He shut the drawer on the old beads and rummaged through other drawers, making his way around the circle of cabinets, skimming letters and diaries that were mostly indecipherable except for the commonplace reports about school attendance, crops, and weather. Amongst them were records of sardine catches going back decades that still smelled faintly fishy. Yellowing photographs of the church’s ancient bell tower proved that its destruction was indeed an unfortunate loss when compared to the present-day eyesore.
One drawer held a trove of photos and newspaper clippings about the village’s most heralded celebration, the Miss Icon Contest, originally an ancient fertility festival that early Christians had subverted to celebrate Mary’s virginity. Over the centuries, it had evolved into a quasi-beauty contest. In it, young women, portraying saints depicted in familiar icons, paraded on boats past the sea side of the harbor’s long dock, along which the villagers crowded to choose the winner with their applause; who in turn was supposed to toss a copy of her icon into the sea for the village boys to compete to retrieve. Only unmarried young women and eligible bachelors participated. Notionally, with the blessing of the saint, the winning boy and girl might marry. Nick knew how competitive—indeed, even murderous—beauty contests could be in the States, and wondered if the arsonist’s hatred of the village had somehow been fueled by it. Had a winning boy been scorned? Had a winning girl been pressured into a bad marriage? Had someone blamed his or her ruined life on the popular procession and, by extension, the village itself?
For the moment, Nick had no clue, and closed the contest’s file drawer when the mayor came down the spiral stairs carrying coffees on a tray. He relieved the older man of the tray and immediately noticed the string of black beads looped around a spoon. “Did they come from Melbourne?” he asked.
“No. Someone left them hanging on the front doorknob.”
“Did you touch them?”
“Again, no.” The mayor lifted them with the spoon. “I have learned many tricks from your American movies.”
“I’m glad you’re working on our side. Tell me,” Nick said, and pulled open the drawer filled with the old ornate beads. “Why are these here?”
“Those are tesbih. Turkish worry beads. I’ll show you.”
It was the mayor’s turn to rummage in the drawers and hand Nick a couple of photographs, grainy and yellowed with age. One showed families in a line to board a boat, wearing fine clothes if they had them, the others garbed in loose peasant pants, robes, and head-scarves. The scene was somber—no smiles or hearty farewells—and the men dangled worry beads from their fingers. As they stepped onto the gangplank, apparently they had dropped them on a pile, which the second photograph captured in a close-up.
“The Turks wanted to leave their worries behind,” the mayor explained, “or maybe give them to the Greeks who’d be replacing them on the island. Of course, when they reached Turkey, they had new worries, and I suppose they bought new beads.”
Nick also used the spoon to dangle the black beads between them. “These are the first black ones, right?”
“Yes.”
“It’s a message. The game is over. No more orange or pink beads. The arsonist plans to strike, and sooner rather than later. That’s why he left them on the doorknob. There isn’t enough time for a letter to arrive from Australia.” Nick dropped the beads into an evidence bag. “Do you see how the fuse just got shorter?”
◆ ◆ ◆
RIDI HAD ACTED WEIRD ALL morning. Of course Athina understood that he was upset—who wouldn’t be?—by the boat capsizing and five men drowning. When she suggested he should focus on the fact that he was a hero for saving the girl, his expression darkened. “I’m no hero,” he said.
“To her you are.”
“Especially not to her.” He abruptly walked away.
Athina couldn’t know what bothered him. She had guesses. Maybe the girl’s husband had been one of the drowned men, and Ridi blamed himself, as if he could have been the second Superman to show up in a week and save them all. What did it really matter? He was sad to his soul when instead he should be so proud of himself. He was a hero. More and more she realized he was a man worth loving.
She paused at the churchyard gate and plopped her shoulder bag on the short wall. She had to catch her breath, not only for the steep trek up the hill, but because she was soon to come face-to-face with Father Alexis for the first time since the incident. The incident. How else to describe it? Mutual seduction is what she finally told herself had happened, though that wasn’t entirely accurate either. They never vied for who would make the first move. She had. She had brought his hungry lips to her bare shoulder.
Three girls arrived at the gate at the same time. “Hi Athina!” they all said.
“Hi.”
“Are you going inside?”
“I’m waiting for Viki, but Sofia and Vangelia are already here.”
Father Alexis had called a meeting of the Miss Icon contestants to go over last-minute details for tomorrow’s procession. Athina didn’t want to attend. She never wanted to see the priest again, and had to hold off panic attacks every time she thought of him. What was there to go over? Everyone had seen the procession a zillion times. She didn’t want to be disqualified, though, for not showing up at the official planning meeting, and Father Alexis might be looking for any reason to disqualify her. He was weird enough to do something like that. Her confusion over how much responsibility for their mutual seduction to assign to the priest—or for that matter, how much blame Ridi should share, since his own seduction sent her running to Father Alexis in the first place—left her debating whether her expression should be contrite or combative when she entered the church. Her only definite sentiment was disgust at all of them, herself included, for what they had each done.
Viki, her best friend, came up the path. Pert, with violet eyes, and a mass of black ringlets that Medusa would have envied, she asked, “Are you going in?”
“I didn’t want to go in alone.”
“Why, do you think Father Alexis will bite you?”
Athina paled. “Why would you say that?”
“It’s just an expression.” Viki peered at her curiously. “Are you okay? You look a little strange.”
“I wish we didn’t have to go. It’s such a waste of time.”
“I know. I haven’t finished my costume yet.”
“Me either,” Athina admitted.
“Who are you going to be?”
“I can’t tell you!”
“What’s the difference now? It’s too late to copy someone else’s costume.”
“It’s more fun when it’s a secret.”
“What’s more fun?” asked their friend Irini, arriving for the meeting.
“Keeping secrets,” Viki told her.
“I love keeping secrets!”
Athina rolled her eyes. “Sure. Just what you do all the time.”
“And I have a new one!”
“Like I said.”
“Let her talk,” Viki said, and asked Irini, “Who are you in love with now?”
“Father Alexis!”
“What?” cried Athina.
“I know he’s a priest, but he’s so cute!”
“Cute?”
“God, you should hear my mother go on about him!”
“Your mother is like thirty-something.”
“Forty-two, but who’s counting?”
“That’s so icky.”
“Why not? He’s just a regular guy underneath his robe.” Viki giggled. “I didn’t mean it quite like that sounded.”
Athina thought she might burst into tears, though her friends’ remarks reminded her that she had once thought Father Alexis cute enough to flirt with him; innocently, of course, never consciously intending to take it as far as it went; or maybe she had, in the way that the subconscious works, creating incidents and reconciling them before they happen. Maybe the priest hadn’t been so bad. Maybe all first times have an element of disappointm
ent. “Maybe sometimes he’s cute,” she halfheartedly admitted.
“Well, I’ve decided he is all the time,” Irini declared.
They followed her into the church. The streaming light, passing through the stained glass windows, colorfully played across the iconostasis, where Father Alexis stood surrounded by a dazzling pantheon of holy figures. “Well, our malingerers have finally decided to come inside,” he said, and made a quick count. “Eight, so that’s everyone. Here, sit together.” He waved the girls into the wooden seats attached to the wall.
Athina avoided looking at the Crowned Madonna hanging over the priest, certain that her roving eyes would be filled with reproach. The more she made herself not look, the more she was tempted, and finally did. Sure enough, Mary was staring at her, but not in rebuke. Her eyes were tender and sympathetic, urging the girl not to be so hard on herself. She almost imagined the Madonna’s lips curling at the priest, which made Athina glance at him as well. She caught him watching her, and realized that he dreaded their encounter as much as she did, worried what she might reveal. Athina didn’t know how yet, but she was going to use his uneasiness to her advantage.
The wooden seats squeaked as they sat down. It was no surprise who was competing in the procession. Only their costumes remained a secret, and even those were less relevant than their fundamental popularity in the village; and, of course, their beauty. In that regard, Irini was Athina’s only serious competitor. Viki was the cutest of them, but she couldn’t really be called beautiful, though people were shallow enough to vote for cuteness over beauty, especially if she had a really knockout costume. But she wouldn’t. It wasn’t Viki’s style, and none of the other girls stood a chance. Certainly not Sofia, competing for her third year, who spent her days pushing an empty baby carriage through the village hoping for a husband to help her fill it; nor Elefteria with a hooked nose and hairy mole on her cheek, so witchy-looking that the local boys let it be known at last year’s procession that they wouldn’t retrieve her icon if she won, fearing they might be coerced into marrying her; nor Vangelia, sadly cross-eyed, and such an inept cook that she managed to burn spaghetti noodles for the only potential suitor her father had ever tempted to their house. None of those was likely to pull off a surprise win despite coming from big, noisy families who always screamed their lungs out as their floats passed.
When all the girls were seated, Father Alexis clasped his hands and asked, “Shall we start with a short prayer?”
No one responded.
“Well, I am not surprised. Praying is not very popular among teenagers.”
“Sofia’s not a teenager,” Irini reminded him. “She’s already twenty.”
“That’s a good point,” Viki piped up. “Isn’t there some kind of age limit for being in the contest?”
“There’s not exactly an age limit,” the priest replied. “Contestants must be unmarried women, that’s the only requirement.”
“And virgins. Isn’t that required, too?” asked Sofia.
“Well, I suppose that’s implied by not being married.”
“Probably one or two of us should be tested,” Sofia went on, “and that doesn’t include me.”
“That must be sad at your age,” Irini said.
“Now girls, I know this is a competition, but that does not justify being unpleasant,” Father Alexis chided them. “We simply must have faith that everybody obeys the few rules that there are. So, about the procession tomorrow. Who has a question?”
No one stirred.
“Somebody must have a question. Or two?”
“I have two questions,” Athina announced.
“Good! And for going first, I’ll let you ask both.”
“Okay, only the first one has two parts. Why are we at this meeting if we don’t have any questions, and who would rather be home working on her costume instead?”
Every girl’s arm shot up except Irini’s.
“And my second question is—”
“That was already two questions,” Irini interrupted her. “Now it’s my turn to ask a question.”
“I explained that my first question had two parts.”
“You can call it ‘two parts’ if you want, but it was still two questions.”
“Let Irini ask her question,” Father Alexis said.
“Can I go last in the procession?” Irini asked.
“No, you can’t,” Athina answered for the priest.
“Why not?”
“Because that was my next question.”
The girls turned to the priest for justice. He was still trying to understand why they were vying for last place in the parade, but they had it all worked out: whoever went last had the best shot at the wow factor if her costume was truly special. Everything else that came before would suddenly pale by comparison, and the crowd liked being blown away at the end. Irini, racing to be last in the lineup, must have something very special planned. That unnerved Athina, who up to that minute was confident her costume would be the best, and certainly the most provocative. Obviously her friend was equally confident. “I think Irini should be in first place,” she suggested.
“I didn’t ask to go first!”
“You’re the most beautiful, everybody knows it, and for sure people will stay to see you again when sometimes they go home after the first pass.”
Irini looked at her as if she were crazy. “Nobody goes home early! You’re such a phony liar!”
Athina met the priest’s eye. “I was raised to always tell the truth. To. Any. Question. About anything.”
Father Alexis didn’t miss her subtle blackmail. “Do you swear that your second question was to ask to go last?”
“I swear.”
“Then I must honor it.”
“Are you kidding?” Irini protested. “She gets to go last?”
“Isn’t going first better?” the priest wanted to know.
“No!” Irini cried.
“Then where do you want to be? Second? Third? Next to last?”
“First, of course!”
“I thought you said you didn’t want to be first?”
“Only if I can’t be last,” Irini said, and let out a disbelieving breath. How clueless could he be? “Otherwise, you’re just in the middle.”
“Jesus was in the middle at the last supper, and who do you always see first?” Viki said teasingly. “And you haven’t seen my costume yet!”
“Well, I’m glad that’s settled,” the priest said, with a withering smile in Athina’s direction. “Any more questions? No? Then be ready to launch just before sunset.”
Irini stormed out followed by the others. Only Viki held back waiting for Athina. “Are you coming?”
“You go ahead. I want to talk to Father Alexis about something.”
“About what?”
“It’s church stuff, so it’s private.”
“Church stuff? You?”
“Yes, me.”
“You’re weird.” Viki left to catch up with the others.
Father Alexis, suddenly alone with Athina, looked uneasy. She was becoming a troublesome girl. “Well, I thought that went pretty well,” he said. “You got the place in the procession that you wanted. That should make you happy.”
“Don’t you think that we should talk about what happened?”
“About what happened?”
“Yes. About what happened. Isn’t it a little not okay that we did it in the church?” Again Athina saw no reproach in Mary’s eyes; instead, they seemed to have grown bigger, clearer, cautioning.
Father Alexis said, “Often confession can bring peace of mind. I will hear yours, if you want.”
“Confession?”
“God always forgives you. You only need to ask.”
“I wasn’t exactly thinking what happened was a sin. It was something natural, too, but if it was a sin, shouldn’t we confess together?”
“Together?”
“We both did what we did. It’s not like you didn’t partici
pate.”
Neither did Father Alexis feel especially sinful for what he had done. He had allowed himself to be seduced by a number of parishioners in each of his lousy villages, always older women wanting something closer to a religious experience than their husbands were providing, and all wanting to keep their rendezvous as secret as he did. Never had he had such a nubile girl, indeed a virgin he realized after the deed. She had been his first virgin, and if he had known, he might have tried to make it more special; but he reminded himself, she had chosen the spot, drawing him atop her on the floor. He felt no remorse for the deed itself but only for defiling the church with their unsanctioned lust, and forcing the Crowned Madonna to witness them from her perch over the altar. Though frankly, the more he’d thought about it, the more he didn’t feel especially responsible. “I think you came to the church that night with an intention,” he said.
“With an intention?”
“You came looking for me.”
Athina stared blankly at him, until it dawned on her what he meant. “You mean, to have sex with you?”
“You wouldn’t be the first woman to think of her priest in those terms.”
“Is that your confession?”
“Confession is a private matter. I have cleared my conscience through prayer.”
“Well, for the confessional record, I did not come to church that night to seduce you. I had just seen something horrible and upsetting and I wanted to pray that it wasn’t true. I prayed for time to go backward. Or maybe I just needed a place where I could cry. I don’t know exactly what I wanted, or needed, but it wasn’t sex with you.”
Or was it, she had to wonder, as payback for what she had just witnessed between Ridi and Vassoula? Did she want to hurt Ridi, or was it an excuse to indulge her own lusts? She’d been giving the priest some benefit of the doubt, until he had the nerve to blame her alone for what ultimately took place. As if she had forced him!
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