pieces of Styrofoam on the counter. “What are you doing?”

  “I have a project to make.”

  “You ‘have a project to make.’ You have such a quaint way of speaking Greek.”

  “Quaint?”

  “Cute. You’re cute, too.”

  Ridi blushed.

  “I embarrass you, don’t I?”

  “No!”

  “What kind of project are you making?”

  “A crown.”

  “A crown?”

  “For Athina.”

  “Is she a queen?”

  “She will be!”

  “Why, is she marrying a king?”

  “No! In the contest for icons.”

  “Well, it’s appropriate that she wants a crown. She’s been a little princess all her life.” Vassoula, bending over his phone to look at the picture of the Crowned Madonna, revealed breasts barely concealed by her silky dress. “You’re copying this crown?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s another ironic choice for her.”

  “What is ‘ironic’?” Ridi asked.

  “For Athina to portray a virgin. At this point, that would be harder than her marrying a king. She’s beautiful enough, but no king would want her. She has had too many princes already.”

  “Princes?”

  “Boyfriends.”

  “Too many boyfriends?” Ridi cringed. So it was true.

  “She is almost never without one.”

  Lydia hadn’t exaggerated!

  “Why? Don’t tell me that you have fallen in love with her, too?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Stop now, because there’s not a heart she won’t break. And if you can’t stop yourself, you need to be ready for tough competition.”

  “Competition?”

  “Lots of boyfriends. You have been with women before, yes?”

  “So many times,” Ridi lied. He’d been with one.

  “So you know how to make love to a woman?”

  “I make it natural.”

  “Natural is one thing, but special is something else. Women like it special.”

  “Special?”

  “Not like an animal. Like a lover. It’s what every woman wants. I will give you one lesson.”

  “One lesson?”

  Clutching his belt, she pulled him closer. “I bet you have never kissed before.”

  “Of course I kiss before!”

  “Not if you have never kissed Vassoula.”

  Her lips closed on his, and it was true: he never had kissed like that. It had never been such an exchange, as deep and satisfying as sex itself, which he couldn’t help but want at that moment. She knew it and touched him. “You come with Vassoula. I give you another lesson.” She led him behind a counter.

  “Here?” he asked, letting himself be pulled to the floor.

  “Yes, here.”

  “No people can see us?”

  “No people can see us.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “It’s a short lesson,” she answered, already opening his belt.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  ATHINA LAY IN BED WIDE awake. She wasn’t sure what was needling her the most. Fantasies about Father Alexis’s stubbly beard? Concerns that Ridi was cold with only tablecloths for blankets? Or her parents contented snoring: Papa Bear in the bedroom and Mama Bear on the couch in front of the telly? She vowed for the millionth time never to end up like them, snoring instead of making love like couples really in love would never stop doing. If marriage meant giving up passion, she was never getting married. Admittedly she didn’t have much experience in the lovemaking department, having gone all the way only with herself, which she was trying to do again at that moment to help put herself to sleep, but even that wasn’t working. Bored and unsatisfied, she got out of bed and pulled on her jeans.

  Then Athina wasn’t sure what to do. She couldn’t watch television with her mother collapsed on the couch in front of it, and a gust of wind against the window reminded her of how cold it was outside. Ridi, she worried for the umpteenth time, must be freezing! Her parents snorted in stereo, which made her almost crazy. She decided to take Ridi a blanket and rolled up the one on her bed still warm from her body.

  She slipped into the hall. The lights in the living room seemed as bright as searchlights. Athina wrapped the blanket around her shoulders to pretend to be cold herself in case Lydia woke up; otherwise, her mother would instantly suspect what she was doing. Why should she have to sneak off in the first place when all she wanted to do was something nice for someone? Her mother didn’t like Ridi because he was Albanian, as if that wasn’t a stupid reason not to like someone.

  Lydia snorted and woke herself up. “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “It’s cold. I thought you might want a blanket.”

  “Brrrr. It is cold.”

  “Here.” Athina tucked the blanket around her.

  “Why are you suddenly so nice?”

  “I’m always nice. You just don’t notice. Do you want me to turn the telly off since you’re not watching it?”

  “No, it’s like white noise.”

  “You’re weird.”

  Athina locked herself in the WC. She leaned against the door, and counted, “One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight . . .” At fifty, she flushed the toilet, and continued counting. “Forty-nine, forty-eight, forty-seven . . .” until she reached zero and opened the door.

  Her mother, nestled in the blanket, murmured contentedly, the light from the television flickering across her sleeping face. The girl took another blanket from the hall closet and tiptoed out the front door.

  Moonlight haunted the deserted port. The power was still out and so were Ridi’s candles. He must have gone to sleep. She couldn’t really expect him to work on her crown all night. She was touched that he would make it at all. He really loved her, she could tell; all his mooning wasn’t only show to get into her panties. No other guys had ever made anything for her except rude noises when trying to be funny.

  She tiptoed up to the restaurant’s kitchen door. Peering in, she saw Ridi’s feet poking out behind the counter, and felt sorry for him stretched out on the cold tiles. He would be grateful to find the blanket spread over him. Soundlessly, she slipped inside and stepped closer to the counter. His shoes, pointed up, were jiggling, and he was making weird sleeping sounds. Athina had to stop herself from laughing before she rounded the counter and saw what was happening. Vassoula was astride Ridi, his pants bunched at his ankles. Athina’s body twisted in anguished disbelief as a pained bleating sound escaped her.

  Vassoula glanced around and shot her a venomous smile.

  Ridi tried to push her off him. “Athina?”

  She was already out the door, running down the wharf, hearing Vassoula’s laughter all the way to the end of it, where she tripped and scraped her hands. She picked herself up, pounding up the path to get as far away from that vile scene as possible. Only the exertion quenched her sobs. Panting hard, she reached the lofty church, its walls and bell tower milky with moonlight. It was a sanctuary in the churning night, and if there was ever a time that Athina needed a sanctuary, this was it. For the first time in her life, she wanted to pray.

  Inside the church, oil lamps cast a dim smoky light that softened the Madonna’s roving eyes, making them sympathetic, a mother’s eyes—and Athina needed a mother’s comforting. Clenching her fists, standing akimbo in front of the icon, she cried inconsolable tears.

  In the vestry, Father Alexis heard noises coming from the church and frowned. He assumed it was Koufos back to steal more mints and went out to chase the deaf boy away.

  Instead he discovered Athina.

  Watching from the shadows, her tormented body transfixed him. The source of her suffering he couldn’t know, though her abundant tears were proof of her faith that the Holy Mother could ease her distress. Surely he could help, too. “My
child,” he said, holding out his hands. “Let me comfort you.”

  “Oh, Father!” Athina cried, and threw herself into his arms.

  Briefly he worried about the germs her tears might be leaking down his neck, but her heaving chest against his thin cassock distracted him from an impulse to dig for his flask of sanitizer. Instead he used the embrace he’d perfected for lonely dowagers, giving consolation at elbow distance to forestall their evident desire for more intimacy, which only encouraged the girl to cling to him tighter. No one he had ever consoled needed to be hugged more than the despairing girl, yet where to put his hands, especially given his attraction to her—which at that moment was far from subsiding. “There there,” he cooed with a pat on her back; or rather, on her silky hair which fell to her waist. As her breathing calmed, she snuggled a little deeper into his shoulder, and he felt her breath on his neck—the sweet breath of youth, not sour dentures. “What has happened?” he asked.

  “It was the most horrible thing,” she told him, each word a puff on his skin, which sent tingles through him.

  “I am here, if you want to talk about it.”

  Athina reared back, causing her blouse to slip off her shoulder. “I never want to talk about it! I want to forget it!” she cried, and threw herself back into his arms.

  Now he was staring at a patch of her bare flesh and became more aroused. He tried to turn away so that she wouldn’t feel his erection; but the girl, whose own cravings abetted her distress, had noticed. She froze. He gripped her wrists and forced her away from him. It was then that he saw that her hands were badly scuffed. “You’re hurt.”

  “I fell down.”

  He couldn’t resist the impulse—the girl needed his attention—and he retrieved his sanitizer from his pocket. “This might sting,” he said. For the second time that day, he massaged her hands, and as he did, she looked at him adoringly, occasionally wincing. His eyes strayed to the icon over the girl’s shoulder. If he had noticed her resemblance to the Madonna that morning, it was even more striking in the night’s murky light. By the expressions on their faces, no two women had ever suffered more, except perhaps his mother. The resemblance to his mother, too, was amplified, especially in the girl’s rapt expression. It reminded him of a photograph of his mother at her first communion. His chest heaved at the instant recognition. Overwhelmed with emotion, he knelt before her.