Fire on the Island

by Timothy Jay Smith

  “Too big? It doesn’t feel too big.”

  “On the boat, it will fall off.”

  “I can hold onto it.”

  “Don’t move. I can fix it.”

  Returning to the cupboard, he proudly displayed some Styrofoam wedges he had prepared to solve that exact problem. “I fix in five minutes.”

  He took the crown from the girl and started to glue the wedges inside the rim. “What will you make all winter?” he asked.

  “You mean, what will I do? My mother wants me to ‘go see the world’ as she says, but all that means is going to see my cousins in Australia or my aunts in Germany. That’s not exactly seeing the world, especially since I’ve already been to both places. It’s all because she wants me to live the life that she wants, when I’m happy with my own life. I don’t need her dreams. Besides, I see enough of the world on the news to think that I don’t want to see much more of it.”

  “What if your mother closes the restaurant forever?”

  “Forever? Why would she do that?”

  “She makes no money.”

  “She says that, but I never know if I should take her seriously or not. She complains about a lot of stuff.”

  “I think she makes no money.”

  “Because you’ve made your calculations?” Athina teased him.

  “I have still more ideas for a restaurant.”

  “More than Cocktail Serenade? Or turning the storage room into a mini-restaurant?”

  “More.”

  “What good are your ideas if she closes?”

  “Ideas are good, if only to have them. If I have a restaurant, I make Jura the waitress. And Koufos, I make him be out front. Like an actor not a clown, but still people will laugh. I make that idea after I see him last night.”

  “You’re always thinking, aren’t you, Ridi? And you’re right. He’d be perfect. People would come because he’s an actor not a clown, and that would be so nice for him. That’s so sweet of you to think of both of them. It really is. What about me?”

  “I make you the boss!”

  “The boss?”

  “You make a good boss. Okay, I am finished.”

  Again he placed the crown on her head. It fit snugly and he stepped back to look at her. He could not imagine a more beautiful woman and the crown was worthy of her! To think how close he had come to smashing it.

  “I need to see it.” Athina gasped when she peered into a small mirror next to the door. “It’s so incredibly beautiful. After all the sad things that have happened, for you to make something so beautiful, it’s like a miracle!”

  Tears sprang to Ridi’s eyes, not only because of what she said, but for what he wanted to say, yet he hadn’t been sure how he was going to get there. She had given him the word miracle, so he used it saying, “I hope for a miracle, too.”

  “What miracle?”

  Too emotional to speak, Ridi pulled out his list of vocabulary words and tore off the last one. “This is my miracle,” he said, handing it to her.

  She read it. “Marry?”

  Ridi nodded.

  “You?”

  He nodded harder.

  “Me marry you?”

  He couldn’t hold back his tears any longer.

  “I love you, too,” she said, and they fell into each other’s arms.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  THE SEA COULD NOT HAVE been more azure, the clouds billowier, or the air fresher. It was a perfect day, not a day to be thinking about death and suicide, but that’s what Nick had on his mind as he wound along the narrow coastal road. The report had filled in details about the Takis Fire, but nothing that would suggest a link between it and the arsonist. The conclusion was accidental death. From where the bodies were found, the assumption was that Markos Vatis had opened the kitchen door smoking a cigarette and set off the explosion. The whole house was immediately engulfed with flames. A gas leak from a spare bottle was blamed. The bottle itself had not exploded; thus, presumably, it had emptied itself but the gas had not dissipated because the shutters had been latched. Takis Vatis admitted to delivering the spare gas that afternoon and closing the shutters before he left for a walk. A second gas bottle, connected to the stove, exploded once the fire became melting hot, killing a Coast Guardsman and wounding two others fighting to contain it.

  Nick knew, of course, that Takis had not closed the shutters; instead his father had upon returning to the house. The two stories differed only on that one point—who closed the shutters—but something didn’t feel right. Mulling it over, he turned into the narrow valley, and soon found the correct turnout for the ruined house. He hoped Koufos was home. He was certain the deaf kid had seen the arsonist. He knew how the detonators had been lit—not like a birthday cake, but puffing on each cigarette to light it—and his body language, too, had started to change as he reenacted what he witnessed. He bet the kid could sign the arsonist’s arrest warrant with his imitation. Nick simply needed him to perform it.

  He got out of the car, taking with him a lunch he asked Lydia to prepare. She had cooked up a couple of the boy’s favorite things; he seemed to scarf down anything with cheese the fastest, so she included fried feta, along with some of the island’s ubiquitous sardines. Nick had asked her to arrange it nicely on a plate and cover it with plastic wrap so he could leave it for the boy. He also brought cutlery and a cloth napkin. Nick wanted to send a message: the boy’s own message had been received. He could stop being a hermit and join other people; if indeed that had been his message, conscious or not, of taking himself out to dinner the night before.

  Nick climbed the hill along a relatively easy path compared to the strenuous zigzag he’d climbed up the terraces the first time to reach the ruined house. In the hard-packed yard, he stopped to catch his breath. He was about to shout Hello! until he reminded himself that Koufos couldn’t hear him. He thought about picking up a stick and tapping the ground. Maybe, like a snake, the boy would feel the vibration.

  He looked inside the ruined house. The boy wasn’t there though his special clothes were: the pearly buttoned red shirt, mustard pants, socks—and Nick’s boxers—all neatly arranged on the floor. Nick put the lunch plate on the floor beside them. He laid out the folded napkin, then slipped the handle of the fork into one shirt cuff and the knife into the other.

  He went back outside. Certain the boy was watching him from somewhere, he wanted to communicate with him, but how? Were gestures innately understood or did they require language first to make them comprehensible? Were outstretched arms always regarded as an embrace? Was a roll of the shoulders a question or signal of disinterest? All he could do was try.

  Cocking his head, Nick spread his upright palms as if asking a question.

  He curled his fingers to reel the boy in.

  And tapped his heart.

  He repeated the gestures.

  What do you want?

  Come to us.

  We will love you.

  He did it in all four directions. If the deaf boy was watching, even if he didn’t understand, at least he would realize that Nick was trying to communicate.

  He walked down the hill to his car. His phone beeped as he was getting in. He had two messages from headquarters.

  SUBJ: AZAROV Vladimir. Owner of yacht Birch Runner. Former CEO of RussOil. Retired. No known criminal connections. Frequents Greece. Art collector and major donor to Hermitage Museum.

  Vladimir Azarov might not have known criminal connections, but Nick suspected that he was a crook himself. It was too coincidental that an art collector who frequents Greece happened to be in Vourvoulos just as Father Alexis was finishing his forgery of the Crowned Madonna. Nick shot back a message asking to check with the harbormasters in Patmos and Skyros if the Russian had frequently docked there. If he had, it would suggest he and the priest had been in cahoots for a long time.

  Then he checked his second message.

  SUBJ: OZTURK Omar. Turkish national, confirmed. Married VATIS Vassoula, Greek national. No
more information available.

  Nick started his car.

  No more information available.

  That pretty well summed up what clues he had to go on.

  And it was the first day of a new month.

  D Day.

  He was certain of it.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  ATHINA COULD BARELY CONTAIN HERSELF. Inside she was churning with emotions. She had told Ridi that she loved him, but did she? She assumed what she felt was true love. It certainly felt more profound than anything she had ever felt for another boy—or man, she supposed she should call him, if he was going to be her husband. Boy or man, she had never fallen for such a decent guy, which was partly how she would justify herself to her mother, who was going to have a fit! “Oh God, he’s Albanian!” the girl worried aloud. She was only beginning to sort out the full impact of what she had done.

  She didn’t have time to think about that now. Her mother had refused to help with her costume, saying she still didn’t approve of portraying Mary as a pregnant hooker, missing her point entirely about reinterpreting Mary as a metaphor for male fecklessness. She should have stuck it to Joseph instead of blaming the inconvenient result of their premarital sex on God; and worse, forever being worshipped for letting the guy off the hook! If Joseph had been forced to admit his responsibility, it would have changed the course of history. Women would be more respected and sex less sullied. She knew her message was obscure, and was counting on shock value to win the contest so she would have an opportunity to explain herself.

  She pulled on her patterned stockings and donned the stomach pouch made plump with a pillow to appear unmistakenly pregnant. Over everything, she draped bed sheets dyed teal blue. Originally, she had planned to wear a nun’s habit to conceal her secret costume, but when her grandmother suggested the crown, it became obvious that she should portray the Crowned Madonna in the village’s church. Her teal robe was as much a signature of the icon as was her jeweled headdress. Athina had no doubt that she would be instantly recognized.

  Tilting her head in the mirror, she adopted Mary’s bored expression, and pressed her teddy bear to a breast. She wished she had the crown to wear, too, but Ridi planned to take it directly to the launch site. She had one last matter to attend to before she joined him. On her way out the door, she retrieved from a printer an especially incriminating photo of the priest switching the icons earlier that day.

  She left the apartment and climbed the steep deserted paths to reach the church. She needed a copy of the Crowned Madonna to throw into the sea if she won and the priest’s forgery would be perfect. The crowd, believing it to be the original, would be further amazed by her audacity, and even more amazed when they leaned about his deceitfulness.

  The gate squeaked when she opened it. She froze in place expecting Father Alexis to appear. When he didn’t, she slipped inside the church.

  An old woman stood before the altar praying to the Crowned Madonna. Obviously Athina couldn’t snatch what she presumed to be the copy of the icon until the woman left, and her inconsolable weeping suggested that wouldn’t be any time soon. Athina, risking being late for the procession, had no choice but to opt for the icon in the vestry. She slipped back outside and ran around the church to the vestry door. She listened, heard nothing and tapped lightly on it.

  No response.

  She knocked a little louder. Again no response.

  She tested the door. It opened, and she peered inside.

  Father Alexis was not there.

  “Hello?” Athina said anyway and stepped into the room. “Hello?”

  The room smelled sour from the many thick robes tinged with incense and sweat that hung on a long open rack. She heard water running, and moaning, and concluded it must be the priest singing a weird chant in the shower. It creeped her out that there was a maze of rooms off the vestry where he lived; she imagined them musty, smelling like his robes, and grimy without much light.

  Propped on an easel was the Crowned Madonna. Her roving eyes watched Athina approach. The girl couldn’t make out the Holy Mother’s mood; her eyes seemed suspicious, as if wondering what Athina might be up to next. But when she stopped, she thought she saw a smile in the Madonna’s conspiratorial eyes. Do it! they urged her. Grab me!

  Athina did.

  She picked up the icon by its sticky gold frame.

  “Ick,” she said, looking at her smeared palms, and wiped them on one of the priest’s robes.

  The shower stopped running and she needed to act fast. Recalling that it hadn’t taken the priest very long to switch the icons, she checked the back of the frame, and saw it was easy. Turning four bent nails, the painting fell right out. She propped the frame back on its stand.

  Now she had a new problem. She couldn’t run all the way to the port with the icon in one hand and her teddy bear in the other, especially with a bouncing pillow at her waist. She decided to leave the bear behind and situated it in the gold frame. Under its arms, she snuggled the picture of the priest switching icons, and had to stifle a laugh imagining Father Alexis’s face when he saw it. Then tucking the icon under her costume of teal robes, she flung open the door and fled.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  IT WAS HIS THIRD SHOWER that day and Father Alexis still did not feel clean. Following Athina’s humiliating confession the day before, the guilt that he had successfully repressed about their misconduct in the church returned to consume him. It wasn’t about the sex itself that he felt sinful. He had certainly counseled enough women that it was a natural act, and personally proved the point on enough occasions. No, his guilt lay in the fact that they had done it in front of the Holy Mother. He had given her no choice but to watch the whole base act, and because she so resembled his mother, he felt especially dirty.

  The priest groaned a last time before turning off the shower and snatching his flask of Sporell off the counter. In a self-loathing rage, he smeared his body with it, stopping only when he heard a loud bang. Had someone slammed the vestry door? He tiptoed down the short hall to peek into it. No one was there but the outside door was open. In a couple of steps, he closed it. Turning around, he instantly noticed that the icon was missing. In its frame was a teddy bear holding a note! He assumed the Russian had stolen the painting and seethed at the man’s duplicity. What miserable excuse had he penned in a note? But when Father Alexis stepped closer, he saw it was no note at all, but a photograph of himself switching the icons!

  In that single image, he saw the undoing of all his careful plans. He’d be revealed to the world as a forger, likely excommunicated and jailed, and never a hope of rescuing his mother from her hellish situation—all because he had offended the Crowned Madonna with his indiscretion. She was punishing him! Heedless of being naked, he burst into the church, startling the weeping old woman, who screamed when she saw him running toward her and fled as fast as her rickety legs allowed. Oblivious to her, the priest dropped to his knees, repeatedly crossing himself and begging for the Madonna’s forgiveness.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  AS NICK CAME DOWN THE hill, he could see that the Russian’s yacht wasn’t docked at its usual spot along the dock. Once he reached the wharf, he saw that it had only been repositioned to that side of the harbor. Immediately he was suspicious that the Russian was going to take the Crowned Madonna while everyone was distracted by the procession, and having his boat on that side of the harbor would facilitate his getaway. He headed for the Coast Guard station to alert Captain Tsounis of the probable heist. Before going inside, he peeked around back and was relieved to see a guardsman dozing on a chair, ostensibly guarding the fuel tank.

  Captain Tsounis agreed to keep an eye on the Birch Runner and give chase if she left the harbor. He also assured Nick that he would personally be guarding the fuel tank during the procession so his crew could enjoy the festivities. “I’ll still be able to see some of it from here,” he said. “You shouldn’t miss it. The costumes are always good.”

  In a short time, the wharf had
become busy with people promenading up and down, or having their first ouzos, in what was certain to be a festive night. The wind was still, and the sun’s long, golden rays lingered on the red tile roofs climbing to the ancient castle. It was a magical late afternoon, and Nick walked to the dock’s end where he watched the sun first touch the sea.

  He took it as a cue for walking back. Everyone on the wharf took it as their cue for rushing onto the dock. Before he knew it, Nick was having to push through people to make his way. Across the harbor, the wharf was empty except for a few restaurant owners prepared to miss the procession in case they had some customers. He glimpsed Lydia in her kitchen. Vassoula was perched on her stool smoking a cigarette.

  Takis was nowhere to be seen and that made Nick more than a little nervous. There was no way to verify which version of the Takis Fire was true: the one in which Takis’s father committed suicide, or Captain Tsounis’s assertion that Takis had killed his parents for the insurance money? Whichever was true didn’t diminish two facts: Takis hated the village, and the fires had started when chilling circumstances brought him back from Australia.

  Again he looked for Takis and didn’t see him.

  Nick squirmed through the crowd, barely advancing a foot with each step. A couple of times he felt dizzy, no doubt from the spider venom still lingering in his body, and paused to catch his balance while keeping watch across the harbor.

  Still no Takis.

  Then a huge roar went up when the lead float came into view.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  THE CONTESTANTS HAD GATHERED AT a small launching platform away from the harbor so their costumes could be kept secret from the public as long as possible. All the other girls were already on their boats by the time Athina arrived and checked out the others’ costumes. Their uninspired efforts boosted her confidence. Even her friend Viki’s effort was too simple: a soft purple gown, chosen to highlight her violet eyes, with a battery-powered halo over her head. Cute, but not a winner. The bow of the lead boat, where Irini should be, was entirely hidden behind a screen of bed sheets. Beneath them, Athina could make out movements but that was all.