He hated everything about the refinery: its stinking petroleum, its ruinous hulk on the beach, its thuggish workers—his father among them—with grit under their nails and blackheads on their necks. It was a life he couldn’t wait to escape, which is exactly what he was thinking when he flashed his pass at the guard and walked past the trashcan with the reminder Keep your butts out of here!
He headed for the noisy dock thick with fumes where his father hooked up and unhooked oil tankers. He’d worn the same orange outfit and hardhat for as long as the boy could remember. Seeing him approach, his father hollered for someone to take over what he was doing, and motioned for the boy to join him in the glass booth that served as his boss’s office.
In it, the outside noises of equipment were muffled. Manolis shook the boss’s hand. His father got straight to the point, reminding them that he was dying, with six months to live at best—and he looked it, his eyes already sunken, his cheeks sallow. His biggest worry was not having provided well enough for the family, which would have been a different matter if he had twenty more years; but he didn’t, and that meant everybody had to sacrifice something. He knew what he had to say didn’t fit into Manolis’s hopes for going to the university, but the boy was just going to have to forget those plans. They were impractical anyway. Who had money for the university? His boss had agreed to hire Manolis. They’d be working side-by-side, father and son, and eventually when he became too sick to work, Manolis would take his job. That way he could provide for his mother. Maybe they’d even learn to like each other, his father added with a cocky grin, as if all the spiteful words they’d exchanged could be forgotten with one smile.
The two men had worked it out. They would make it easy for him and themselves. His father would get off the hook for checking out early and not providing better. His mother would be taken care of. Manolis would be guaranteed a job and the boss would inherit a trained worker. It was a good deal all the way around, but what did the boy think? His father knew exactly the sacrifices being asked of him and worried that his son’s response would jeopardize his careful construct for providing for his family once he was gone.
“When do I start?” Manolis inquired, and watched relief settle on his old man’s face.
The boss answered, “We’ve got a man out sick. You might as well come in with your dad tomorrow morning.”
“Thanks.”
Young Manolis walked out of the hut without saying a word. Seething inside, he wanted to throw a tantrum equal to any his father had ever thrown. He hated the man for laying on him a dying wish that he could only fulfill by abandoning his own ambitions: wanting a job that didn’t make him smell like an exhaust pipe, and an education that, if his parents couldn’t afford, he would make happen himself. It was a selfish last request by a working-class brute who never believed in his son. The boy’s dreams and plans were dismissible.
Fuck him. Fuck the rules. Fuck everything. He wanted a cigarette and lit up, took a puff, took a second one and coughed. It tasted like an ashtray: like lung cancer, like their living room with its permanent cloud of tobacco smoke. Disgusted with himself for taking up his father’s filthy habit, he tossed what he vowed to be his last cigarette into a trashcan, and plodded on past equipment sheds and holding tanks. He had reached the refinery’s exit before the siren went off. He looked back, and seconds later, he heard an explosion powerful enough to rumble the earth and send flames high into the sky.
Manolis didn’t stop running until he reached home. His mother was in the yard watching the roiling acrid smoke rise over the refinery. She grabbed him, and held him so tight it hurt, her own body heaving in relief that he was alive, and also heaving for what she feared to be a dead husband with only poverty as her inheritance. Investigators never determined the cause of the fire, surmising a random spark had ignited a buildup of fumes; and Manolis could attest that the fumes had been strong on the dock that day. He also knew with certainty that his last cigarette had set the trashcan on fire, sending windborne sparks back along the dock where the explosion occurred.
Had he intended to kill his father? He never thought so, not consciously. Subconsciously, anger plotted its own way. He had been reckless to toss aside a lit cigarette. He was a young, impressionable boy, sensitive and passionate, and ultimately to his father, nothing that distinguished him mattered. He had bequeathed his son a sense of expendability without living long enough to retract it.
It angered Father Alexis every time he thought about how a kid could be so dismissed; and, before that, so ignored. By the time he reached the top of the bell tower, he was furious again with his father. He picked up the sledgehammer ready to hit anything. Moments later, he heard the PA system crackle to life a second time, and braced himself in the window. As soon as the mayor started to repeat his message, the priest swung at the wall below him until some stucco gave way. With another couple of heavy blows overhead, he dislodged a large chunk that whizzed past his head filling his mouth with dust.
The priest ran down the steps to collect his booty.
◆ ◆ ◆
ATHINA DECIDED THAT SHE WOULD deliver the sad girl’s plea for Ridi’s help and then never speak to him again. She felt deceived; he’d lied when he claimed not to know the girl well. All this time, he’d had a girlfriend back home, and now she happened to be up the road in the clinic’s bed recovering from the miscarriage of his son! That couldn’t have been a coincidence. They must have had a plan. He was waiting on the beach for her. No wonder he had acted so weird all day, trying to keep that secret inside.
Coming up the wharf, she could see there were no early customers at her mother’s restaurant. In anticipation of a busy evening (the eve of the Miss Icon Contest always was), Ridi had spread fresh blue cloths on all the tables, and in the center of each, placed small bouquets of flowers in pickling jars. Proudly surveying them, as might a real proprietor, he smiled as the girl walked up.
“I am not talking to you,” Athina said, brushing past him.
His smile evaporated. “What did I do?”
“I said that I am not talking to you.”
“But what did I do?”
Athina stopped in her tracks, sighed heavenward, and faced him. “I suppose I need to speak to you one last time, and then I never will again.”
“Then I hope it is a long conversation.”
“How can you make jokes at a time like this?”
“It’s my nervous way.”
“When were you going to tell me that you have a girlfriend?”
“What girlfriend?”
“The girl in the clinic.”
“You went to see Jura?”
“So you admit it. She’s your girlfriend.”
“She’s not.”
“She says you’re married.”
“We are not married!”
“Then why does she call you her husband?”
“She is crazy!”
“Was she pregnant with your child?”
“She says yes because she trick me!”
“You don’t believe her?”
“Maybe I believe her.”
“And you left her when she was pregnant in Albania?”
“I didn’t know. I only learn about the baby today.”
“But you knew it was possible?”
He shook his head emphatically. “No! I thought it is impossible!”
“It’s never impossible,” Athina told him, disappointed that he was trying to wiggle out of his responsibility.
“I make my best to make impossible,” he said, and told her about the extra-thick condoms that unfortunately had been easily pricked by Jura’s needle.
“She really tricked you?”
“Yes.”
“This morning, you weren’t waiting for her on the beach?”
“No! I was finding stones for you.”
“Stones for me?”
“For your crown.” He dug into his pocket to show her a palm full of smooth pebbles. He fingered them, poin
ting out, “This is a ruby. An emerald. These are diamonds. I have so many diamonds!”
“They even look like diamonds.”
“Diamonds are easy to find, but not lapis. Look.” Ridi reached into another pocket for two chips colored deep blue.
“They’re beautiful,” Athina said. “They even look real. But I’m sorry, I can’t wear your crown.”
“Why you can’t wear my crown?”
“Not until you help Jura. You can’t abandon her.”
“I don’t bring her here.”
“It was still your stuff that got her pregnant.”
“Because she tricked me!”
The young man had heartbreak written all over his face. She felt so badly for him, and even sadder for herself. “I take back not talking to you, but I can’t take it back about not wearing the crown. Not yet. Not until you help Jura.”
“Help her how?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“It sounds like another trick.”
“I’m not trying to trick you. Now I better go to work.” Athina took a couple of steps before adding, “The flowers on the tables are pretty.”
“Thank you.”
“Though my mom won’t like the fact that you used her pickling jars.”
“She will like the more business.”
“You’re right,” she replied, and touched his arm. “I’m sorry about the baby. I’m sure that’s sad news, even if you didn’t know about it.”
“It’s been a sad day,” he replied.
◆ ◆ ◆
THAT SETTLES THAT, LYDIA THOUGHT, stepping back from the balcony’s rail. The young lovebirds’ relationship was over before it started. He already had a girlfriend, and he’d already gotten her pregnant. Even her daughter wouldn’t see a future in that history.
Lydia was not an habitual eavesdropper. She had been watching for her daughter, continuing to worry about the consequences—psychological or otherwise—of her mysterious seduction. She was still determined to identify the male culprit, though now she was confident that it had not been Ridi. Theirs had not been a conversation between a horrible, hairy despoiler and his victim, but between two young people faltering in their efforts to fall in love. It was sad for them, but better in the long run. She was proud of Athina for handling it so maturely by reminding the boy of his responsibility toward the recovering girl.
From down the wharf she heard a hoot. Stavros, with a flower behind an ear, was dancing again, rocking his boat and brandishing a fish in each hand. “Pa-la-MEE-da!” he sang, the black bonitos glistening in the sun. “Pa-la-MEE-da! The last of the season!” Seeing Lydia on her balcony, he called, “You want my palamida today?”
Yes, she did, and shouted back, “Ten kilos!”
“I save you my best! Pa-la-MEE-da!” he sang again. “Swimming in my hands! Pa-la-MEE-da!”
Already the women in earshot of Stavros’s song were showing up—the older ones hitching up knee-high stockings, the younger exposing less-wrinkled bosoms, each wanting her daily dose of the errant fisherman. As he picked out fish, he tossed some aside, and caught Lydia’s eye letting her know they were for her. He still knew how to seduce. He had caught her eye eighteen years earlier, which launched their mad affair. Soon to be betrothed to Lefteris, she wanted her taste of the fisherman before he was off-limits. It lasted a short while, not even a month; she couldn’t have kept it secret much longer. She had used every ruse she could to find short hours with him, and one whole glorious afternoon on Bird Island with only seagulls to witness their frolicking in the open air. She never seriously considered leaving Lefteris for him—Stavros’s ways were already too wayward for a husband—but for those brief weeks, the fisherman made her heart sing.
Waywardness was not her worry with Ridi, regardless of whoever the girl in the clinic turned out to be. In all the important ways, he seemed as steady as Lefteris, and she could wish for nothing more in a man for her daughter. It was their hardscrabble life that she wanted to keep Athina from repeating; the meager days when the fish weren’t running or the tourists weren’t coming or the weather forced her to close early. One economic crisis atop another had left them struggling. She wanted her daughter to have more security and didn’t believe a poor Albanian boy could provide it.
She didn’t have to fret so much about that now. It turned out that the young waiter had a female preoccupation other than Athina, and by the time that all got sorted out, her daughter would be on to a new boy, hopefully less seriously inclined than Ridi. She wanted Athina to get away from the island, not marry too quickly—get at least a lick of life if not a full taste. Ridi wasn’t a bad boy. In fact, the opposite: he was a nice young man who took initiative. Lydia hoped it worked out for him and his eventual other girlfriend. She liked his ideas, too. The flowers on the tables were a nice touch, and he had made an effort to clasp the tablecloths extra tight so they looked especially crisp. He was right, she’d be glad for “the more business” if her filched pickling jars drew in extra customers. Hopefully the stiff winds on the other side of the island would cooperate and stay over there.
A couple of customers had shown up at the restaurant while Lydia was loitering upstairs. She decided to go down, and gave Stavros a last glance before she did. He seemed to have been waiting for her to look, and plucked the flower from behind his ear to offer it to her. He definitely still knew how to seduce. Smiling for the first time that day, she left the balcony.
◆ ◆ ◆
KOUFOS HAD NEVER WORN UNDERWEAR.
He had seen it. On mannequins. Riding high on a man’s waist. Poking out, sometimes, when a man missed zipping up all the way.
Meticulously, he inserted the boxers into the mustard pants spread on the ruined house’s floor, leaving a half inch of its elastic waistband showing. He got goose bumps from the satisfaction of having collected a man’s complete outfit. Stripping off his threadbare rags, he retrieved the boxers and slipped on that day’s trophy. He admired the puckered elastic clinging to his flat belly and snapped it a couple of times.
Slowly he donned everything else.
Pants.
Undershirt.
Shirt.
Socks.
All with a trace scent of the rosemary plants he had spread them on to dry.
Then he put on his other trophy for the day: dry shoes.
When Koufos finished, he had no way to see himself. There was no piece of mirror or anything shiny enough for a reflection. He stuck out his arms to see his wrists encircled by the shirtsleeves and stared at his feet to see his cuffs dangling almost to his ankles—and smiled. He had never worn such fine clothes before. Slipping on the dead man’s ring, he left the ruined house dressed for dinner.
◆ ◆ ◆
AFTER HIS MEETING WITH THE Coast Guard captain, Nick took a table at Lydia’s Kitchen close to the water’s edge. The chilly winds from the other side of the island had yet to shift around the point, though the bright fishing boats bobbed and creaked in the impinging sea. It was a lively crowd strolling along the wharf, excited with anticipation of tomorrow’s procession. Next door, he watched Takis tend bar. Nick didn’t want to admit that Captain Tsounis was right: the young waiter was a far likelier suspect than some farfetched ghost story about Omar. For that matter, so was Father Alexis, but it was Takis who most interested Nick. Prime suspect or not, his attraction was real. He wanted to be Takis’s lover, not accuser.
Lydia brought him a glass, a bottle of house white, and a plate of anchovies. “It’s on me and say thanks, not that I shouldn’t have.”
“Thanks.”
“That’s better. Are you working on your novel?”
“I’m working on the backstory of one of my characters.”
“Is she based on me?”
“It’s a guy, but maybe I can make him partly you. A piece of you here, another piece there, pretty soon there’s a lot of Lydia in Louie.”
“Is that how writers make up their characters?”
“A
ll the time.”
“Thanks, but I think I’d rather keep all my pieces intact.”
She walked off, and he poured himself a glass of wine before reaching into his daypack for his phone. He smelled cigarette ashes, and looked around to move an offending ashtray, when he realized the smell was coming from the dud detonator that he had forgotten to take out and leave in his room. He zipped his pack closed and encrypted a new message:
SUBJ: OZTURK Omar. Turkish national. Married Vassoula VATIS. Mutilated by skinheads approx two years ago. Presumed suicide. Body never found. Request any information.
He sent the message, and settled back to sip his wine when Shirley arrived with Dingo prancing ahead of her. She had a new international entourage in tow. They settled at a table, and when Shirley spied Nick sitting by himself, she sent the dog over to lick his hand to convince him to join them. He did, contributing his anchovies and wine to the table. Their glasses never stayed empty as Shirley presided over her chatty friends.
Then one by one, the crowd began to grow very quiet.
“You can’t imagine what I was thinking!” Shirley exclaimed, wrapping up a story, and stopped as she heard herself over the spreading silence. She looked around. “Is that the deaf boy?” she asked.
Koufos had practiced that moment. If he had known the word debut, he would have owned it that evening. He had grown up an observer—and mimicker—and rehearsed how every footstep, tip of his head, or turn of his wrist should be made. Though to Koufos, as playacted as it might be, the moment was not theatre to him. That night was a rite of passage he had chosen for himself.
Ridi waved him into a seat. When Koufos realized people were staring at him, he flashed everyone a goofy grin. For tourists, that was enough entertainment and their conversations sputtered back to life. The locals, though, knew how extraordinary it was for Koufos to be all dressed up and at a table. They couldn’t stop staring at him.
Fire on the Island Page 22