by Tamar Hodes
After the meal, they did not sing the songs that they had enjoyed the previous year. Without Jack with his strong voice and fluent Hebrew, Leonard did not feel he had the strength to carry it off, nor the gusto it required.
At the end of the evening, Leonard carried Axel Joachim to his bed, still clutching his toy giraffe. Its ears were shiny where the boy had sucked them.
Frieda thanked Leonard and Marianne for the evening, hugged them tightly, and then she and her children started the long walk home, feeling their way in the unforgiving darkness.
xxxviii
The following morning, Frieda, Gideon and Esther left their whitewashed house. As they walked away, they turned to take one more glance at the well in the cobbled courtyard, the manic chickens, the almond blossom offering its dainty confetti sprigs to the sky, and the bronze lion’s head knocker. Magda had kindly agreed to oversee the shipping of their belongings and so the three of them walked to the harbour with only a few bags of clothes: Frieda had her Flowers for Hitler from Carl, Gideon his favourite gemstones, and Esther, three dollies. Mother and daughter linked fingers, Gideon trailed behind.
Seeing the island for the last time made everything even more beautiful and yet not quite real: the smatterings of crocuses, hyacinths and narcissi blanched by the sun. Frieda felt that she was in a film, or maybe had been all year, watching the lives of other people on a screen and wondering whose lives had been depicted: surely not theirs? Had she really been married to Jack? Had they honestly come here with cautious optimism? Had she risked everything for an affair? Had it really fallen apart? She hardly recognised herself from the woman who had arrived a year ago.
Down in the harbour, Douskos was sweeping his yard, The Gardenia Dwarf by his side so that Frieda had the strange feeling that they were arriving, not leaving, and that it was starting all over again. Nick Katsikas came running out to see them. He handed Frieda a package addressed to Gideon and Esther Silver, written in Jack’s large script.
‘Here, children,’ said Frieda, recognising the handwriting. ‘You need to open this, not me.’
Inside was a book for each child: The Golden Treasury of Verse for Esther with bright, glossy pictures of green fields and rainbows, and a book on fossils and gems for Gideon with illustrations and detailed facts. He almost smiled. Inside, Jack had written a loving message for each child and the words: See you soon, Love Daddy. Frieda noticed that she was not mentioned and she wasn’t surprised. She could smell his bitterness towards her from the envelope.
The three of them walked down to the boat where Alexis waited.
Amid the crowd of policemen were some familiar faces: Leonard, Marianne and Axel Joachim; Charmian and George; Olivia, Michael and Melina; Gordon and Chuck; Norman; and Evgeniya. Esther flung herself at the maid and felt for the last time the comfort of losing herself in the warmth of her curves. The bandage had gone now but her bruise had flowered from purple to yellow and her forehead was still swollen.
There were hugs and kisses, promises to keep in touch and assurances that they would meet again, which everybody said and nobody believed. Frieda thanked them all for their kindness and they said that her paintings would remind them of her always. She smiled wryly at her own deception.
Frieda and Gideon climbed into the boat and Alexis lifted Esther in. Looking up at the quay, with their friends gathered there, mother and daughter cried but Gideon did not. Frieda put her arms around her children and as the boat sailed away at the start of a very long journey, Hydra gradually shrank to a line in the distance, and was then swallowed up by the sea.
The friends dispersed and Marianne and Leonard wheeled Axel Joachim home in his pushchair. Their house seemed different although most objects were not packed away, just Marianne’s summer dresses, Axel Joachim’s toys, and a few treasured possessions. But somehow those small adjustments altered the home.
The Johnstons spent their last evening together at Leonard and Marianne’s house. Kyria Sophia had made a wonderful meal: roast lamb baked in Demi’s oven, infused with juniper and surrounded by onions, potatoes and carrots, with a huge Greek salad. There was crusty bread from Demi, too, and a selection of sticky, syrupy sweets for dessert. As the maid brought out the food and collected in the dirty plates, she was close to tears.
They sat together on the terrace and Charmian looked round proudly at her three children, all gathered in one place. Shane had been very difficult about coming, wanting to spend her last night on Hydra with Baptiste.
‘Please, Shane,’ her mother had pleaded with her, ‘it is a big moment in our lives and we need to face it as a family.’
Shane crossed her arms and pouted. Her mother had suddenly been converted to this notion of family unity, and this hypocrisy annoyed her: being a collective when it suited her but at other times being happy for the five of them to go their own way. It was always on her terms: so unfair.
But what was more painful than her mother’s audacity was the sense Shane had from Baptiste that he was willing to lose her. She had moaned to him about her mother’s demand for this last evening’s meal and he had taken Charmian’s side, agreeing that family should always come first. It seemed to Shane that although he professed to love her, he had already begun to let her go.
In the end, he was not really her devoted Greek lover. He was a local island boy who would follow his family blindly into their store and become a clone of them. He would marry, have children and visit his parents each week for lunch, dutifully taking them a gift from the shop.
Yet although she tried to dislike him, she found she couldn’t. His dark hair, swarthy skin, his large hands, the taste of his mouth: they were all so utterly delicious that even the thought of his name made her hungry for his presence.
So yes, Shane was at the meal but reluctantly so. Martin and Jason were more compliant and had agreed to come.
‘What a lovely meal,’ said Charmian. ‘Thank you.’
‘It’s great to have you all here,’ said Leonard, lifting his glass.
‘Jeez, Len, thanks a bunch for having us.’ George coughed as he spoke. Charmian watched him with concern. After his stay in hospital, he had seemed better but since then he had regressed. George reached for a cigarette now as someone else would reach for medicine, as if it were the solution. He lit up, the tip glowed orange, he inhaled and coughed some more.
‘Take it easy, George,’ said his wife, but without conviction.
‘Well, it makes sense,’ said Leonard. ‘Your house is all packed up and here we are, still a home.’
Shane and Jason had left the table to play with Axel Joachim. Shane would rather be with him than with those adults and Jason felt the same. Martin had gone indoors and was looking at Leonard’s bookshelves, drawing out volumes of poetry that interested him and reading.
‘Do you think you will come back and live on Hydra again? After all, you own the house, don’t you?’ asked Charmian.
Leonard looked at Marianne. She was so beautiful this evening, dressed in white cotton, that he could hardly bear to gaze at what he was about to lose.
‘Who knows? Life will lead us and we will follow, into the darkness, away from the light.’
‘Marianne, are you looking forward to returning to Oslo?’
‘In a way, yes. I am pleased that my mother will have a chance to know her grandson and maybe she and I can build a better relationship, but of course, we gain and we lose.’ She looked at Leonard and tears filled her eyes. He reached his hand across and held hers.
‘We have been blessed to live on this beautiful island.’ Charmian looked across at the mountains as she spoke. Dusk was just falling, coating the landscape in a haziness, like gauze thrown over it. The edges of the harbour were less defined, the boats, dabs of paint and the almond blossoms, impressionistic.
‘Jeez, it’s been amazing, hasn’t it?’ The drink and tiredness were beginning to show on George. ‘All these incredible people, time to write. Unbelievable.’
Marianne looked ov
er to where the children were playing on the tiled floor and wondered about them. Had it been good for the younger people? Yes, they had had camaraderie and community but they had also witnessed family break-ups and disharmony.
Kyria Sophia brought them coffee and Marianne noticed that her eyes were red.
Leonard went inside and found Martin. ‘Have you found any poetry that you like?’
‘Oh yes, so much. What do you recommend?’
‘Well, I particularly like Yeats, Lorca, Shakespeare sonnets. And have you read any Maya Angelou? She’s an amazing new Afro-American poet, who writes so powerfully about the lives of black people and women. I also love the lyrics of Bob Dylan and Joan Baez.’
‘That’s great, Leonard. Thank you. I will follow those up.’
‘What are you writing at the moment, Martin?’ The young boy tended to avoid eye contact but when he did look up, Leonard saw that his eyes were etched with pain. He was thin and pasty in spite of the bright sun. Leonard thought: if I ever have children, I will do everything I can to focus on them and engage with their ideas.
‘Exploring the whole issue of belonging and identity. In Greece I feel Australian and I guess in Australia, I’ll feel Greek.’
‘Being on the outside is not a bad place for a writer. We are well placed on the margins, looking in.’
‘I suppose so, but we can’t be too far away or else we cannot see.’
‘So true.’ Leonard nodded. This young boy was wise. He saw the truth about life that many did not: the depth, the complexity, the contradictions. He wondered whether his use of the word ‘see’ alluded to his myopia as well as metaphorical perception.
‘I’m working on a long poem called Microclimatology which will be written in sections. It will make references to Hydra: the driftwood, the cats, the wild thyme. And even Donkey Shit Lane is in there.’
They both laughed.
‘That’s good. I’m pleased that name gets its well-deserved glory in a poem. Seriously, Martin, if you ever want to send me some of your work or correspond with me, I’d be happy to help if I can.’
‘Thank you, Leonard. You have been very kind to me. Some writers are so obsessed with their own work that they can’t engage with anyone else’s, but you manage to do your own and also have time to take an interest in others.’ They both understood what he meant.
Leonard patted him gently on his shoulders and went back up to the terrace.
The coffee cups were empty and Charmian and George were back on wine. They spoke in low voices.
‘That boy is amazing,’ said Leonard, rejoining the group.
‘We know,’ said George, coughing.
‘We realise that.’
For a rare moment, Charmian and George agreed.
‘His chess, his writing, his politics. He is an outstanding young man.’
‘He’ll thrive at Sydney University,’ said his mum, sounding to Leonard as if she wanted that topic closed. ‘It’s getting late now. We need to get these kids to bed. Will we see you at the harbour in the morning?’
‘Of course,’ said Marianne.
After they had left, Marianne and Kyria Sophia cleared the dishes away. Leonard typed in his study and the little boy slept, undisturbed by the tapping of keys and the sounds of crockery being put away.
When it was time for Kyria Sophia to leave, Marianne hugged her to thank her for her help and said that she would see her the next day. Closing the door after her, Marianne wondered if she was managing these last few days by deceiving herself – that it was all going to carry on as before.
xxxix
On the morning that they were due to depart, Charmian awoke early. She strolled down in the subtle sunshine to the cove Nature Boy inhabited. Of course, he was there. She wondered if he ever left. He had already lit a fire that day and was cooking meat on it.
How could she bear to leave Hydra without seeing him one last time?
She loved it that their exchange was all done without words. She did know some basic French but language wasn’t necessary. As soon as Charmian arrived, they kissed. His skin was dirty with seaweed and the skin and guts of an animal he had just killed: a bird, maybe, or a rodent. Soon, his hand was inside her, grabbing her breasts roughly the way she liked, and he loosened his loincloth, lifted her dress and they were on rough ground, the rocking of him inside her grazing her back. She cried out and she moaned and they kissed some more, his mouth salty and dirty.
Afterwards they lay naked in the sun and he caressed her hair with his fingers, almost parental. How did this young boy understand her so well? How did he know exactly what she needed? He was probably only in his twenties but he had an instinctive understanding.
After she had dressed, she kissed him again and whispered, ‘Au revoir, Jean-Claude, et merci beaucoup,’ and he knew that he would not see her again. She strolled up the hill, still tingling from his touch and the smell of him while he took a stick and flipped the meat on his fire.
Her mind was racing as she walked to Anthony’s house. How could it be that a feral, young boy who was probably illiterate could understand her better than an educated man like George? Did it mean that she was more animal then cultured? Or did one side of her need the other to counteract it?
The island was pretty today, the ground dabbed in hyacinths and crocuses, like spilled paint. A pigeon flapped its cardboard wings and landed in front of Charmian, surprising her with its size. She sidestepped it and walked on, aware of the sunshine massaging her back with its gentle warming. After the harshness of the winter, she appreciated the subtlety of a Greek spring: lemon-white and hazy.
Anthony was in his studio, painting a harbour scene. As he usually did portraits, she was pleasantly surprised and liked it: the water crinkly and reflective; the boats brightly coloured; a half-completed sky. They embraced and she could smell last night’s heavy drinking on his breath. She perched on his sofa while he worked and remembered their lovemaking on its threadbare surface.
‘I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye to you, Tony.’
‘You’re going so soon,’ his paintbrush frozen mid-air.
‘This afternoon. We’re all packed up.’
‘I can’t believe it.’ He put his paintbrush down and sat beside her. His shirt was stained with paint and his dark hair was tussled.
‘I know. I wish you could come with us.’
‘To Australia? How could I? What would I do there? I don’t think George would be very happy about that, do you?’
‘It’s not realistic, I know that, but I don’t like the thought that we may never meet again.’
‘You are very special, Charmian. Always remember that.’
They kissed but it did not flow into sex and she didn’t mind. She was still carrying the scent of Nature Boy on her skin.
‘Thank you for everything, Tony.’
‘Goodbye, Charmian.’
Walking back to their house she thought about their time in Greece. It had been so fruitful in so many ways and she wondered what the next stage held. She dreaded the next novel in George’s trilogy and the humiliation it might bring. She also saw her future as lonely: no Tony, no Nature Boy, no island with the sea lapping tenderly at its rocky edges.
Their house looked bare and soulless. The rugs were down from the walls, the crockery all packed, the books off the shelves and a sense of all things ending. George was drinking, bottle tilted; Jason was drawing a picture of Hydra, the many-headed serpent; and Martin was reading.
‘Jeez, Charm,’ George looked up when she entered. ‘Where the hell have you been?’
‘I had a few things to see to. Where’s Shane?’
‘Gone to say goodbye to her lover boy.’ He exploded into a bout of coughing and wiped the blood from his mouth.
‘She needs to be back here soon. The boat leaves at three.’
Shane and Baptiste were in the woods behind the monastery, caressing. Her Greek almost as good as his, they confessed their eternal love for each other and
were thankful. She thought of asking him why he had been more loyal to her parents than to her but decided not to. Why waste their last hour together fighting?
For the final time, they made love, pressing their bodies upon the receptive flowers and Shane wished that the earth would open up and receive their weight and they could live below ground for ever.
She thought about the journey that she and Baptiste had been on: how shy and virginal she had been at the start, how he had led her gently through the early stages of lovemaking, and how he had given her confidence in her own beauty and appeal. She would always remember him and be grateful to him for that. Any future relationships she had, and she doubted that she ever would, would owe everything to him.
After they had dressed, they sat up among the wild flowers and looked at each other. She thought: he will work with his father and uncle at the store and maybe run it himself one day. He will marry a pretty, dark-haired local girl and have lots of chubby, rosy-faced children and chickens in the yard. When Baptiste looked at Shane he felt less sure of her future: the locals all gossiped about her family, how they drank and fought and neglected their children. He wondered whether her life would be happy. He hoped it would be; somehow he doubted it.
He drew from his shirt pocket a turquoise ring, lapis lazuli. It caught the light as he tilted it, as if the sea and sun had been trapped in that stone. Shane gasped and he slipped it on her finger, not her engagement finger but the middle one, to show that it was not a proposal but a token of gratitude and love.
‘Se efxaristo, Baptiste,’ she thanked him, and he knew that it was not just for the ring.
When Shane returned to the empty house, her face was tear-stained. Her mother hugged her and each woman could smell sex on the other’s skin.
Sevasty served them one last family meal. It was simple because most of their crockery was now packed away so she just made a platter of cold meats: salami, lamb, slices of chicken, a basket of bread and the ubiquitous Greek salad, the olive oil trickling over the crumbling cheese.