He stressed “captain” in a way that clearly showed the man was not exactly his favorite person.
I thanked him again and sat down to enjoy my coffee, leaving the newspaper on the table before me. The drink was not as bad as I had expected, although that was probably an unexpected perk of my celebrity status in the eyes of the bartender.
I leaned back in the faded armchair and opened the newspaper. There was a photo of Anita on the front page, and the headline read: “On the set of Lost in Time with Anita Hertz. Exclusive interview and photos.” The truth is I had never really paid any attention to the press before. But when I joined this huge production, I discovered what a big part newspapers, magazines, interviews and, unfortunately, gossip played in promoting a film.
Anita’s photo brought her before me in flesh and blood. I could still taste her skin; I could still feel her body brush against mine. Although we had only parted a few hours ago, I wanted to see her again, right there and then. Maybe I was afraid that leaving her so soon would dull our budding affair. It was intense and beautiful, and a new experience for me. I did not know how she felt about us being together in the future, but I still felt optimistic. Neither one of us held back in demonstrating our feelings; we understood each other and worked together as if we had been doing it for years, yet without that numbing sensation that routine brings to the lives of people who spend so much time together on an everyday basis. Often, we’d just sit together without speaking, happy to just be in each other’s presence.
I could not understand how we had become so close in such a brief amount of time, nor did I care to. What I felt deep inside sufficed. Whenever I saw her, my blood coursed faster through my veins. Every time our bodies met, I slipped into another dimension. I feared dwelling on the whys and hows would diminish the intensity of the experience.
I looked at the photos and smiled when I saw the one of us together. It was a promotional photo, and I remembered that day as if it were yesterday. I had felt the current that passed between us as we’d stood side by side for the first time; it was impossible to ignore. She, too, could feel the chemistry. I’d wished like a small child that the photo shoot would never end, so that I could stay near her.
I’ll never forget the first time we were together on our own.
On one of our rare days off, Mihalis, who worked as a general helper on location, took us to a beach on my mother’s island in his speedboat. The beach was locally known as Kryfó, hidden-away. It lay just across the water from where we were filming.
He initially kept our exact destination a secret, just telling us that he was taking us to a secluded beach of incomparable beauty.
Ι felt an inkling about where we were going when I saw the direction we were headed toward and asked for the name of the island. As soon as my suspicions were confirmed, my first impulse was to ask him to turn back. Seeing how happy and relaxed Anita was, though, made me hold my tongue. Anyway, given how secluded Mihalis claimed the spot was, there was very little chance of us running into anyone.
It took forty minutes to get there. I have traveled much in my life, but never had I seen a beach like that one. Literally a hideaway, it could only be reached by boat or after an arduous trek through the mountains.
The beauty of the place was breathtaking, as if God had summoned all His artistry and inspiration to create it and then tuck it away from human eyes.
A river came down from high up the mountain, arriving on a large stretch of virgin sand, crowned by two enormous rocks. Beneath the rocks and hidden from view was a cave, a shelter to fugitives and secret lovers, as Mihalis pointed out in a voice laden with meaning.
The locals called it the Cave of Silence—the still silence that engulfed you once you were inside; the silence of all the secrets the Cave had kept over the years.
During our crossing, Mihalis had shared many colorful stories about this blissful spot: stories of pirates who’d come here to bury hidden treasure; of the couple who had met here to enjoy a few stolen moments of love during the Nazi occupation; and his own story of how he would meet his wife here in the early stages of their romance, to escape prying eyes and local gossip.
It felt strange to set foot on my mother’s island for the very first time in such unusual circumstances and in this manner. I knew that I’d be back again in a few days. I tried not to dwell on it and turned my attention to Anita, who seemed enthralled.
Mihalis left us on the beach with some food and drinks and said he’d be back in the evening. It was a warm, sunny day, we were all alone surrounded by the most beautiful scenery and, although nothing had happened between us until then, it was not long before we succumbed to what we had been feeling from the first moment we’d had met.
When our lips touched for the first time, I felt as if time stood still. And as soon as we walked into the Cave of Silence, we realized how much we wanted one another.
I am still not aware of how I overcame my fear of closed spaces that day. I rarely entered caves, always seized by an irrational fear that I may never be able to get out. That day, however, I could sense nothing other than Anita’s presence and the turmoil it stirred inside me.
She spread the sheet we’d brought with us in the center of the cave and beckoned me to lie down next to her. We made love as if it were our first time, as if we had never made love to anyone before; as if we were only just discovering a hidden pleasure and we shared a look of intensity and incredulity, wondering whether what was happening was truly real. Adam and Eve, on earth.
A small lake had formed inside the cave, a pool of water dripping from the cave walls. It reflected what little light could enter the cave onto the ceiling, casting a kaleidoscope of fluid shapes and the shadows of our bodies onto the wild rocks. Our moans of pleasure echoed before being swallowed up by the silence.
The rocks were scarred with carved initials and names, an odd testament to those who had been there before, a brotherhood of visitors who had known this place and left a relic of their story behind. We did the same before we left. We found a place high up on one of the walls and I carved our names on the rough rock with a penknife—right beside two other names that had faded with the passage of time. You could barely make out ELENI and an M. Time and brine had taken away the rest. How long ago had these names been carved? Were Eleni and M. still alive today? Years from now, would someone else be trying to carve their name next to ours, see our faded names?
We stayed on the beach until dusk when Mihalis returned to ferry us back. If we weren’t working early the early following day I would have asked him to let us spend the night there, in the Cave of Silence.
Ever since that day, I felt that I had reached the destination I’d always been searching for; like I’d become a different person, the person I had always wanted to be…
»»»»»»»»»»»
My reverie was interrupted by a man sitting at a nearby table, who spoke loudly at the television set. “Unbelievable, people can be barbarians.”
I turned to the TV set and suddenly, as if someone had just turned the volume up, I heard the newscaster announce that the upcoming video was distressing and unsuitable for younger viewers. I had not heard the introduction to this news item, so I stared at the screen trying to make out what the story was about.
The scenes unfolding on the screen shocked me so much I was unable to turn away, despite the revolt I felt. Shot somewhere in the Middle East, the video showed a woman, her hands bound behind her back, blindfolded with a scarf and kneeling on the ground. A braying crowd of men, women, and, shockingly children, had gathered, stones in their hands, and as far as I could make out from the shaky footage, were getting ready to hurl them at their victim. Thankfully, the video ended there and resumed only at the end of the stoning, the camera zooming in on the woman’s lifeless body covered in blood-splattered stones. The caption at the bottom of the screen read WOMAN SENTENCED TO DEATH BY STONING FOR ADULTERY.
The newscaster, also shocked by what had just been screene
d, stayed silent for a couple of seconds and then resumed the broadcast.
The sudden contrast between the sweet image of Anita on the beach and the brutal execution of that poor woman had shaken me so much that, for a moment, I felt my extremities go numb. I wondered how it was possible for one human being to do this to another and, in this instance, how so many people took on the part of executioner in this monstrous killing so willingly. Surely that was a woman they’d known, who’d lived among them, yet no one seemed to feel any pity for her.
I wished I hadn’t watched any of it, that I could have stayed wrapped up in my reveries. I glared at the man whose loud voice had brought me back to reality and the TV set and turned to face the window behind me, trying to escape what I had just seen.
An elderly man was staring at me with a look of sympathy, as if telling me to calm down and forget what I had just watched. Our eyes met and, for a moment, he seemed familiar, making me wonder whether this was someone I knew. I gave him a tight little smile to convey my thanks and he returned my gesture with a slight nod.
I picked up my coffee cup and took a large sip. I don’t know why, but at that moment my mother begging me with all her might not to set foot on the island where she’d been born came to my mind. I leaned back and closed my eyes, transported to the scene that had unfolded at her house three months before.
My mother’s house, three months ago
* * *
The truth is, my visits back home had become increasingly rare these past few years. My relationship with my mother was not to blame; the man who had been sharing her life during that time was. I never expected my mother to remain single and not have a partner as she grew older. After all, she had spent ten lonely years following my father’s death from cancer. I knew how difficult that had been, how much she missed him, so I never felt bothered by the presence of a new man in her life. It’s just that my relations with Kostas were almost non-existent. He ignored my presence and I reciprocated.
My mother had had a difficult childhood, as had her brother, Uncle Nikos, especially during the War. When the Germans executed my grandparents, the orphaned siblings had been forced to flee their island on a small boat. After a day at sea with no food or water, they washed up on a nearby island and were rescued by some monks. When the Nazis learned that the two children were being sheltered at the monastery, they burned it to the ground. Once again, Mother and Uncle Nikos escaped by the skin of their teeth and went into hiding. At the end of the war, they were taken to Athens, into the care of some distant relatives. Growing up, they managed to stand on their own two feet; my mother finished school and married my father and Uncle Nikos moved to Thessaloniki.
My mother always claimed not to remember much, but I sensed that most of what she recounted had been indelibly etched in her memory despite being so young at the time; practically an infant. The only heirloom that had survived that time was the cross her godmother had given her at her christening, in accordance with religious custom. According to Uncle Nikos, she’d had a secret christening at sea.
Uncle Nikos certainly remembered a lot more than my mother, but his lips were tightly sealed. He’d buried those painful experiences somewhere deep inside him and did not want to share them with anyone else.
Before leaving Athens to start work on the film, I decided to go visit my mother. Not only would I be absent for quite a while, I had to pick up my uncle’s ashes, kept in the steel box that would accompany me on this trip.
She let me in with a smile on her face. “You can still let yourself in the house with your own key, you know.”
She’d just had a haircut and her short white hair made her look more vibrant, giving more character to her wrinkles and the story they told.
I smiled back and blurted out the first excuse that popped into my head. “I’ve lost my keys.”
She didn’t fall for it. “Don’t lie. We are alone. Kostas is out and won’t be back for a while.”
“I like your hair, Mamá,” I changed the subject playfully patting her head. “I’ve never seen you with short hair before.”
“I thought it was time for a change, even in my old age, Dimitri. Sit down. Have you had anything to eat? Would you like me to get you something?”
“I’m okay, I’ve had lunch,” I replied looking around the room.
Not much had changed since I’d moved out, and, for some strange reason, I liked that. I felt like a pilgrim, revisiting the temple that held my memories, everything we had shared while my father was alive. Waiting for him to come home from work, hanging onto the door, waiting for the sound of his keys in the lock…even at that moment, I looked at the door thinking that he’d walk in and take me in his arms.
I was glad to see the photo of the three of us was still hanging on the wall, my parents grinning and beaming with pride at their eight-month-old son. They looked so happy! When Kostas had moved in I had feared that my mother would have felt obliged to take the photo down, but it hadn’t happened. She still honored her past.
I sat on the couch and let my eyes wander over the magnificent sea view framed by the balcony doors before me. My mother had filled her balcony with pots bursting with all kinds of flowers. This time of year, it was a cornucopia of color, and the heady flower scents combined with the sea view made you forget you were in an apartment, tricking you into thinking you were sitting in the most wonderful garden. I missed this relaxing blend of green and blue, a constant absence in the urban downtown apartment where I lived.
While I sat on the couch thinking about my father and lost in the view, my mother had been busy in the kitchen. She returned carrying a large glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, which she placed before me with a smile. “Drink it,” she said as if I were a ten-year-old again, and sat down beside me.
I took a big sip. Once again I felt like my childhood self, my mother holding the juice in her hand and waiting for me to gulp it down as I hopped on one foot, late for school as always, my father waiting at the door to drop me off and I dashing off, straw still dangling from my lips, leaving the juice half-drunk,.
“So, you’re leaving tomorrow…” she said in an altered voice, the bright smile on her face replaced by a worried frown.
“Yes, tomorrow morning and I shoot my first scene the day after.” I tried to speak in a light-hearted manner, to make her feel some of my joy at the prospect of the brilliant break that had fallen into my lap. She tried to look happy for me, but it was clear her mind was elsewhere. “Congratulations, I’m so pleased for you. I hope all goes well and it’s a hit…”
She took a long pause. I kept quiet, feeling there was something else she wanted to say. But her pause just grew longer and she seemed to struggle to express what was on her mind. I knew it had something to do with the island, and I tried to help her out by speaking first. “Everything is going to be fine, Mamá, don’t worry. But perhaps now is a good time to tell me why you don’t want me to go there. I think I’m old enough now to know the reasons behind this. Whatever it is, please tell me and I’ll be careful. But I need to know, in case I need to protect myself in some way.”
My mother sighed and seemed to summon all her strength. She took my hands in hers and looked at me, determined, intense, her eyes welling up. “If you do exactly as I tell you, Dimitri, you won’t need anyone’s protection. If you insist on going there, you’ll go there, scatter your uncle’s ashes, and not mention a word of it to anyone. You must never mention your grandfather’s name. Don’t tell anyone that you are connected to that place, in any way. And leave as soon as your work there is done. Can you promise me that? Can you?”
She fell silent once again as a teardrop made its way down her wrinkled cheek. I tried to contain the anger rising in me. Her secrecy, her refusal to explain made me unhappy and ill at ease. What would happen if I were to reveal that my grandfather was Yiannis Reniotis, that I was the son of Maria Reniotis?
My mother could read me well. Regaining her composure, she pressed on. “When you come
back, we’ll talk about this. I’ll tell everything I know. I haven’t been lying when I said I don’t remember that much. Your uncle kept secrets, even from me. He didn’t like to bring up the past. Maybe it’s better if we don’t either. Only pain and bad memories...”
I could see she was upset and I did not want to make her feel worse, so I decided to let the matter rest. “Okay. I’ll do exactly as you say.”
“Promise?” she asked once again, as if wanting to make sure.
“Yes, come on now, you’re making me feel like a little boy…”
She looked me in the eyes once again and walked out of the living room toward my own bedroom.
I felt bad for pressing her but, at the same time, my curiosity was getting the better of me, increasing over the years. Having gotten tired of asking and receiving no answers, I’d done a little digging of my own in an attempt to shed some light on this family mystery. All I’d found out was simply a rehash of what little my mother had shared. The Germans had burned down most of the village and executed many of its inhabitants. For many years the village remained abandoned, until about fifty years ago when some of the locals returned. No one from grandfather Reniotis’ family had ever gone back.
I was well aware of the temptation to break the promise I’d just given, find out as much as I could when I was there. But I also felt scared. Should these “bad memories” be left alone, as my mother advised? At that point, I really wasn’t sure how I would handle this once I got there. All I could tell myself was that I would focus on my work and take things one day at a time.
Another box filled with secrets was now on the coffee table before me. The box containing Uncle Nikos’ ashes, wrapped in linen, looking almost like a macabre gift. My mother had just placed it there and now stood gazing at it, transfixed. “Uncle Nikos left for Thessaloniki straight after his military service. I rarely saw him after that. If he hadn’t felt it was his duty to look after me, he’d have left sooner. Even at my wedding he only came to the church and left straight after the service. I don’t hold it against him. I just wish we’d spent more time together.”
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