Greek Island Escape

by Patricia Wilson

  Stretched out on white sand with the warm sun on her face, her body relaxed after a swim in the crystal water. Balos Bay had to be the most beautiful place on earth.

  After walking the Samaria Gorge, they were all exhausted. Aching thighs and tight calves meant the planned bicycle ride for the next day was cancelled. A unanimous decision.

  ‘Swimwear and T-shirts,’ Dad had ordered. ‘You’re going on a magical mystery tour that starts with a boat trip.’ He turned to Mum, bobbed his eyebrows and muttered, ‘Time to put on that new bikini.’

  ‘I’ll have to pack the Factor 50, it’s going to be a hot one,’ she replied with a wink.

  The comment went over Josh’s head, but Megan had grinned. She’d loved it when her parents were sassy with each other.

  Dad drove them to Kissamos and they had breakfast with Granny Anna and Great-aunt Calliopi, then boarded a slinky modern trip boat in Kissamos harbour. They sailed out along the promontory to the far west of Crete, stopping at noon in a secluded bay for a barbecue buffet. Josh leaped off the boat, swimming to the rocky shore. Mum took pictures, always one eye on Josh. Dad drank beer with the skipper and talked about British tourist figures and Greece’s next elections. Megan threw bread into the water and watched silver fish leap about in a tumultuous squabble for food.

  They set off again and rounded the tip of the peninsula. Then, suddenly, there were dolphins. The powerful creatures dipped and dived under the prow. Mum was almost in tears with joy. Dad grinned, proud to have suggested such a great outing. Megan had hung over the bow as it cut through the water, the dolphins tearing back and forth in the wake. She made eye contact with one and felt it had looked right into her, understanding her completely in a fraction of a second.

  They headed to a small island, not far from shore. The stark tower of rock rose from deep blue water.

  ‘Gramvousa, a Venetian stronghold!’ the skipper cried. ‘Climb to the top, my friends. Nearly a hundred metres of sheer cliffs rise from the sea to the fortress walls. Magnificent! Enjoy! We’re here for two hours, then we go to swim in Balos lagoon.’

  Megan and Josh set out for the summit, while Mum and Dad lounged in a deep rock pool on the shore that was so salty they were forced to float.

  Later, they all returned to the boat for a short sail into Balos Bay.

  The sea was so clear and flat that the boats seemed to be floating in mid-air. The sand was white and fine as powder, and the air as still and warm as the water. They all waded across the bay to the fez-shaped atoll and relaxed for a couple of hours. Someone had drawn huge hearts in the pristine sand, and fringed them with white pebbles. The peace of the place made it feel almost sacred.

  CHAPTER 18

  SOFIA

  Athens, 1953.

  SPYRIDON KEPT HIS WORD. By Easter I really was a star.

  Greece was in turmoil, practically in the grip of civil war once again, and a terrible earthquake raised the island of Kefalonia sixty centimetres from the sea, leaving many dead and a hundred thousand people homeless. People used music as an escape from these political and natural disasters. Protest songs were in great demand, and I kept a book dedicated to writing new refrains whenever the mood took me.

  Spyridon and Markos could not be together for five minutes without arguing about politics. Nevertheless, they were unique individuals and I had come to love them both: Spyridon, for being a steady manager, and Markos with his fiery sense of justice, which had quickly captured my heart.

  We saw each other every day when he was home and, before long, Markos declared his love for me. We were walking under the Acropolis, past the ancient theatre of Dionysus. Without warning, he whisked me behind the crumbling façade and pressed his lips to mine.

  ‘One day, when this war of oppression is over, I’m going to marry you, Sofia,’ he whispered into my ear. ‘I love you. Promise you’ll wait for me. Tell me there’ll never be anyone else.’

  I could hardly speak for the joy in my heart. ‘On my life, there will never be anyone else but you for me, Markos.’

  He took my hand and pulled me across the street. ‘Come, we must make a vow to the ancient gods of Olympus.’

  There, in the heart of Athens, we came to an ancient well in a small area of abandoned excavation.

  ‘Throw in a coin and swear,’ he said, rummaging in his own pocket. ‘We’ll do it together, so our coins hit the water at the same time – always together through the long drop that is our lives.’

  He took my breath away.

  ‘You’re so romantic, Markos.’

  Our hands were side by side. We counted to three, then Markos simply dropped his coin and it went straight down to the water; I, in my eagerness, gave mine a little throw. It hit a small ledge on the way down, rolled for a moment, and teetered for what seemed like an eternity. We stared at it, holding our breath, willing my coin to be with his at the bottom of the well. Both of us sensed this was some kind of omen.

  Eventually it fell, joining the other.

  ‘United forever,’ he whispered.

  ‘In the end,’ I replied.

  *

  Markos had been away for two months. He was due to return from Crete, where his work involved a citrus-fruit-planting co-operative in Fodele, birthplace of El Greco, the artist. The Communist Party, of which Markos was a member, ran a scheme to help poor farmers who got next to nothing for their olive crops.

  When he put his heart and soul into an organisation that improved people’s lives, he became so animated. Energised by the knowledge that someone else’s life had been enriched, he would smile quietly, eyes sparkling. His happiness and selflessness filled my heart. When he was away, waiting for his return was pure agony.

  Often, I found myself wandering around my apartment, daydreaming. In my bed at night, I dreamed of his body against mine and wondered what it would be like to make love – but I was determined not to give myself entirely until we were married. In those days, such a thing would be unthinkable – though there were times when we thought about little else.

  We both knew Spyridon would not approve of our love for each other, so we kept it hidden from him. He drummed it into me that I was to appear unobtainable to my fans.

  ‘No fraternising with the opposite sex, Sofia. That way they will want you all the more. Each one of your fans believes you belong to them alone, and we’re not going to disillusion them with a boyfriend on the scene.’

  My big regret was that I didn’t see Markos often enough. Sometimes he was away for weeks, and when he returned, he wouldn’t talk about his activities. One afternoon, he fell asleep in my apartment and had a terrible nightmare, crying out mumbled, half-formed words. His distress frightened me and I had to wake him.

  ‘You were having a bad dream. It sounded terrifying. Please, my darling, tell me about it.’

  He stared for a moment, confused, and then finally shook his head. ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘It didn’t sound like nothing.’

  ‘Look, Sofia, it’s better you don’t know everything about me. Sometimes, bad things are done for the greater good.’ He frowned. ‘Life’s a confusion of regrets.’

  ‘What do you mean? You did something you wish you hadn’t?’

  ‘Sometimes there’s no choice. There’s always the bigger issue . . . and I’m not infallible. Things go wrong, and the people we are trying to help become worse off. Life’s a mess.’ He stroked my hair. ‘Listen, Sofia, I may have to go away for a while. Don’t forget me, will you?’ He kissed me tenderly. ‘When I come back . . . I have plans. Just promise you’ll wait for me?’

  ‘Of course I’ll wait for you. I made a vow – remember the wishing well? But, Markos, what’s making you so sad?’

  He was silent for a minute, then he said, ‘There is something I must tell you – it’s difficult, but important. You have to understand that I want the world to be a better place by the time I have my own children.’ He cupped my chin and peered into my eyes. ‘My little brother hadn’t ev
en received a name when I helped my father bury him.’

  He pinched the bridge of his nose and my heart shattered as I realised he couldn’t say any more. That was the nearest I got to understanding anything from his past. Markos Papas, communist, Andartes, mostly kept himself to himself and refused to talk about his activities or his history, only the vision he had for the future.

  ‘Hand on my heart, Markos. I’ll be here when you return.’

  *

  On Clean Monday, the day after Carnival and the first day of Lent, everyone in Athens went out with their families to fly kites. I had a concert on Filopappos Hill, across the city from the Acropolis. On that beautiful spring day, families were enjoying being together for the celebration. While singing, I stared past the Parthenon to the summit of Mount Lycabettus, remembering that last stroll across the city with my family, the day before my mother’s concert.

  Lost in that happy memory, it was a while before I realised Markos had appeared in front of the stage. He grinned and my heart lifted. I sang the rest of the song for him alone.

  During the interval, I hurried off the stage.

  ‘You’re back,’ I said, as he took my hand and we walked side by side to my private section of the refreshment tent.

  ‘It looks that way.’

  ‘I missed you.’

  ‘Marry me?’

  Songbirds, flowers and sparkling happiness.

  ‘We’ve been through all this, Markos. I can’t marry you until you have a job that will support me and our children.’

  I longed to fall into his arms, but any public display of affection was off limits, according to Spyridon’s rules. He would even berate me for holding hands in public. In the privacy of the tent, I fell into Markos’s arms and he asked me again.

  ‘Marry me, Sofia. I swear I’ll get a steady job. There’s an opening at the university, in agricultural studies. Perfect for me. I have the qualifications, and I feel sure I’d be appointed if I applied.’

  ‘Markos, I love you, I really do, but when I first met you, I was in rags – dying of starvation – on the verge of giving up on life itself. I had nothing. No clothes, no food, no family, no home. The only things I owned were the fleas in my hair and the hunger in my belly. Now, life is good. I have enough to eat, enough to live. I’m not giving this up until I am sure you can take care of a family. Get that job. Show me a secure future where we can bring up our children without worrying about money or your safety, then ask me again.’

  Although hoping desperately that I was wrong, I doubted Markos would take the job. There were too many mortals to save. Deep down, though I loved him for his good intentions, I did find it hard. I wanted him all to myself.

  *

  I knew Markos was heavily involved with the communists, trying to improve the lives of the underprivileged and attempting to build a better world. He was clever enough and confident enough to have been in parliament, fighting for the rights of the poor and needy, replacing those power-hungry leaders who had forgotten who they represented. Behind the scenes, the civil war was gaining momentum again, and tearing our country apart. Markos would disappear for days, and when he returned, exhausted and battle-scarred, he brought with him more stories of corruption and injustice.

  On the opposite side of the political equation was his father. Spyridon had nothing but scorn for those who didn’t support the government.

  I had saved all the money I could, but that was not enough to secure my future, let alone that of a family. If Markos and I were to marry and have children, I needed him to take an equal share in that responsibility.

  Spyridon Papas was a fearless entrepreneur, a capitalist who lived for the challenge of becoming famous and improving his financial status. A gold-digger, according to Markos. Spyridon hadn’t always been like that. There was a time when Spyridon had been a communist, too. He had wanted more for the poor – a minimum wage, healthcare and equality. But the tragic loss of his beloved wife, Isabella, and the rest of their children, had been too much to sacrifice for his ideals. He blamed himself and his beliefs for their deaths. So he abandoned all those communist principles and turned his attention towards financial gain.

  ‘It’s money that puts food in bellies, hard cash that builds houses!’ he would yell at Markos when their discussions became heated.

  Over dinner one night, I listened to Spyridon as he explained to his son.

  ‘Look, I know you think I’m greedy and extravagant, but you should try to understand my point of view. I dine in a nice restaurant when you think I should eat boiled beans at home because others are hungry, and so you think that I’m being excessive?’

  Markos nodded at his father.

  ‘But listen here. Because I eat in that restaurant, three people have a regular job in the kitchen, a wage to take home each week. The restaurant owner makes a profit, half of which he may use to buy new chairs. The carpenter gets a job, and the woman who sews the cushions.’

  Markos frowned.

  ‘On top of that, when he has time – which is not often – the restaurateur goes out himself and spends his money on wine, food, a nicer car . . . even girls. Everyone makes a profit from his “good fortune”, which is better described as endless hard work. That money goes on to improve the economy, in an upwards spiral, and everyone benefits directly or indirectly.’

  ‘Papa, I see your point,’ Markos replied, being the diplomat. ‘But you can’t let people die on the street while the money-makers flourish. There must be a balance and help given to those that need it.’

  ‘Yes, right – but then everything is held up, and there are too many that are content to stay where they are and live off the state. They’re the ones who need to be encouraged to find a way to earn a living.’

  ‘And you don’t think that attitude is encouraging people to turn to crime?’

  *

  The concert on Filopappos Hill was a great success. Although I was on and off the stage for six hours, through the afternoon and evening, I didn’t get paid.

  ‘It’s just a little extra work,’ Spyridon told me. ‘A promotional exercise, Sofia, to push your records.’

  The next morning, exhausted after two hours bent over the bath with soapsuds up to my elbows, I lugged the laundry out onto the balcony. On the third floor across the way, a thin woman with whom I shared a clothes line, but didn’t know, pulled in the last of her bedding. She nodded to the sky, crossed herself, then pointed down to the street below.

  Two men were loading old man Jacob onto a cart, his starved body nothing but bones in rags. My heart wept. Jacob spent the night on the prowl, searching for cats or dogs to feed his family. Competition had been fierce and now the city was all but cleared of its abandoned pets.

  I had kept last night’s potato peelings for him and wondered where his family lived. Were they as emaciated as their dead father? I hurriedly gathered the scraps onto a sheet of wax paper and took them down to the street, leaving them in clear view on the step. From dark alleys, I felt the stare of sunken eyes in wizened faces. Even before I had closed the door, I heard the slap of running feet.

  Athens had become a living tragedy once again, and I thanked God I was not among the starving this time.

  ‘Markos, can’t we do something to help those poor people?’ I asked later.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Ask my father for more money. He’s making a fortune out of you. Malaka!’

  ‘I owe him a lot, Markos. He took me on. He’s made me a star.’

  ‘You don’t owe him anything! How can you be selling thousands upon thousands of records and not even earn enough to live on? Something’s not right, is it? You’re being taken advantage of.’

  ‘There are a lot of people worse off than me,’ I said. ‘And plenty of other artists waiting to step into my shoes. The words “fame” and “fortune” don’t necessarily go together, so I have to be grateful for what I’ve got.’

  ‘Just because you’re talented and love your job, it doesn’t mean
you should be paid a pittance compared to your agent and record producer. Besides the fact that you’re being ripped off, how many people could eat well tonight if my father drove a Fiat instead of a Jaguar? Don’t you see? All people are equal. They deserve the same money for the same hours’ work. That’s what I’m fighting for, Sofia – equality. What we have here is exploitation to feed the greed of the elite. It’s not right!’ Markos sighed, and shook his head. ‘Anyway, I haven’t come here to talk politics. Let’s go down to the kafenio tonight. My friends are waiting to meet you.’

  ‘I can’t. Your father’s taking me to meet a new record producer this evening.’

  ‘Then leave the laundry and come to the beach with me now.’ He took me around the waist and pulled me against his body. ‘You make me crazy, Sofia. I love you so much.’

  *

  An hour later, we stepped off the bus near a small sandy cove, outside the port of Piraeus. As we walked onto the sand, he pulled me against him again. I laughed, pushing him away, despite my own eagerness.

  ‘Behave, Markos! You know I’m not giving in until we’re married. I’m not that sort of girl.’

  ‘Then marry me, Sofia. Be my wife. Marry me and make babies with me. You’re the only woman I want, for now and always.’ He took me into his arms again. ‘Say yes, and make me the happiest man in Athens.’

  I looked at him, hesitant. Of course I loved him – but I knew the sort of life I wanted.

  ‘Oh, Markos . . . yes! Yes, yes, yes! I love you so much.’ I stepped back from him. ‘But first, like I said, you must get that job.’

  *

  On a stage two days later, just before midnight, I sang the final song of my performance. My latest record was already a great hit and life seemed almost perfect. Despite the long show, the applause raced through my veins, thrilling every part of me. Elated, though my head buzzed and my throat ached, I bowed, waved at the audience and left the stage.

  Spiro took me by the shoulders and turned me around.

  ‘Go back on – they’re demanding an encore.’