Manolis wanted to reassure Anna, however, that if Maria ever did return, it would not end their relationship. There was no possibility of him marrying a former leprosy patient.
He kissed her again, and for the second time that afternoon they made love, this time more wildly than before. It was only the sound of Sofia’s loud, insistent crying at being lifted out of her pram downstairs that disturbed them.
Manolis leapt from the bed and dressed hastily. He listened at the door for a moment and then, glancing back over his shoulder, smiled at the flawless naked form of his lover on the bed.
Languidly Anna raised a hand to her lips and blew him a kiss.
Then Manolis turned, picked up his dusty boots and padded down the back staircase out of the house.
Anna lay for a few moments before she got up, washed herself at the corner basin and chose something fresh from her wardrobe. Everyone knew that Kyría Vandoulakis always had a sleep in the afternoon, so the maid would not expect to see her for a while. She did her best to straighten the sheets, and as she was plumping the pillows, she noticed a tiny speck of red, a trace of Manolis’s blood, on one of them. She removed the pillowslip, dropped it into the laundry basket and found a fresh one in the linen drawer.
The months passed. Anna was demanding and passionate and emotional, a combination that Manolis could not resist. Her mood was intensified by an ever-deepening terror: the possibility of a cure for leprosy. Whatever Manolis said to reassure her, her dread about what Maria’s return could mean gnawed away at her. Fear and fury grew, making her mood febrile and her behaviour less rational. When Manolis visited, she was careless about whether the windows were open or closed, or whether she straightened the sheets after he had gone. It was almost as if she wanted their affair to be discovered.
What would happen if – and it was still no more than this – Maria came back? She constantly circled back to the same question and it was impossible for Manolis to make her understand his position. How many times did he have to promise her that he would never exchange her for her sister? The very notion of it was preposterous. But the idea was like a grub burrowing into her skin, laying its eggs and breeding more.
Manolis resigned himself to Anna incessantly pressing him on the subject. Normally he exerted something close to magic over his lover, but on this subject he was powerless.
Chapter Three
ONE EVENING THAT summer, Manolis was enjoying a second carafe of raki outside the kafeneío in Plaka. He loved the view of the bay and in general scarcely gave the sight of Spinalonga a second thought.
Giorgos was coming across the water towards the village. The boat glided over the surface of the sea, leaving behind it a mesmerising pattern of ripples, as even as the lines of a ploughed field.
Manolis watched the old man tether his boat below and make his way up from the jetty. He often bought Giorgos a drink after he had made a delivery to the island, and the two men always chatted for a while. Giorgos was a man restrained in speech and emotion, but today he looked happier than usual. It was evident even in the spring in his step.
‘You’ve heard the rumour?’ he asked simply.
Manolis nodded and the two men clinked their glasses together.
Manolis thought of a particular moment a few years earlier when Giorgos had appeared in the bar. He remembered the pallor of his skin, the stoop of his shoulders and the way he had avoided Manolis’s eye as he told him the terrible news about Maria. When Manolis thought about it now, his overriding emotion had been sorrow for the old man. He had felt little else. It was Giorgos he had pitied, not himself.
Manolis had always maintained that he had loved Maria once, but in recent months there had been plenty of time to reflect on this. Beyond question she had been very different from anyone he had ever met before, but her purity had been little more than a tease for him. The idea of her virginity had been alluring because he had enjoyed the anticipation of taking it from her, but when she disappeared from his life, it was sadness he had felt, rather than grief. He believed that the fates had played a role in removing her from his life.
Now that he thought about it, he recalled also feeling something close to relief. He had never been able to imagine himself waking up next to the same person day after day, knowing that this beginning would be some kind of end too.
Even if it was hard to admit to himself, at the core of his relationship with Maria had been another pleasure: that of stirring her sister to a fury. The idea of Anna’s jealousy gently but constantly simmering always sweetened his day, and made their eventual coming together all the more ferocious in its passion.
The two men had a brief conversation now about the news of a possible cure.
‘Let’s hope it comes to something,’ said Giorgos before getting up. It was a typical pattern. He never stayed long.
The evening held onto the heat of the day, and as he often did, Manolis stripped to swim off the rocks before heading home. He drove back with his hair still damp and a fine layer of salt on his skin.
Over the ensuing days, the temperature began to climb. There was not even the slightest hint of a breeze. Sea and sky merged into a single mirrored surface and the trees were motionless.
Later that week, Andreas invited Manolis to have dinner at their home. The whole family, including his sisters Olga and Eirini and their husbands and children, were there to celebrate Olga’s saint’s day. It was a noisy event.
Before dinner, while the grown-ups had a drink, Olga’s three boys, who were all under seven, tore up and down the stairs and along corridors, unrestrained by their parents. The oldest pretended to be a Turk and chased the younger two, brandishing a wooden sword he had brought with him, until he felled them one by one, and then the game began all over again. The only fact of history that had stuck in his head so far was that his country had once been liberated from four hundred years of Turkish rule after a number of battles. It provided endless potential for violent games with his brothers.
Olga and Eirini’s daughters played happily together on a rug. They were both four years old, and as well as being entertained by their toys, they were allowed to play with Sofia and plait her hair.
A real-life doll was even more fun than the ones with moulded faces and strange staring eyes, and they both got carried away while their parents were not looking. Suddenly the real one started crying, which made both of them grizzle, and Sofia was taken off to bed by the nursemaid. Both girls got a smack on the hand, which sparked a new wave of tears.
Even with the chaos created by the children, Manolis relished the opportunity to see Anna in front of the rest of the family. He knew she found the situation awkward and enjoyed that.
Everyone was uncomfortably overdressed that night, Alexandros and his two sons-in-law wearing jackets and the women their best evening dresses. Manolis had put on a clean white shirt, and his eyes frequently strayed across to look at Anna, who was in emerald-green silk. The colour of jealousy suited her well.
By the time they sat down to dinner and the children had calmed down, Anna’s nerves were frayed. It was not only the snivelling of the girls and the squeals of the boys that had caused this. It was her usual disquiet over the rumours of leprosy treatment.
If Anna was on edge, Manolis too was a little uneasy that night. The workers were often conduits of the latest – and usually accurate – news, and he knew that Andreas had heard the same information from them as he had. Nothing travelled faster than word of mouth, and as ever, by the time events were printed in the local newspaper, they were already well known.
Even as Andreas was unfurling his napkin and spreading it across his lap, Manolis held his breath. He knew what his cousin was going to say.
‘It seems they have made progress at last!’ Andreas announced. ‘They’re going to start sending the lepers home. A few of them have been cured.’
Although she had not yet touched her food, Anna began to choke. It gave her the perfect excuse to leave the table.
&nbs
p; Andreas followed his wife from the room and was gone for ten minutes.
‘She’ll be fine,’ he reassured everyone when he eventually strode back in. He vainly attempted a smile.
‘It must be quite a shock to find out your sister is coming home after all this time,’ said Alexandros.
‘A nice surprise, you mean?’ queried Kyría Eleftheria. ‘Surely she’s pleased, Andreas?’
‘I am sure their reunion will be a very happy occasion,’ Manolis chipped in blandly.
‘Just imagine how their father must be feeling,’ Eleftheria continued, clasping her hands together with pleasure.
Eleftheria had always felt mildly ashamed that they had not been more welcoming to Giorgos Petrakis at Sofia’s baptism, but fear of her husband’s disapproval had been enough to deter her from being overfriendly. Alexandros Vandoulakis’s concern at the distant family connection to Spinalonga was as strong as it had ever been. Now perhaps things would start to change.
When Andreas returned from checking on his wife again, he told everyone that she was feeling better now and would be downstairs again in a moment. As soon as the gliká tou koutalioú, sweet spoon desserts, were set on the table and there had been another chorus of ‘Xrónia Pollá’ to toast Olga, Manolis made an excuse to leave. He claimed a touch of heat stroke and exhaustion from a long day in the fields, but the real reason was that he had no wish to stay around if Anna was not in the room. He would need to see her again very soon, to press upon her once more that Maria’s return would not affect his love for her.
By the next day, the heat had intensified and a lethargy settled over the Vandoulakis estate. Everyone worked at half-pace, and for three hours, when the temperature was at its highest, the men dozed beneath the trees. There was no point making them return to work when both limbs and lids were heavy with heat. These were important weeks of preparation for the beginning of the grape harvest, and Andreas demanded that everyone work long hours, and after the sun went down, but he could not ban their siesta.
Manolis knew Anna was expecting him that afternoon, but he sat down for a moment and sleep seduced him just as it had the others. He worked as hard as any of them. He played an indispensable role on the estate these days, acting as a bridge between the owner of these vast and productive acreages of vineyards, olive groves and agricultural land and everyone who worked on them.
He had arrived six years earlier, after a decade of wandering about in Europe squandering a huge sum left to him by his grandfather. Manolis’s late father had been the eldest of two brothers and the heir to the great estate, but he had died young and the land had passed to Alexandros Vandoulakis instead. In due course, it would pass to Andreas. Manolis harboured no resentment, and in any case he loved his life just as it was.
‘If the gods had wished it, history would be different,’ he once said to his friend Antonis. Antonis found Manolis’s acceptance of his lot and his lack of bitterness about it incomprehensible.
It had been Manolis’s own choice to spend the previous years travelling and womanising and exploring the very lengths and depths of hedonism. He did not regret a single moment. In fact, he pitied anyone who had never lived in Paris, Rome or Barcelona as he had done.
He had returned to Crete with nothing but a lyra that he had treasured since childhood. During his travels, this precious possession had not only been used to entertain, but had often earned him enough to survive. In many cities in France and Austria, no one had ever heard such a pure singing voice as his, nor the mellow tones of an instrument so puzzlingly like, and yet unlike, a violin. Along with the language that few even recognised, people were enthralled by the music he made.
Although he had not a single drachma in his pocket, he did bring back with him a skill that was lacking in the rest of the Vandoulakis family: an ability to engage with anyone, regardless of age, wealth or education. People loved this man. Even animals were drawn to him. It was said that wild goats gathered round him if he whistled, and there was often a trail of eager stray dogs behind him.
Manolis’s mother had died in childbirth, and after his father’s death when he was five, Alexandros and Eleftheria Vandoulakis had brought him up as their own son. Despite this, when he first arrived back on the estate, Alexandros had decided to test his seriousness about wanting to work there. In his view, the family name alone did not automatically entitle him to a role. He set his nephew the same tasks as he would for any new employee. Manolis must prove himself.
He was shown a piece of neglected land – and on this sprawling estate there were still plenty of uncultivated corners – and told to make what he could of it. Within the space of a few days, he had demonstrated his physical strength and stamina in clearing it. What impressed his uncle most, though, was the way in which he recruited others to assist him. People willingly did him favours. There was no monetary value that could be put on such rare charisma.
Within a short time, Manolis was managing the workforce on the estate. He engaged in hard physical labour alongside them, not only because it motivated them, but because he enjoyed it too.
Anna did not understand why he insisted on working the same long hours as his men. Surely he was their boss? That day she did not care to excuse him for his non-appearance. He should be there with her. She was becoming increasingly irrational, and as the days went by and Manolis missed more of their usual lunchtime meetings, she did not hide her anger.
The atmosphere in the Elounda home was tense. Even though the simple explanation was Andreas’s instruction for everyone to work overtime, Manolis’s continued absence unhinged her. Nothing tempted her to dress or to eat, and she could not even be coaxed into taking an interest in her little daughter. Naturally she offered no explanation to her husband, and increasingly took to her bed.
Andreas telephoned his mother to cancel a dinner engagement with his parents, and Eleftheria Vandoulakis shared her suspicions with her husband.
‘Don’t you remember how off-colour she was the first time?’
Alexandros was only half listening.
‘Is she ill?’
‘A baby, Alexandros!’ Eleftheria cried in frustration. ‘I think she might be pregnant!’
‘Oh!’ responded Alexandros, with more interest now. ‘I do hope it’s a boy this time.’
Eleftheria shook her head despairingly.
‘I am sure she’ll tell us when she’s ready,’ she said. ‘But at least it would explain her behaviour.’
Manolis had a few late nights with Antonis in the kafeneío that week. The two men lost themselves in games of távli and carafe after carafe of raki, and one evening they played music until the sun came up. When Manolis picked up his lyra, time lost all meaning. With the encouragement of an appreciative audience, Antonis on the thiáboli and very often the company of a laoúto, he could play and sing for hours.
One evening, planning just to stay for a short time, he called in for a cold beer. The previous night he had been playing until dawn and had gone straight to the fields without sleep. Normally he knew everyone in the kafeneío, but tonight there was a pair of unfamiliar faces. Two men, clearly friends, sat together in the corner. It was unusual in such a small place for strangers not to be integrated into the general conversation, but these men did not seem uncomfortable with being ostracised. They had chosen to sit in the shadows.
Grigoris, the kafetzís, approached Manolis with his beer and put it down. Even though Manolis had his back to the strangers, Grigoris knew his customer well enough to interpret his glance.
‘They were let out early,’ he said, under his breath.
The phrase immediately made Manolis think of prison.
‘They took the medicine before the others,’ continued Grigoris. ‘They’re cured.’
The men overheard, and one of them quietly got up and approached Manolis. His proximity was not intended to be threatening, but Manolis found himself momentarily afraid of the presence looming over him. He sprang to his feet and turned around to face h
im.
‘Vandoulakis!’ said the man.
The voice seemed familiar to Manolis, but nothing much else did. It was an involuntary reaction, but he stepped back, unable to conceal his revulsion.
‘Panagiotis Apostolakis.’
Getting little more than a blank look from his old acquaintance, Panagiotis Apostolakis repeated himself.
Manolis now recalled that someone with the name Apostolakis used to own a taverna in Elounda. He had been there many times.
The man was holding out his hand, and Manolis saw that it lacked several fingers. He had not anticipated that he would feel so repelled. He thrust his own hands into his trouser pockets and took another step back.
Though his thick stature was unchanged, Panagiotis Apostolakis was facially unrecognisable. He had been a handsome man with a moustache that had impressed even Manolis. Now he was bald, with not a single hair on his head or his face.
Manolis looked over Apostolakis’s shoulder and caught sight of his companion. The other man was more seriously disfigured, his face deeply scarred, his ears distended. From his vacant stare, Manolis deduced that he was also blind.
He tried to overcome his revulsion but failed to reach out. Apostolakis had dropped his hand to his side now in any case.
‘So . . .’ was all Manolis could manage to say. Words dried in his mouth.
‘We’re the first to be . . .’
Grigoris passed them on his way to serve another table.
‘They’re the first to have tried the drugs!’ said the kafetzís with enthusiasm. ‘Almost the first to come home!’
Manolis managed a smile.
‘Yes. It’s great news!’ he said unconvincingly, reaching for the dregs of his beer that still sat on the table.
He drained the glass and left hastily.
As he climbed into his truck, he found his hands shaking so much that he struggled to put the key in the ignition. As the engine eventually fired into life, he caught sight of Giorgos in the distance. He swung the truck round to avoid having to pass him and roared off.
One August Night Page 3