At around ten thirty, one or two people began to drift through the doors, cross themselves and light a candle, before walking down towards the reliquary. These were people who were in the habit of coming every day, mostly widows, but a few recently widowed men, too. It was part of the ritual of their day. For the men, it was what they did before going to the kafenion, for the women it was a prelude to cooking the midday meal, a routine that could not be broken. Some left quickly; a few others sat in the body of the church, men on the left and women on the right, before leaving.
They were used to seeing Kyria Leontidis there, dressed in mourning, so the woman in black cleaning at the front of the church did not at first attract their attention.
Pelagia was sweeping the floor with a soft broom, meticulously chasing dust even from the most obscure corners. She moved into view in front of the altar, her broom swishing to and fro. Most of the small group who had been in the church had now left. Just one man, Spiros Kouris, remained.
He stared straight ahead. He did not have especially good eyesight, but what he was looking at astonished him. It was not the image of sacred beauty and purity as portrayed in the spectacular representation of the Virgin Mary in the dome above. This was very different. Framed in silhouette against the fretwork screen was a woman who looked more like a goddess than the mother of God. Her black Lycra top and trousers hugged her figure tightly. Her mane of glossy, dark hair caught the light. It reached her waist and seemed to move independently as her body rocked from side to side as she swept. She was unconscious of her perfection, and totally unaware of being observed.
Spiros sat in the church longer that day than was his usual habit. And the following day he came earlier. And stayed even longer. When a friend asked him why he was so late turning up for a game of cards at the kafenion, he was vague about the reason. When asked by his wife why he was later than normal getting home, he said that the queue for vegetables had been unusually long.
Spiros Kouris began to notice another man, twenty-five or so years old, also staying longer than usual in the church. He knew that Socrates Papalambros’s mother had died recently, as he had seen her photograph on a death notice pinned outside.
The younger man stood in the corner of the church, scribbling on small squares of paper before scrunching them up, one after the other, and stuffing them into his now-bulging pockets. Kouris knew that they were requests to the priest, but clearly Socrates was unsure of what to ask or how to ask for it.
Socrates was contemplating a picture of Saint Andrew, who had been tied for three days to the cross. Three days of suffering seemed very little compared with his own, he thought. He withdrew to a seat at the back of the church and sat, looking ahead.
Meanwhile, Pelagia innocently dusted and polished.
Word got around. Little by little, nearby kafenions started to empty and the church began to fill. How wonderful that people appreciated its beauty and its art, thought the priest. Some days, almost every seat on the left-hand side of the church was taken.
One after another, they queued to kiss the icon. Many of them had been eating souvlaki and imprints of their greasy lips were left behind. They sat as if to pray, and, with a flowing river of Byzantine chant in the background, they stared without shame at the female figure in front of them, just as they would look upon an icon. She moved around, still unaware of their gaze; often her cleaning rhythm almost became a dance. Her ears were plugged into playlists made by her DJ boyfriend and, whether she was vacuuming, polishing or dusting, she threw herself into the task with every gram of energy she had. Sweat sometimes ran down her arms, and the back of her T-shirt became transparent, her temples damp.
Spiros Kouris began to dress much more carefully, rotating the four suits in his wardrobe and putting on a tie, and made regular visits to the barber to have his greying hair and moustache trimmed. He had not taken such pride in his appearance for many years. His wife was happy to see it. Like all the other men in the church, he imagined that his connection with Pelagia was real, just as real as the relationship they experienced with the Virgin herself. The fact that every man in the church felt the same did not affect him. He sat there for several hours, until Pelagia’s cleaning duties were over, and then went to buy groceries, before taking them home with a spring in his step.
The money the priest counted for candles rose exponentially and, though he kept reordering, deliveries could not arrive quickly enough. He was also kept busy with a flow of requests written on small pieces of paper asking for special intercession. Many of them simply said: ‘Lead us not into temptation.’ Very few were more specific.
The only person who did not seem to notice Pelagia was the priest. He had not even realised that there was a new cleaning lady. All he saw was that the church looked as pristine as it had on the day it first opened its doors.
Early one morning, he was kneeling in private prayer, his eyes shut against the world so that he could concentrate. Then he caught a whiff of something. It was not incense or candles. It was something sweeter, though he could not identify it. When he opened his eyes, he found himself staring straight into a woman’s bosom, round and firm. Pelagia, at last no longer wearing black for her late great-uncle, was close by, polishing the glass that protected an icon. He hastily got up, almost tripping over his habit, and left the church. He needed some fresh air.
‘God moves in mysterious ways,’ he said to himself. ‘No wonder the church is so full.’
The ‘disappearance’ of the menfolk had upset their wives. One woman had taken on a private investigator to track her husband and had been incredulous when he had reported back, simply, that he was in church.
Several kafenion owners also now complained. ‘Get rid of that girl,’ they said to the priest. ‘She is destroying our business.’
The priest considered the situation carefully. Pelagia was not to blame. This woman was a divine creature, a manifestation of God’s omnipotence, her innocence no crime; her beauty no fault of her own, no act of malice. He had an immaculate church, a big congregation and the coffers were full. It would be wrong to fire her.
One morning, the church was so full that a few men had even been obliged to sit on the right-hand side. They waited for the young woman to appear. And then they waited some more.
Eventually, they heard a buzzing sound. A few of them leaned forward. An industrial-sized vacuum cleaner appeared, followed by a woman, her head held high. She was like a farmer pushing an old-fashioned plough. It was not Pelagia. If the vacuum cleaner had not been so noisy, the murmurs of disappointment that rippled across the church might have been audible.
Maria Leontidis had rested. She was a bit plumper now after her convalescence, and the warmth of the spring sunshine had made her aching bones feel young again.
As the men were all leaving en masse, the priest walked into the church. He immediately understood the reason. The huge profits from candle sales had allowed him to buy better cleaning equipment for the church. Maria had returned in triumph.
The kafenions were full again that day, and wives welcomed their husbands home for lunch. Spiros Kouris walked slowly home. His wife smiled at him fondly when he came in. He reminded her of the man she had married.
I doubt that old Spiros ever really imagined that Pelagia would notice him, but female beauty can have a strong effect on a man, as I know myself, all too well.
It’s so easy to fall into the trap of worshipping it. We are all attracted to certain aesthetic ideals, even if we tell ourselves not to be, and I know that your looks were what made me notice you that first night in the cinema bar. Instant attraction takes us unawares, unprepared. Perhaps it is a curse to be so good-looking that people are immediately drawn to you, maybe it’s a burden to be judged initially by what you look like rather than on your personality. Wherever you are now, perhaps someone else has walked into a room and felt as if their heart has somersaulted inside their chest. I don’t suppose I was the first, or last, man on whom your smile had tha
t effect.
I stayed in Patras for nearly three weeks, enjoying its scale and the anonymity it gave me. I went to different cafés and tavernas every day and did not have to explain anything about myself to anyone. That first visit to the church was not the last. I often went there just to sit, to enjoy its extravagant decoration and to think. Maria Leontidis was often there, noisily vacuuming. It made me smile.
Whether or not Saint Andrew really did perform the miracle of healing the governor’s wife, the new basilica dedicated to him has some kind of power. I felt it myself. The light and the beauty gave me some moments of pure joy.
I was still thinking about my infatuation with you, and whether you felt even a fraction of what I did, as I drove up into the mountains towards Kalavrita, a beautiful but melancholy place whose people suffered extreme brutality under the German occupation. The monument to the innocent victims of the massacre that took place there on 13 December 1943 was one of the most powerful I have visited. The various memorials in the town (including a museum dedicated to the events leading up to the killings) will never allow anyone to forget the murder of nearly five hundred men and boys, and the torching of every home. Spelled out on the hillside above this town was the word Eirini – Peace. The town will always remember what happened there, but I came away with the understanding that healing begins with forgiveness. I am not comparing what you did to me with the suffering of the people of this place, but the same principle applies, and I know I am not there yet. Despite the heavy atmosphere, I stayed in Kalavrita for a few days before going on a narrow-gauge railway line that took me down a spectacular gorge to the sea. There was something very innocent, very charming, about arriving at an old-fashioned train station, and I stayed there by the little harbour at Diakofto for more than a week, before returning to Kalavrita to pick up the car. My journey from there took me down a precipitous mountain road, past gushing waterfalls and through small villages.
I eventually crossed the strip of water that divides the Peloponnese from Central Greece via the graceful suspension bridge at Rio. I was heading in the direction of Messalonghi, a place famous for its association with Byron (a byword for seduction).
Everywhere I travelled in Greece I noticed streets and squares named Vyronas: Byron. I hear that there is even a whole area of Athens that bears his name. It’s tantamount to hero worship. The city of Messalonghi bears Greece’s closest connection with the English lord. I didn’t like it at first, but after a few days began to appreciate that it is a place dense with history.
Messalonghi is so low-lying as to be almost below the water. It is not picturesque in any sense, but the setting is dramatic, with towering mountains rising immediately behind, and it occupies a strategically important position on the map.
The way he is memorialised throughout the country, one could get the impression that Byron single-handedly kicked the Turks out of Greece. The fact is that he did not once raise a sword in the war of independence, but he was the inspiration to other nations to aid the Greeks in their aim to free themselves from almost four hundred years of occupation.
I wanted to try to understand how the most famous Englishman in Greece is seen by the Greeks themselves. He was charismatic and roguish, but deeply damaged by the events of his childhood and the physical disability with which he struggled throughout his short life. I met several Greeks who disapproved on moral grounds of his treatment of women, of an incestuous relationship he’d had and of his homosexuality. He is still remembered as a hero, though many people are not quite sure why.
I went into the local museum in Messalonghi, housed in an old mansion where the walls literally drip with the damp and humidity that permeates this town.
Oil paintings would be destroyed by this atmosphere, so only copies hang there. One is a famous portait of the poet in which he wears the extravagant military dress he had commissioned for himself.
There is also a copy of a painting by Delacroix, ‘Greece on the Ruins of Messalonghi’. It was the first time I have ever seen a faded copy of an original and yet still been moved by it. A ravaged and decolletée woman in Greek traditional costume stands on the remains of a building, the hand of a dead man protruding from the rubble. A turbanned invader plants a flag in the background, and there is no doubt that the violation of this beautiful figure is a crime. This picture tells you about the bigger story of Messalonghi: in 1826, two years after Byron’s death, the town was under siege for a third time, and the population made an attempt to break out. Thousands were killed in what is known as the ‘Exodus’. The town will always be in mourning for its past.
From the museum, I strolled to the memorial garden commemorating the Exodus. Here there is a graceful, perhaps idealised, statue of Byron. In the sharp winter light, his expression made me think of a dejected child. While I was standing there gazing at it, a municipal worker who was clearing some fallen palm-tree branches stopped to talk.
‘People don’t know about this act of bravery by ordinary folk against the Turks,’ he said. ‘They think Byron expelled them … Byron! He died long before we got rid of them!’
I knew that Byron hadn’t died fighting and thought that he had been struck down with malaria (easy to believe, having been savaged by mosquitoes myself every night of my stay). The man leaning on his broom, however, was eager to tell me a different version of Lord Byron’s ‘death story’, a tale that he regarded as the true one.
‘Being handsome, clever and rich doesn’t always do you any good,’ he said afterwards, going back to his sweeping.
EYEWITNESS 1824
Messalonghi had always been something of a backwater. For some months of the year, it was almost underwater. A fishing town only just above sea level, Messalonghi had marshy meadowland all around it and streets that turned into swamps in the rainy season. It sometimes seemed that the whole town would be swallowed by the sea and would sink beneath the sludge. One day it might get cut off from the world and cease to exist altogether, with the millions of mosquitoes being the only inhabitants – along with a few fishermen living in houses on stilts in the lagoon.
In recent months, Messalonghi had been packed with hungry brigades of Suliotes, unpredictable and underpaid soldiers from Epirus. Some said that they presented an even greater danger to the townsfolk than the Turkish troops, who were still lurking nearby, having unsuccessfully besieged the town only two years before.
There was plenty of noise, with dozens of soldiers milling around in the streets, some on duty but others rowdy or drunk, alongside the usual cacophony made by people selling their wares, among whom the fish sellers were the most vociferous.
In this not entirely pleasant or salubrious atmosphere, a rumour began to circulate that the English aristocrat Lord Byron was on his way to help the people of Messalonghi, and perhaps the whole of Greece.
Lord Byron, in self-imposed exile from England, had found his life’s mission: to ally himself with the liberation of Greece from Turkish occupation. For many years a philhellene, the poet believed passionately in the right of this country (where the very notion of democracy had been born) to an independent future and of its oppressed people to be free.
Through a significant financial contribution (mostly earnings from his bestselling poetry), he had supported Alexandros Mavrokordatos, the Commander-in-Chief and Governor of Western Greece. In Byron’s eyes, he was the most stable of the Greek leaders and was popular for having successfully resisted the first siege of Messalonghi.
Mavrokordatos lost no time in spreading the word of Byron’s arrival in the city, and of writing extravagantly to him, until Byron’s head must have swelled with self-importance.
‘I am depending on you to secure the destiny of Greece,’ Mavrokordatos wrote.
When messengers arrived to confirm the day of his arrival, the city began to hum with excitement. Every household counted the days.
‘I want to go and see him. Please …’ Despina Dimotsis begged her father, a wealthy merchant.
Everyone
– even sixteen-year-old girls – was in a frenzy at the prospect of his visit. In this grey coastal town, such a colourful event was eagerly anticipated.
Despina’s younger sister, Fotini, was nagging, too.
‘The streets are no place for young women,’ their father said firmly.
Only when he realised that his wife, Eirini, was as keen to be a spectator as their daughters did Emilios Dimotsis relent. He would be close by, with a group of local dignitaries in a welcoming party, and their mother and a maid would accompany them. It was, after all, a historic occasion. Lord Byron’s massive donation to the armed forces might save Greece from the Turks. He might turn out to be the saviour of their country.
‘He’s not just a celebrated poet,’ said his wife with a playful smile.
One day, early in January, a vast crowd gathered at the quayside. There were ordinary townspeople, merchants, governing officers, priests and soldiers, and all were eager for their first sighting of Byron. Soldiers fired muskets into the air and there were artillery salutes as the poet stepped off the boat.
The rules of etiquette had to be followed, with formalities and official greetings, and Byron was gracious, despite an exhausting journey and feeling ill. Short speeches were made and there were ripples of applause.
The two girls, Despina and Fotini, and their mother were in an area reserved for women. Being smaller than almost everyone there, all three of them had a very limited view and craned their necks to try to catch a glimpse of the entourage.
‘I can’t see anything,’ moaned Fotini.
‘I can! I can!’ boasted her older sister. ‘I can see everything!’
Eirini stood on tiptoe and looked in the same direction. At a distance, she could see a man flanked by two others. They were several centimetres taller than him. Could this be the person they were all waiting for? He seemed almost insignificant.
Cartes Postales From Greece Page 8