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Fire on the Island

Page 12

by Timothy Jay Smith

“Metric tons? That is heavy.”

  “You sound like an expert.”

  “Nick Damigos,” he said, and stuck out his hand. “I only know what I’ve witnessed. Do you mind if I go up and take a closer look? I might be able to give you some ideas about how to keep it from getting worse.”

  The priest didn’t want to stop the crack from getting worse. That was apparent by how his expression froze. “I wish I could accept your offer, but you must ask the mayor for permission. He has declared the tower off-limits.”

  “He’s not here. We don’t have to tell him.”

  “I couldn’t take the responsibility. What if it fell down while you are up there?”

  “I don’t blame you. It’s a big responsibility. In America, we’d call that tower an accident waiting for a lawyer.”

  “In America, who would be responsible for repairing it?”

  Nick grinned. “I’m not taking sides in local politics. But I’ll miss hearing the bell if you can’t ring it again before I leave. Though I suppose I will hear others. There is never a shortage of churches on a Greek island. The church isn’t off-limits, too, is it?”

  “Not until the mayor appoints himself God and locks up His own house. Until then, you are welcome inside.”

  “Could I ask you to show me your famous icon?”

  The priest paled. “Our famous icon? Do you mean the Crowned Madonna?”

  “Her roving eyes are mentioned in all the guidebooks.”

  “Certainly,” Father Alexis replied, feigning an easy hospitality. He didn’t like the idea of a stranger sniffing around his forgeries.

  “Is now okay?” Nick asked.

  They entered the church. At that hour, through small openings in the dome, a half dozen pencil-thin shafts of sunlight landed on the famous icon, suspending her in a cloud of light that rendered her jeweled crown bedazzling. “She’s incredible!” Nick exclaimed.

  Father Alexis beamed proudly. “She is glorious, isn’t she?”

  Nick approached the icon for a closer look. He stopped midway, took a step to the left, a couple to the right—and laughed. “Her eyes do follow you!” He closed in on the image, watching her watch him, until he stopped right below her, forcing the Madonna to look cross-eyed down at him. “She’s mesmerizing,” he said. With his nose almost pressed to the iconostasis, Nick smelled fresh paint, and noticed a shiny patch on the icon’s frame. The image, too, was shinier than he would have expected for a centuries-old painting. Perhaps Father Alexis had recently cleaned it, touching up the frame at the same time. He sidestepped the votive rack of oil lamps to get a better look, and trounced on Koufos’s foot, which had slipped out of the cubbyhole where the deaf boy had fallen asleep.

  The boy, lurching up, cracked his head hard as he scrambled into view. He touched his forehead and saw that he was bleeding. Making strangled yelping sounds, he turned every which way looking for an escape.

  The priest blocked the entrance.

  Nick stood between him and a side door.

  Koufos’s only way out was through the vestry. He ran into it and out its other door.

  Nick sprinted after him, but stopped at the outside door; the kid was too quick. Turning around, he was face to face with a second Crowned Madonna. It was such a good copy that he glanced back into the church to make sure that the original icon hadn’t somehow miraculously transported itself to the easel.

  Father Alexis swooped in, all aflutter, putting himself between Nick and the icon. “You shouldn’t bother with that child. He’s a terrible boy.”

  “Is that a copy?”

  “Is what a copy?”

  “The painting you’re standing in front of.”

  “Oh.” The priest stepped aside.

  “Did you paint it?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s good.”

  “Do you think so?” Father Alexis couldn’t help but beam a little.

  “It’s as good as the original. You’ve even managed to make it look old.”

  “We are trained how to do that at the seminary.”

  “To copy icons?”

  “To age their repairs.”

  “Painting a new icon to look old, that’s definitely a skill. You should sell them.”

  “I do.”

  “Really?”

  “It pays better than selling postcards.”

  “So how much for this beauty?”

  “I’m afraid it is already sold.”

  “For how much?”

  “The good copies are very expensive.”

  “For work as good as this, they should be expensive. So how much?”

  Nick waited expectantly, putting the priest on the spot. When he finally quoted a price, he said, “Really? Is that all? You should be getting three times that.”

  “You think so?”

  “I don’t think so, I know so.” Nick pulled out his wallet. “In fact, you’re getting three times that now.”

  “I can’t sell you—”

  “Sure you can. Paint your other buyer another one. Here, this seals the deal.” Nick piled all the bills in his wallet on the vestry table. “I’ll have more for you tomorrow.”

  “Truly, I cannot sell it to you.”

  Nick smiled. “Truly, you can, because you just did.”

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  RIDI FLOSSED HIS TEETH. IT was something he’d learned to do in Greece. Growing up, he had never heard about it; the first time he did was when a customer at the restaurant suggested he might want to do it to save his teeth. He had asked the American woman—it turned out, she was a dentist—to write down “floss” and later watched a YouTube video to learn how to use it. The last time he went to the pharmacy to buy it, he’d thrown in a packet of Trojans as well, since they were hanging next to the register and he could do it as nonchalantly as buying gum.

  The floss was being used, but not yet the Trojans. He had only one girl in mind when he bought them, and he still did: Athina. Now his chances with her were nil. What was he thinking when he allowed Vassoula to seduce him? Not counting the woman his father had bought him for an hour on his eighteenth birthday, Ridi had only been with one girl before, a sweet girl from his village. They had a short fling right before he left, which awakened him to the pleasures of sex, and now he couldn’t stop daydreaming about making love with Athina. How could he have been so foolish with Vassoula!

  He reread his list of that day’s vocabulary words stuck on the mirror: shameful, aberration, forgiveness, faithful, and forever. He’d come up with them the night before while fleeing the scene of his offense, bouncing on his scooter along the rough road home and constructing what he’d say to Athina the next day. His lists of vocabulary words from prior days surrounded the mirror. Unlike his countrymen who reminisced about a fairytale life back home, Ridi never planned to go back home where the only true opportunity was to leave.

  “Aberration,” he practiced saying. “I make a shameful aberration.”

  Would Athina ever forgive him? She wouldn’t, Ridi fretted, and lathered up his cheeks. Scraping a dull razor across them, he vowed to win her back, and was ready with a short speech when he showed up at the restaurant an hour later. No one was around, and despite the salacious acts that had taken place the night before, nothing was different except how he felt about being there. He was ashamed of himself, at every moment expecting accusations—even stones—to be hurled at him. Instead, it was only a normal, muted morning, with a clique of old men at Vassoula’s flipping worry beads while discussing politics, and down the wharf Stavros clutched fish in both hands doing one of his invented dances.

  The young waiter unlocked the linen cupboard and was spreading out tablecloths when Athina came around the corner. Ignoring him, she headed straight for the steps to the kitchen.

  “Athina,” he said.

  She stopped with her back to him. “Never say my name again. It sounds vulgar coming from your mouth.”

  “Athina, please—”

  She whipped around. “
Do you understand ‘never’? Or haven’t you learned that word yet?”

  “I did something I never supposed it to happen.”

  “You ‘never supposed it to happen’? I didn’t supposed it to happen either. None of it. Not any of it.”

  She stepped onto the porch.

  “Athina.”

  She paused, keeping her back to him. “I said never say my name again.”

  “Your name will be on my last breath,” he said.

  The girl’s legs trembled so much she could barely unlock the door. Ridi had spoken poetry to her when she felt so unworthy, so dirty. In truth, neither of them had done anything more reproachable than the other, but only she knew what she had done. She wondered if Ridi would be so poetic if he knew; and suddenly, she realized that she might have lost more than her virginity. She might have lost him when she had been losing herself to the same lustful urges. Athina was on the verge of forgiving him when she stepped into the kitchen. The memory came rushing back of his feet sticking out from behind the counter with Vassoula straddling him. It reinforced her determination. He deserved no forgiveness. He had set into motion her actions with his one misdeed.

  She took a flat of eggs from the cooler and poured oil into a frying pan. Everything was so normal except inside herself. Only she could know how different she felt. How hollow. She couldn’t claim her virginity to be stolen when she had given it away, but she felt cheated nevertheless.

  By the time the oil was sizzling, Athina was crying and didn’t hear Ridi come inside. He coughed and she whirled around. “I don’t want to speak to you. I only came to make myself breakfast.”

  “Then only listen,” he said. “Last night I make a shameful aberration. I never, after we marry, touch another woman. I promise.”

  “Are you crazy?” He was so earnest, so sweet, so unaware of the shame that churned inside her—shame Athina blamed him for, but was hers nevertheless. “Who said I would marry you?”

  “It’s my impossible dream.”

  “It’s impossible now, that’s for sure. Why did you do it? Why?”

  She threw an egg and hit him in the chest.

  “Is she so sexy that you had to do it with her?”

  She hit him with another egg.

  “You couldn’t resist her?”

  Another egg.

  “Like some horrible animal?”

  Sobbing, Athina threw eggs until they were all gone and Ridi was dipping with goop. “I hate you!” she screamed.

  At that moment, Apostolis stepped into the tiny kitchen.

  Lydia was right behind him. “He’s not going to get away with it,” she assured Athina.

  “With what?”

  Apostolis, pulling out handcuffs, asked Ridi, “What is your family name?”

  “Aslani,” he replied, baffled and alarmed.

  “Ridi Aslani, you are under arrest for rape.”

  “Oh my God!” Athina cried. “I never said it was Ridi!” In fact, she had never said who it was. Between crying fits, she had only spoken of a “he” who had done it to her.

  “Then who was it?” Lydia demanded.

  Suddenly Athina realized what she had set into motion. Her mother had put the word “rape” into her mouth, and she appropriated it, wanting maximum sympathy for her own regretful choice. She had meant it in the abstract. Of course there was the reality of the sex act, but in that she had been a willing participant, even a greedy one until remorse caught up with her. If the priest had been a more satisfactory lover, she would have a very different take on what had transpired; she admitted that to herself. Her romantic notions had been raped, not her body, and she couldn’t let Ridi go to jail for that. Nor could she bring undeserved shame to Father Alexis. It may have been ultimately a loathsome undertaking, but she had run to him, and in her heart, she knew for more than succor. Wanting to hurt Ridi, she had seduced the priest, and for that she was guilty.

  “If it wasn’t Ridi, who raped you?” Lydia demanded again.

  Everyone stared at her waiting for her answer.

  “I wasn’t raped!” Athina finally cried and bolted outside. She ran around the building to their apartment’s front door. So many times she had been an actress in her own drama, sobbing and flinging herself melodramatically across the bed; but that day, by the time she reached her bedroom door, Athina was no longer a little girl imitating soap operas. Sobbing she might have been, but for a woman’s shame, not a child’s hurt; shame, like Mary’s, too humiliating to confess what she had really done. Nor could she recklessly blame the priest when the blame was shared; and if she did blame him, it would be too embarrassing that everyone would learn that her first time had been with Father Alexis. Village priests were the fantasy of thickening middle-aged women, not pretty young virgins. Athina wanted to howl over her lost status.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  IF HE DOESN’T GET HERE soon, he’ll miss the sunset altogether,” Shirley said, watching the sun inch toward the horizon.

  “There’s another sunset tomorrow,” Lukas grumbled, slumped at the table. He’d spent a second day sawing up his beauties and hauling away debris.

  “I know there will be another sunset tomorrow, but we invited him to watch tonight’s sunset.” Shirley searched a cupboard. “Now where did I put those special ouzo glasses?”

  “He’s a writer, not the prime minister. Just use the regular ones.”

  “He’s the man who saved Dingo’s life, that’s who he is. I want to treat him a little special.”

  “He won’t even notice.”

  “There they are.” Shirley retrieved two of the slender glasses and set them on a tray, alongside a glass for her wine, and put some olives in a bowl.

  A car pulled up outside and cut its motor.

  “Why don’t you go meet him?” she suggested. “And take Dingo with you. He probably needs to squirt.”

  “If he’ll leave your side.” Lukas pushed his chair back. “Come on, Dingo.”

  The dog stayed put, trembling.

  “Go on,” Shirley urged. “Get!”

  Reluctantly the dog followed Lukas to the door. He hadn’t eaten since the fire and his skinny ribs were showing more than usual. She had cut up steak for him that still sat untouched in his bowl. She was worried about Lukas, too. He was weary. Bone weary and soul weary. She’d caught him once, thinking he was alone, standing between the stumps where his beauties had once soared, letting tears run down his face as pickups carted them away in pieces.

  Dingo bounded back into the kitchen, scampering ahead of the men, his hindquarters wagging as he ran between Shirley and Nick. “I think he likes you,” she said. “That’s the most energetic he’s been since the fire. Now if he would only eat. He won’t touch anything, not even fresh steak.” They all glanced at the dog’s bowl and watched a fly trot across the raw meat.

  Nick picked the bowl up and held it out to the dog. “Come here, Dingo. Come on, boy. Eat your food.”

  The dog lifted his snout, nose quivering. He would have nothing to do with it.

  “I know a trick,” Nick said, and went back outside. He returned seconds later pinching ashes between his fingers. He sprinkled them over the meat, sparingly, as if lightly salting it. “Come here, boy. Come on, Dingo. Eat your food.”

  “Go on,” Shirley urged the dog.

  Dingo approached his bowl suspiciously.

  “Go on.”

  The dog sniffed the food. Tested it. Took an exploratory bite. Another followed, and another, until the hungry animal had bolted it all down and skid the bowl across the floor as he licked it clean.

  “Goodness! Let me give him some more.” Shirley opened the refrigerator. “How did you know to do that?”

  “It’s how I got my dog to eat.”

  “After a fire?”

  “Yeah. After a fire.”

  “Can you fix his sense of smell, too?” Shirley wanted to know. “He won’t have anything to do with truffles, and he’s a truffle dog. He’s been trained to find them
.”

  Exasperated, Lukas picked up the drink tray. “Enough about the damn dog! As I recall, the man has come to see the sunset, not fix Dingo’s sense of smell. Let’s have an ouzo on the terrace before it’s sunrise we’re waiting for!”

  “Sounds good to me,” Nick said, and followed him outside.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  LYDIA SIGHED OUTSIDE HER DAUGHTER’S door. She hesitated knocking. She had checked on the girl a couple of times during the day and tried to get her to talk. “I need to think, Mom,” was all she would reply. Lydia wasn’t so sure. She had read somewhere that adolescents, after experiencing a traumatic event, were capable of thinking too much and hurting themselves. She worried that Athina might be that despondent.

  She sighed again, debating if she should knock or not, when from inside the room Athina shouted, “You can come in.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I said so, didn’t I?”

  Lydia went into the room, and shuddered, seeing her daughter on the bed in a nightgown, hands crossed on her chest as if waiting for last rites. “I didn’t want to wake you up.”

  “Then quit sighing so loud outside my door.”

  “I’m your mother. I’m allowed to sigh when I’m worried about you. May I sit down?” Lydia scooted onto the edge of the mattress. “I’m not going to ask again what happened, but it’s over. You need to put it behind you and go on from here, and not dwell on it.”

  “Don’t make it sound like I’m going to kill myself.”

  “Sometimes people do foolish things for all sorts of reasons.”

  “There’d be no point in killing myself. I’ve already done something worse.”

  “I don’t know if hearing that is a relief or not.”

  “Mom, I wasn’t raped. I had sex, but I wasn’t raped.”

  “Why are you protecting that boy?”

  “I am not protecting Ridi. He didn’t touch me. How many times do I have to tell you that it wasn’t him?”

  “Until you tell me who it was.”

  “I can’t. I just can’t. But it wasn’t very nice.”

  Lydia caressed her daughter’s forehead. “I’m sorry, sweetie.”

  “You shouldn’t touch me. He made me feel so dirty afterward.”

 

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