Secrets of Santorini

by Patricia Wilson

  At that moment, I felt a spark of hate. His spiteful words knocked the wind out of me, but then my anger gathered, swift and dark as storm clouds. Hurt me and I’ll hurt you more!

  ‘I had to pay for your operation! How was I supposed to do that? Do you know . . . have you any idea how much open-heart surgery costs? Never mind the air ambulance, the anaesthetist, blood transfusions, nursing, medication, travel back and forth. You never even bothered to ask how I’d managed, not really. A few polite words, quickly accepting that I’d managed to raise enough money, that was all. You never even asked how much it cost. And to be honest, I’d have given my very soul to save your life, Tommy! In fact, I was prepared to go to prison for it. I was pregnant, don’t you understand?!’

  ‘Don’t you dare try and pin this on me! How many things have you sold? I can’t believe it. You had my complete trust. And you, writing about the crime of antiquity theft, and making money from that too, gaining everyone’s confidence and respect – and now I find you’re nothing but a despicable thief yourself!’

  Oh!

  Unable to move, I stared at him. I wish you were dead. I wish I’d let you die, you nasty, cruel man! I couldn’t see or feel anything, nor understand what I was about; all I knew was rage, pure, undiluted rage. It filled every crack and crevice of my body, oozed from my pores, stiffened my bones and vented as a scream.

  Oddly enough, that very same rage saved me. I wore it like armour around my broken heart. I lived off the constant supply of fury that grew like ice crystals between us; it made me stronger and hardened me to the pain that was always gnawing away inside.

  If it hadn’t been for my anger, I would have felt nothing but despair, and the sleeping pills would have been too tempting a solution.

  CHAPTER 24

  IRINI

  Santorini, present day.

  ANGELO AND I WALKED INTO TOWN. I had my mother’s electricity bills to pay. ‘What about rates – you know, council tax?’ I ask.

  ‘It is included in your electricity bill. The higher your electricity bill, the more tax you pay. It’s a very good system, yes?’

  People greeted me like a long-lost friend. Everyone called me Iris, much to Angelo’s amusement, and I guessed I would have to get used to it. The smell of roast pork wafted into the street and made me realise I was hungry.

  ‘Come, we’ll pay this quickly and then stop for some food,’ Angelo said.

  In the crowded office, I expected a long wait. Angelo advised me to stand in the corner. He knocked on an office door, entered, then reappeared and called me. Less than five minutes later we passed the queue on our way out, bills all paid.

  ‘I don’t know how you did that, but thank you,’ I said, wondering if money changed hands in the name of queue-jumping.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said smugly.

  We ate souvlaki in the street, silently watching the tourists and occasionally exchanging a nod or a smile.

  ‘Thanks for coming with me,’ I said, feeling comfortable in his company.

  Angelo turned to face me, his eyes searching mine for a moment, the hint of a smile on his lips. He nodded and shrugged, and instead of my infuriating blush, a warm feeling rose from the pit of my stomach.

  ‘I wonder if my mother and father ever sat at this table, enjoying the day,’ I said. ‘They married in the cathedral here, forty years ago.’

  ‘Forty years?’ He made the Greek down-sideways nod. ‘Your parents must be very much in love, yes?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘Then they are lucky.’ He frowned at the tabletop. ‘Some people—’

  Spiro screeched to the kerb. ‘Iris! Come, I take you to the archaeology. Get in quick, is not allowed for cars in this street!’

  After fifteen minutes of Spiro’s hair-raising driving, we pulled up at the site. Along the way, I had admired the amazing view. At some points, I could see all the caldera, and at others, I gazed down the gentle slope towards the black beaches on the outskirts of the island. Blue-domed churches, vineyards, and donkeys were everywhere. Nevertheless, I was relieved to get out of the cab.

  Apart from a couple of tourists, the archaeological site was empty. We found Aaron using a trowel to scrape the bottom of a trench.

  ‘Hi, welcome to the site!’ he cried, pulling himself out of the straight-sided channel.

  The trenches and half walls seemed to go on forever. Reaching high above the excavation, hefty steel columns supported an elaborate louvred roof of glass, steel, and wood, which flooded the area in natural light. I reminded myself that my mother and father laboured here for decades, starting from scratch in a bare field.

  I was surrounded by streets lined by roofless houses – an entire town. ‘They must have worked hard to uncover all this,’ I whispered to myself from a low-slung gantry, which I guessed was in place for the benefit of tourists.

  ‘There’s some steps behind you,’ Aaron called, his voice tinny and echoing. ‘Come down and walk through the streets. I’ll show you where you were born, Irini.’

  Filled with curiosity and having little memory of the place, I proceeded. Every noise was amplified and seemed disrespectful. Once we were standing on the dirt, the place fell into silence again. I glanced down alleys and sideroads, not sure what I expected to see. Soon, I realised there was nothing but walls and dust. No frescoes, no statues, no artefacts apart from pots of every shape and size – some so large they would conceal a man.

  Over time, I had built a picture of something so amazing that it drew my mother away from her husband and child. When I saw the site was hardly different from my childhood memories, I felt deceived and cheated.

  ‘What was it about this place that captured my mother’s soul? I can’t believe she left us for dust and stones.’

  The smile fell from Aaron’s face and he blinked at me, then looked around again. ‘Ah,’ he said slowly. ‘I see what you mean. Follow me back to the entrance.’

  We returned the way we had come, then he turned to Angelo and said, ‘May I?’ Angelo seemed to understand and made a down-sideways nod. Aaron took my hand and said, ‘Close your eyes and empty your head. Now you are going to see this place as it was. The town is full of people going about their daily tasks. I will walk you through and describe everything.’

  His hand felt huge, fleshy and strong, but the grip of this gentle giant was almost tender.

  ‘Use your imagination, Irini. Open your eyes and see for yourself.’ I could hear the excitement in his voice.

  He held out a hand, indicating the left side of the street. ‘Here is area three; this building is two storeys high, with fourteen rooms on each floor. Inside, on both floors, the walls of the main rooms are decorated with magnificent life-size frescoes depicting the lifestyle of those who used these rooms.’

  I felt the air around us was charged, and the strange feeling grew stronger with each breath. My mother’s Book of Dreams came to mind, and with that, the hope that I would soon come closer to understanding them.

  I stared around. ‘Twenty-eight rooms? A huge building, even by today’s standards. Can you describe the frescoes, Aaron?’

  He nodded, stood taller, clearly enthralled. After leading me through a stone doorway, he said, ‘In this, the largest room on the ground floor, one entire wall was filled with the mystical cult of the crocus gatherers. Three young women, life-size, are splendidly dressed but bare-breasted. The central figure is sitting on a bank of crocuses; she’s holding her foot and drops of blood are falling from her heel. The woman to her right has her head partly shaved, and she’s covered in a long veil. The woman to her left’s holding a necklace out to the wounded one.’ He paused while I conjured up the image.

  ‘My mother dreamed about all this.’ I closed my eyes and saw her drawings. ‘She seemed obsessed by the frescoes and made many sketches of them.’

  Aaron smiled. ‘I know. Look up, that’s the room above. The floor has gone, of course. Above the fresco of the cult was the fresco of Queen Thira, the Goddess
of the Marches. She sits on her throne, attended by exotic animals, a griffin and a monkey. Her dress is magnificent, her hair is waxed and coiled, and she too wears necklaces. One is a circle of drakes, the other of dragonflies. Both are creatures of the wetlands. On the adjacent wall, the scene continues with young women gathering crocuses. Several have their heads partly shaved and painted blue.’

  Again, my mother’s dreams and sketches came to mind. ‘Where are they, the frescoes?’

  ‘Ah, they’re in Athens, but photographs of all the frescoes, with their descriptions, are in my book, Irini. It was published just before Bridget’s accident. There are many frescoes, and so much to say about each one. I’m sure you’ll find them as fascinating as Bridget did.’

  I tried to imagine the streets thronging with people. Beautiful women with elaborately styled hair. Boys with part of their heads shaved and painted bright blue. I imagined them playing jackstones outside one of the houses. My thoughts carried me away. I saw a bearded man in a toga sitting on the street corner and strumming a lute; tremulous notes drifted and danced lyrically about me. Families wandered through doorways and along the streets, going about their business. Gracious, elegant people.

  Aaron touched my shoulder, making me jump. ‘Sorry, did I startle you?’

  ‘I was trying to imagine how it looked and a moment from my childhood returned. Mam would hold my hand and walk me through these streets when I was very young. I recalled hearing her say: “Look, Irini, they turn our way and bow as we pass.” I’d peer inside the rooms and she would describe things. She made me see, for example, an aged woman at a heavy weaving frame. “She racks down the warp of a blue and yellow rug. Look, the old dear catches sight of us as she throws the shuttle between tight weft threads on the loom. She’s dropped the bobbin. Now she places both hands on her chest and lowers her head reverently.” Wow! I had forgotten all that. I loved her stories.’

  I returned my attention to the street but darkness invaded the scene, as if someone turned a dimmer switch, and then everything rushed away in a faint. I was falling . . . falling . . .

  *

  Conscious of an arm around my back and a man’s concerned voice in my ear, I returned to reality. Flustered and light-headed, I rubbed my eyes and stared around at the empty, dusty archaeological site.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Angelo asked.

  I was on the ground. He helped me into a sitting position.

  ‘My God, I came over all dizzy. I might need to sit for a moment.’ I recalled what I had seen. ‘That was the strangest thing, remembering my mother’s words and how vividly I imagined what she described.’

  Aaron brought me a beaker of water and then Angelo steered me towards a great block of granite.

  ‘Rest here. Look, you lost your shoe.’ He picked it up and slipped it back on, reminding me of that first day modelling for him.

  ‘Where did you say the frescoes are now?’ he asked Aaron.

  ‘The National Archaeological Museum in Athens, though they’re not all on show.’ He frowned disapprovingly. ‘There’s a few in our museum, here in town, but they took the majority away.’

  I had the oddest feeling that I needed to call my father. I dialled his number and when I got through, Quinlan answered. When he told me there was no change with Mam, and my father was sleeping, I wanted to hug him.

  ‘I’ll see you this evening, Quinlan,’ I said into the phone.

  Angelo tapped his watch and shook his head. ‘Tomorrow morning, Irini. We will not get to the ferry in time now.’

  I remembered the specialist talking about my mother’s tumour and several questions hit me in a horrible rush. Perhaps I had that same tumour gene. I wondered if the crash, the bump on the head, had woken it up. Headaches had troubled me on and off ever since, and now I’d fainted. I felt sick and short of breath with the idea that an alien growth might be gaining strength, growing, sending out its sproggish spores on a mission to divide and conquer both my body and mind.

  ‘Irini, what is it?’ Angelo asked, breaking my thoughts.

  I saw no point in discussing my fears with him. Speculating on what might simply be the result of my recent stress and lack of sleep would not help.

  ‘No, nothing. I need to go back to the doctor after fainting like that. He warned me I might suffer from concussion after the crash. He mentioned the symptoms to look out for, that’s all. Nothing to fret about.’

  While Angelo phoned for a taxi, I continued to wonder if I had the problematic gene like my mother.

  Ten minutes later, we said goodbye to Aaron and met Spiro outside the gate.

  ‘Where you go now, Iris?’ Spiro asked.

  ‘We missed the ferry, Spiro, so perhaps we’ll get something to eat and go back to the house.’

  ‘No, no! You come with me. My cousin baptise his first boy this afternoon. Now we have big party. You come, celebrate with my family.’

  As we sped towards the town, I looked out across the caldera and saw the FastCat motoring out into the open sea.

  *

  By one o’clock in the morning I was full of food, and after a glass of wine, perhaps a little drunk too. I phoned the hospital and the night staff told me my mother was stable and peaceful. I still wished I could be there.

  ‘You had a good time, I think,’ Angelo said as we wandered through town.

  ‘What amazing people, Angelo. Did you ever see such a thing before?’

  He laughed and looped my arm into his as we walked. ‘Of course. Every Greek person you see has had such a night.’

  ‘I can’t believe those old ladies, and such young children, could dance all night long. And the food would have fed half of Dublin for a month!’ I glanced sideways at him. He added a head-waggle to his frowning smile and it made me laugh. ‘You’re very proud of your people, aren’t you?’

  ‘But of course. Aren’t you?’ He looked at me as if I’d asked a stupid question.

  ‘Never thought about it. I suppose so. I wish we Irish had kept more of our customs, like you Greeks.’

  ‘Tradition is important – it gives our country a strong sense of identity and draws us together.’

  We had reached the house. He opened the gate, and then bolted it while I searched for the house key. I pulled a bottle of wine out of my bag.

  ‘What’s this? I thought my bag was heavy.’

  ‘Ah, I thought a nightcap would help us sleep.’ He had a naughty-boy grin. ‘What are you looking for?’

  ‘The key. I dropped it into my bag but I think there’s a hole in the lining and it’s gone under. It’ll be here somewhere.’

  ‘Why you don’t leave it under a plant pot or over the door? That’s what everyone does.’ He nudged the big terracotta urn and smiled when it rocked slightly. ‘Here, I will tilt it and then you hold it, okay? My arm is not so good, you know? Do not let it go, Irini.’

  Obviously I was still a catastrophe in his eyes. I hung onto the pot while he slid his hand under.

  ‘Here you are – the spare key.’

  Inside, he opened the wine and poured two glasses, while I considered the sleeping arrangements. Eventually, I found a sheet, threw it over the sofa, and returned to the patio with a bottle of cold water. The air was deliciously cool too, and a new moon glowed like a thin smile in a sky ablaze with stars. Music drifted over us from one of the small hotels.

  ‘I’m still shocked by what I saw at the site today, and that most of the frescoes have been taken to Athens. I agree with Aaron – it doesn’t make sense to do that. Also, fancy me fainting. I must get my head checked out.’ We sat next to each other at the tin table, gazing out over the caldera.

  ‘The best is to forget about it. Sometimes things need to, how you say, melon?’

  It was my turn to frown. ‘Ah, mellow.’

  ‘Yes, mellow, before we see them for what they are. You have too much stress and so you can’t think straight. Put your troubles out of your mind for a while and relax.’

  ‘You’v
e been very kind, thank you, but I can’t forget my mother. Every time I forget her for a while, I feel guilty. I panic and wonder if . . . you know.’

  He nodded. ‘Tell me about your life in England.’

  ‘I’m from Ireland.’

  ‘Ah, yes, Iris, I forget.’

  I smiled, guessing what he wanted to know.

  ‘I’m an only child, I live alone, and I teach religion to six-year-olds. I’ve just broken off my engagement.’

  He faced me and turned his mouth down, the mask of Greek tragedy. ‘Sorry . . . Well, not really.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘He must be a very stupid guy.’

  ‘I hope you’re not going to give me any trouble, Angelo. I’m not ready for . . . you know, and with all that’s going on, I’m exhausted.’ I glanced into his eyes, then turned away, feeling the need to explain. ‘I was supposed to get married in two weeks’ time but I found him with somebody else.’ I shrugged. ‘That’s it, really. Same old story, not very exciting at all. How about you?’

  He ignored my question. ‘Ah, the man, he broke your heart. I am sorry. This is the most painful thing we suffer.’ He casually reached for my hands, but I quickly folded them in my lap, confused for a moment. I wasn’t ready; didn’t want to give the wrong signals.

  ‘No, Angelo. I broke off our engagement. I broke his heart, not the other way around. Don’t feel sorry for me.’ Although in truth I had suffered, suddenly I realised I hadn’t thought of Jason for days.

  CHAPTER 25

  BRIDGET

  Santorini, 20 years ago.

  TOMMY AND I COULD HARDLY tolerate looking at each other. We slept back to back with a space between us. My heart was breaking, and I’m sure his was too. Is it possible to love somebody and hate them at the same time? I wanted his arms around me so badly it crucified me, yet I looked upon him with the utmost scorn. I hardened to him, as he did to me. Something huge died between us. It wasn’t our love but, almost worse, it was our trust and friendship, our amazing kindred spirit. The opposite of everything we felt for each other took root. Disdain settled alongside affection like a malevolent bully. I had never felt so alone.