by Tamar Hodes
They were not the only ones whose homes were being dissembled. The island had now fragmented.
The locals carried on doing their jobs; the expat artists were sadly waving their idyll away, and in the harbour, the policemen were checking the papers of all those arriving and departing, only once abandoning their solemn duties when Jackie Kennedy came to visit Onassis on his yacht and needed their protection.
Leonard was packing, too. His heart was torn between Marianne and his work but the writing had to come first.
‘Come with me, Marianne,’ he whispered. ‘You and Axel Joachim could be with me.’
She shook her head. ‘It will not work out,’ she answered sadly. ‘You will be focused on your writing and music and we will be following behind you, lost. Axel Joachim needs stability in his life and I think he will have that back in Oslo.’
She relayed this to Magda as they sat in their favourite cove on the beach, their boys beside them, hitting the sand with wooden spades.
‘It is so sad,’ said Magda. ‘You and Leonard love each other so deeply.’
‘That is true but I always knew that it would end. It was almost too good to last.’
The sea was strong today, unequivocal in its deep blue, as if it sensed the mood on the island and knew it had to be constant.
‘Is there no way you can see of making it work?’
‘How? His career is taking off and I am happy for him but he will be a famous singer-songwriter with all the girls swooning after him and I will be a nobody, chasing after him, with a baby in my arms. No-one will be interested in me. All the attention will be on him and his music and I will be a hanger-on. It’s not what Axel Joachim needs. He craves security and why shouldn’t he have it?’
‘So what will you do?’
‘Go back to my mother, although she has also kept the Larkollen house so maybe we can have holidays there.’
‘That sounds lovely, Marianne.’
‘Yes. I tried to give my own son something better but I failed. He has moved from home to home, his father has abandoned him, he has a deep connection with Leonard who he will now lose, and we will start again in another home, another country.’
‘You have done your best, Marianne.’
At that moment, Theodore waved and dived again in a perfect arc into the receptive sea.
‘Theodore has invited me out for dinner,’ said Magda coyly.
‘How lovely. I told you that he was your admirer.’
‘I don’t know about that. I don’t think I would ever get involved with anyone again after what happened.’
‘But you’ll go on a date with him?’
‘Well, maybe just the one.’
As evening fell, Shane had still not returned home.
‘I’m worried about her, George.’ The house was bare, most of their belongings in crates.
‘Jeez, Charm, the girl’s seventeen. She knows the island better than we do. She’ll be fine.’ But Charmian was still concerned and she looked out from the terrace to see if she could spot her daughter’s golden hair: she could not.
‘She’ll be with Baptiste,’ said Martin.
‘I know that, Martin, but where?’
‘She likes the woods behind the monastery,’ said Jason and his brother glared at him: that was supposed to be their secret.
‘I’m going to look for her,’ said Charmian, wrapping a shawl over her shoulders, and she left.
The air was cool as dusk descended. Charmian thought as she mounted the hill: now I am being the mother that I should always have been, not crossing the island to see my lovers but to ensure that my daughter is safe.
The monastery buildings stood white and stark against the darkening sky as if symbolising hope. As Charmian walked behind them, she was anxious about what she would find.
Shane and Baptiste were still there among the narcissi, their creamy blooms like candles. They had made love twice and now he was sitting up with his legs open and Shane was tucked between them, leaning her back against him. They were dressed but their faces were pink and Shane’s hair was dishevelled. They were speaking in low voices, sharing the bottle of retsina that Baptiste had taken from his family uncles store.
‘You know I love you, Shane,’ he said softly, stroking her hair.
‘Then let me stay with you.’
‘You can’t. I am at school. Then I will have to run the store. You need to be with your family and receiving an education.’
‘But will you still love me?’ She wiped the tears from her eyes.
‘Always.’
She would remember Baptiste for the rest of her life. How could she ever love like that again?
She felt resigned now. His soft words, the narcissi, the half-light: all had come together to make her accept the situation they were facing. Her life and Baptiste’s would go in different directions, but he would always remain her first love.
To their amazement, her mother appeared round the corner of the building. The lovers sat up straight.
‘Mum, what are you doing here?’
‘I was worried about you, wanted to make sure you were alright.’
Baptiste nodded politely at Charmian.
‘Baptiste,’ she responded.
Charmian never forgot the sight of them, young and innocent as the flowers around them, as if they were wood-nymphs from a fairy tale, escaping their parents, running away, devoted to love. It moved her: may life be good to you both, she thought.
Baptiste said something to Shane in his hypnotic voice, and she agreed. He stood up, wiped himself down and walked away.
Mother and daughter held hands as they descended the hill to their home. Night fell suddenly, as if it had been ready earlier but had agreed to hold back for a while. The air was still sweet but cool. The outlines of the houses were lost in the darkness but in the distance the lights of the harbour still glimmered.
Charmian took her shawl and wrapped it around Shane’s bare shoulders. Shane let her. She liked this, her mother coming to find her, holding her hand, shielding her against the cold. She hardly recognised this protective woman. That was what she had been longing for.
They walked in rhythm with each other, heard some rustling in the bushes, a bird maybe. Smells of delicious food emanated from the houses they passed, and some people had lit candles in their windows, the hour of evening electricity over. As they passed Mikalis’ cottage, they heard his wailing.
‘I love Baptiste,’ said Shane as they walked.
‘I know that, darling.’ Charmian did not say: you will get over him, you will have other men. Somehow, she had lost her confidence in that realm.
‘I will never love anyone like that again.’
Charmian squeezed her hand and wrapped the shawl more tightly round her daughter’s young shoulders.
‘Whatever you are going through, I am there beside you,’ she whispered.
Shane remembered that as the night she lost her lover and found her mother.
xxxvii
Frieda’s lover and husband left on the same day.
Carl took the earliest boat, before daylight broke. It occurred to him, as Alexis steered him to Piraeus across calm, sleepy waters, that his whole stay on the sunny island had been shrouded in darkness and secrecy, so why should he not leave like that, too? He had never loved anyone, connected with anyone, the way he had with Frieda. In spite of their different nationalities, different religions, they had spoken the same language, in words and in paint.
As the waters lapped around him, and Hydra shrank from view, it seemed clear to him that she had made a mistake in not coming with him to Canada. He had offered her security, time to paint and a beautiful home. What more could he have done? He recalled the way she wound her dark hair in a plait around her head, her perfect, petite body, her canvases covered in bright, strong brushstrokes. He thought of her blue settee and the shuttered room in which they had made love so many times, her affection and her skill as an artist and lover gaining confidence daily
. How they had adored each other in that studio with the hot, crusty smell of Demi’s bakery and the heady scent of the wisteria over the doorway. He had not seen Frieda again since their argument, but she had slipped a poem under his door. He drew it now from his trouser pocket:
We loved each other
In that white space,
The shutters down, the boats beyond.
We ate peaches,
We drank wine.
We thought that it would last for ever.
I cannot live with you
Nor without you.
As the light fades on our Greek dream,
You will go your way
And I will go mine.
And in the harbour, the boats will still rock
In the morning breeze.
The previous night, John, Anthony and Carl had sat in his house and drunk their goodbyes, surrounded by wrapped canvases, ready for shipping. It was an understated farewell with the woman he loved absent. John’s tremor was worse than ever and he had more or less abandoned his drawing – or it had abandoned him – and Anthony was morose at the prospect of losing Charmian. In a way, it was a fitting adieu: a secret, hidden drink on a secret, hidden island, which he had never really known. Carl stared miserably into his deep glass and thought: here we are, three failed painters, one who can’t stop shaking, one who can’t pay his bills, and another who has abandoned his dream.
Now, as he let the boat take him away, listening to the slap of the water against the wood, he searched the sky for glimmers of sunlight but found none.
Three hours later, Jack left. The previous evening, he had run around the island with a knife in his hand, looking for Carl. No-one seemed to know where he lived or much about him. Not usually a violent man, Jack had decided that he would kill Carl if he found him but he could not trace him. While the others were packing, Jack ran from taverna to quayside, to monastery to chapel looking for the bastard but he could find no trace of him. When he thought of Carl with his wife, it made him livid.
He remembered his high school days in Cape Town, where he had been moved up two years because he was so clever. There was a boy in the new class, Trundy he was called, who mocked Jack and called him a ‘Jewish swot’, jeering and laughing at him whenever he spoke. Jack could feel the rage build up inside him and then his self-hatred when he failed to tackle Trundy either verbally or physically. He had wanted to respond but something had always stopped him, maybe his genteel upbringing or his fear that the attack would fail.
The previous evening, he had roamed the cobbled streets of Hydra, brandishing his weapon. He did so in search of Carl and of Trundy but, of course, he failed to find either of them. So he had slunk home again, tired with despair and endured a sleepless night.
As he kissed his children goodbye, Gideon lifted his face but said little.
Esther clutched her fingers tightly around her father’s neck and kissed him. ‘Abba,’ she wailed, ‘don’t go.’
‘Sweetie,’ he said bravely, ‘we will see each other again soon.’
Frieda prised the child away, feeling her pain and guilt ever more keenly. ‘It’s alright, Esther, darling.’
What the hell had she done? What an idiot she had been. She had failed to give her children a happy family life.
Jack picked up his suitcase, looked at Frieda, but did not hug her, and left the house.
Gideon carried on labelling his rocks. Esther and Frieda sat on the terrace and covered each other in kisses and tears.
‘It’s okay, sweetie. You will see Abba again, I promise you.’
Later that day, the front door opened and Evgeniya came in. Esther flew to hug her and the maid looked overwhelmed with joy. She was as chubby as ever but her face was pale and she had a bandage around her head.
With Evgeniya’s limited English, and some reluctant help from Gideon, they found out that she had gone back to Nikos, that he was always angry with her when she wouldn’t give him money for drink and that everything was fine now. No, she said stoically, she wouldn’t tell the police.
Her brave smile turned to tears, however, when Frieda told her that they were leaving. ‘Jack,’ she made a gesture with her hands, ‘gone. America.’
‘America?’
‘Yes, and we,’ she indicated the three of them, ‘South Africa.’
Evgeniya looked confused.
‘Giddy,’ said Frieda. ‘Can you help to tell her, please?’
The boy did not look up but spoke in perfect Greek. He sounded like a native, Frieda thought, his voice more singsong and expressive in Greek than in English or Hebrew. Evgeniya clearly understood him because she hugged the mother and daughter and the three of them stood on the terrace and wept while Gideon cut out sticky labels with tiny scissors.
Evgeniya said some more words to Gideon and he translated. She told Frieda and Esther that she had lost a baby girl who had lived only for a week and that Esther had been like a daughter to her. They hugged and cried more, Frieda gave the maid a money gift, and then Evgeniya, head bandaged and bowed, her face damp with tears, left.
It was strange to be in the house, just the three of them. Gideon was silent, head bent to his task while Esther clung to Frieda, following her wherever she went, frightened, needy.
‘I miss Abba,’ she said.
‘I know,’ said Frieda, ‘but you will see him again before too long.’
‘I miss Evgeniya,’ said the little girl.
‘I know, sweetie. She is very special.’ Frieda did not promise that Esther would see her again She was not willing to lie any more.
That night she let Esther sleep in her bed. The little girl gripped onto her the whole night long, and Frieda wondered who was comforting whom.
They packed up the house: Esther’s dolls and the clothes Evgeniya had made them, Gideon’s rocks and fossils and a few of Frieda’s possessions.
Frieda gave most of her paintings away to friends. Jack had already shipped the books. Frieda kept one, the first edition of Flowers for Hitler that Leonard had given to Carl and he had given to Frieda. It was inscribed in Leonard’s large, curved blue writing: a good winter on this Rock, Leonard, with Hydra written in Greek and the date: 1965. She would treasure it all her life.
By the end of the next day, the house was bare. Frieda looked out of the window at the well, the crazy chickens in the yard, the almond blossom dotting the sky. She felt hollow and alone, fearful for the future, for her, and for her children.
There was a knock at the door and when she opened it, Marianne was there with Axel Joachim.
Esther’s face brightened and she threw her arms around the little boy.
They sat on the terrace where the spring air was now spongy and warm.
‘I have baked you some of my biscuits,’ said Marianne.
‘We remember those,’ said Frieda. ‘When we first arrived a year ago you brought us some. We wondered why we were all so mellow that first day! Thank you, Marianne.’
‘Well, there is a magic ingredient. Just a little. Will you come to Passover at Leonard’s tonight?’
‘I am not sure. Without their father there, it might upset the children.’
‘It may do them good. We will be there, too.’
They sat on the terrace where Esther played with Axel Joachim, holding his hand while he tottered unsteadily across the floor. Gideon’s head was bent to his rocks.
‘What a lot has happened this year,’ said Frieda.
‘Leonard says that Hydra creates us and kills us.’
‘Is it fair to blame the island? Is a piece of rock in the sea capable of that?’
‘I don’t know. I think we all came here to escape, but we have found that there is no escape.’
Tears ran down Frieda’s face. Marianne embraced her and realised that she, too, was crying, the tears of the women moistening their own faces and each other’s.
That evening, they sat once again on Leonard’s terrace, Elijah’s mountain behind them and Elijah’s cup in front o
f them. It felt strange to Esther and Gideon that Jack was not there and the little girl wondered why, if an invisible prophet could make the effort to come and join them, her father could not. Maybe he would fly in and surprise them, after all. She crossed her fingers and really hoped so, but he did not arrive.
Leonard had once again laid the table with the Seder plate at the centre but this time he did not explain or introduce what everything meant, partly because Marianne now knew and because, anyway, he felt more subdued. They read from the Haggadot but he left chunks out, feeling that he could not fake the joy at the exodus that the passages required.
When he looked across at Esther and Gideon flanking their mother, maybe making sure that she, too, did not leave, it broke his heart. He thought of his own lost father and how he had been searching for a replacement for him all his life. He saw Axel Joachim sitting on books to make him higher at the table, now without a father. Fatherless children: all of them. When Leonard read Blessed art thou, O Lord, our God, King of the Universe… the words stuck in his throat. Maybe God would be the father to protect them all.
As the only adult male at the table, he felt responsible for them. He looked around as they ate their meal quietly: Marianne, so beautiful, her face a series of planes catching the light; Axel Joachim, whom he loved like a son, his face vulnerable and small; Frieda, still lovely, her long hair wound in a plait around her head, her face drawn; Gideon, quiet and down; Esther, sweet and chubby, her eyes still shiny with hope. What lay ahead? Where would they all settle and to what?