Maria asked Fotini if her brother had any plans to go and see him in the future.
‘I think he’s hoping to visit in the next couple of weeks,’ answered Fotini brightly. ‘Anastasia isn’t too keen on him going, but it does him good to see the bright lights.’
Antonis had already booked a ferry ticket and arrived one fine Friday afternoon full of his usual excitement and anticipation at seeing his friend. He found Manolis in the same frame of mind as ever, living for the day and never looking beyond the horizon.
Manolis still lived with Kyría Agathi. A big change at the pension was that Elli had moved out to get married to Philippos, her boss’s son. They had a small but joyful wedding and everyone said how sweet the bride looked in her candyfloss gown.
Antonis had promised to mention the news of his uncle’s death to Manolis.
‘Ah, the old man,’ said Manolis with fondness. ‘He was always kind to me. Shame those daughters were such witches.’
‘I don’t think they’ve improved,’ smiled Antonis. ‘As far as I’ve heard, anyway. I still see some of the workers for a drink and their new boss isn’t making himself popular. You remember Olga’s husband?’
‘He always was a maláka,’ Manolis confirmed.
‘Much better to work for yourself,’ said Antonis. ‘That’s what I think, anyhow.’
‘To the old man!’ said Manolis, raising his glass.
‘Yes,’ agreed Antonis. ‘To your uncle, my old boss! To Alexandros Vandoulakis.’
The two men spent the evening getting drunk in Piraeus, and not for a moment did they run out of conversation.
Antonis told his old friend about every aspect of his latest building project, a hotel not far from the sea.
‘It’s the future, Manolis! Foreigners coming to Crete to spend their money in Agios Nikolaos. The sun never shines in northern Europe! They come to Greece and they go mad on it! They can’t even believe the colour of the sky. I tell you, there aren’t many yet, but in ten years, there’ll be thousands of tourists in Crete.’
Manolis listened. He enjoyed his friend’s enthusiasm.
‘And the wine. It’s so cheap for them! They drink until they fall over. And they love the food. Did you know they don’t have feta cheese in Scandinavia? And the Austrians – none of them have ever seen watermelon! Can you believe it?’
Manolis had travelled to those places, so he well knew how different the eating habits were, but he did not interrupt his friend’s flow.
‘There’s money to be made, Manolis! Why don’t you come back and we can do something together? We can make a partnership. I just bought a piece of land for the next hotel. Now, I know you’re not meant to build on sand, but this place will have its own beach so guests can walk straight from their rooms into the sea. It’s going to be unique.’
Manolis gazed out towards the shipyard opposite the bar where they were sitting.
‘I am happy enough here,’ he said. ‘For the moment, it’s all I want.’
Antonis shook his head. He was going up in the world. He had bought a second car, moved to a bigger house and was exploiting his healthy financial position to take out large loans for future projects. He failed to understand his friend, believing that Manolis could be doing just as well as him.
‘Well, you should think about it. You’re wasting your time here, Manolis. We would make a good team.’
Manolis did not like to be too blunt with his friend, but even if it was the last place on earth, he could never return to Crete. Such a tragedy as Anna’s death cast a long and deep shadow, and he did not want to live in such darkness. It would be decades more before tongues stopped wagging. Everything about Crete, its scents, its sounds, its flavours, would always remind him of Anna. How could he create a new life in a place where she would be a constant presence?
He made light of his reasoning.
‘Perhaps one day,’ he said to his friend. ‘But the work is good here. I’m earning plenty. Saving a bit. Who knows what the future holds?’
The weekend passed with great merriment. Both men had plenty of cash in their pockets. Antonis loved to spend, and on Saturday he splashed out on a new watch for himself at a jeweller in Ermou, a central Athens street lined with glamorous and expensive shops.
‘You don’t get all these brands in Agios Nikolaos,’ he laughed as he handed over a wad of notes to the shop assistant.
When they came out of the shop into the late-afternoon sunshine, they strolled up towards Syntagma, Constitution Square, and soon found themselves outside the Grande Bretagne. Everyone, even on the remotest island in the Aegean, knew the name of this iconic hotel. It was the smartest, most expensive and most beautiful establishment in Greece and a place that Antonis had always wanted to go.
‘Time for a drink?’ said Manolis.
Without a second thought, he led the way. A doorman smiled and with a gloved hand pulled the door open. These two were well dressed, and he recognised them as the type who would tip well when they left.
They were immediately shown to a table and Manolis ordered a martini.
‘The same, please,’ said Antonis.
He leaned forward.
‘How did you know what to order?’ he asked his friend.
‘It’s the best cocktail there is. The simplest, the best, the purest. And they make the finest ones in Europe right here.’
‘You mean you’ve been here before?’ Antonis asked, looking around at the lavish decor. His eyes were wide as he surveyed the mirrored walls and ceiling, the gleaming chandeliers and the jungle of mighty potted palms. The gentle sound of a grand piano rolled towards them from the far corner of the room.
Antonis had never thought much about Manolis’s previous life, but it was obvious now that this was not his first visit.
It seemed light years away from Plaka and the bar where they had spent so much time together, a place where the choice had been either beer or raki. There were moments when Antonis realised that he hardly knew this man. Manolis was the sort who fitted in wherever he went, whoever he was with, like the lizards that could change the colour of their skin. Antonis noticed for the first time that his friend had shed his Cretan accent. Yes, this man was a chameleon.
He turned to look at the barman, who was vigorously rattling the cocktail shaker, chilled glasses neatly aligned on the bar. A waiter brought them iced water in cut glasses and small silver dishes of nuts and cheese biscuits the size of grapes. White linen coasters were positioned beneath each item.
He returned a moment later with the martinis.
‘Anything else for you, sir?’ he asked.
‘Not for now, thank you,’ replied Manolis.
Antonis watched as his friend carefully lifted his glass.
‘Don’t knock it back in one,’ Manolis instructed with a smile. ‘It’s not raki. Savour it.’
Picking up his own glass, Antonis looked through the clear liquid and removed the olive that had been threaded onto a stick and carefully balanced on the rim. It was his first cocktail.
‘Try it!’ urged Manolis.
Antonis had soon drained the glass and put it back on the table.
‘Panagía mou,’ he said. ‘That was good. Not enough of it, though.’
The pair of them had several more of the same.
‘So are you a regular here?’ asked Antonis.
‘Not a regular, but I call in whenever I come through Athens,’ Manolis replied. ‘I’ve lived all over Europe, Antonis, you know that. I’ve ordered martinis in Rome, Paris and Salzburg, but none of them ever compared with this.’
‘So why did you go back to Crete then?’ slurred Antonis. ‘I never understood it.’
‘Money, really. I ran out. If you spend and spend and don’t earn any, then money disappears sooner or later.’
He was stating the obvious, but Antonis nodded politely.
‘I never thought I was coming back for ever,’ admitted Manolis. ‘I just thought it would be good to be in one place for a
while. To be with family.’
‘And then—’
‘Let’s get the bill!’ Manolis cut his friend off. Antonis was about to stray into forbidden territory.
With a slight nod of his head, he summoned the waiter. He gave the bill a cursory glance and left a large note on the tray. A small gesture with his hand indicated that he did not want the change.
Even in his state of mild inebriation, Antonis knew that he had touched on something that Manolis wanted to keep to himself. The subject of Anna was still a raw nerve and Manolis’s defences were in place, as ever.
As the doorman had hoped, Manolis discreetly slipped a few drachmas into his hand as they left. Antonis took in every nuance of his friend’s behaviour. This was the kind of place he wanted to frequent more often in the future, and he could see that the smallest details of etiquette were key to blending in.
The two of them wandered up the street in the direction of Kolonaki. They needed to pick up Manolis’s car before driving back to Piraeus. Agathi was singing in a bouzoúkia in an hour’s time and Manolis had promised her that they would go.
The landlady was in good voice that night. Manolis and Antonis sat with Stavros at a table close to the stage, and some other members of their paréa joined them.
Perhaps it was alcohol that had induced this melancholy. Or perhaps being with Antonis had brought back too many images of Crete. It certainly felt to Manolis that Anna had been present with him more than usual today, but nevertheless he resisted the urge to dance the zeibékiko.
Eventually the two friends made their way home. The sun was already rising.
Chapter Seventeen
MARIA WAS WRITING to Andreas, but it was a long while since her last visit. She hated to admit it, even to herself, but her loathing of that prison officer still deterred her from going. Even Nikos asked why she had not been to see Andreas for such a long period, and she had to make up an excuse.
Accompanied by Giorgos, Nikos and Maria had both attended the one-year memorial for Alexandros Vandoulakis. A week or so on, Maria felt a pang of guilt. She put aside her fears, took a day off work from the hospital, caught the bus and joined the queue outside the prison.
The officer pretended not to recognise her. It was disconcerting but also a relief, and the process of admission was swift.
The building in which Andreas was held was still clean and sanitary, just as it had been when he moved in. Maria had worried that after his father’s death the payments for this special accommodation might have ceased. To her great relief, it appeared that Alexandros Vandoulakis had allowed for them to continue. She was happy that he had protected both his son and his grandchild from the avaricious daughters and their husbands.
Andreas was little changed, still thin, still shaven-headed. He was happy to see her and asked all about Giorgos and Sofia. It had been the child’s ninth birthday since the last visit, and Maria had brought some recent photographs to show him.
‘That’s at school . . . on a trip to Knossos . . . when we went to Sitia . . . on the beach in Plaka . . .’
He looked at them almost absent-mindedly as Maria gave a running commentary, and then handed them back to her. She would have expected more interest, given that he was Sofia’s father, and it surprised her that he did not ask to keep even one. She supposed that this was because he knew the risk as well as she did. Inmates were not allowed any possessions, except for the book that still sat on his table.
Now that the photographs were back in her bag, she worried that conversation might run out. What, after all, was there to talk about? News of the outside world was not particularly relevant to someone who was never going to see it again, and there was nothing to say about his father now.
When visits had been held in the large room, time had always flown. The level of ambient noise had meant that everything needed to be repeated, sometimes more than once, and there were no awkward silences.
This time, Andreas seemed quieter than usual. Maria could have filled the space with tactless gossip about the behaviour of his sisters and their husbands. There was a feud brewing between the two couples, and the local paper was already referring to it. There was talk of a law suit. Olga was now contesting the will, believing that she had not received a fair share.
It was contemptible in Maria’s view, and she did not want to bother Andreas with it.
Just as she was about to tell him of some new breakthrough in medical science that Nikos was involved in, Andreas leaned forward and picked up his Bible.
‘I’ve been reading it, Maria,’ he said. ‘Cover to cover.’
She could see from where his father’s letter was placed that he had reached the Gospels.
‘It’s beautiful,’ he said. ‘Full of wisdom.’
Maria smiled. She was familiar with much of the New Testament but had never methodically read the Old Testament as he had done.
‘It’s full of stories. Full of people. Full of poetry.’
‘I wonder how many people have actually read it all the way through,’ she commented.
‘I suppose not many people are stuck with just one book,’ Andreas replied, almost smiling. ‘But I have been glad of it, Maria. And it’s only now that I am getting to what seems the best part.’
‘I wish I could bring you some other books to read too,’ she said.
‘No! Don’t worry. This is all I need for now. It’s probably more than any man needs.’
Maria looked into Andreas’s eyes, uncertain whether his words contained a hint of sarcasm, but she could see that he was serious.
‘And in any case, it’s the only book permitted in this place,’ he added with a smile.
Maria was glad to see him so at peace.
‘I have to tell you about the priest,’ he said. ‘About six months ago, I asked to see one. We’re allowed to ask for a priest any time of day or night. They don’t ration God in here.’
Maria was intrigued. Talk of religion was the last thing she had expected from Andreas.
‘This wasn’t an ordinary priest,’ he continued. ‘Or not like any I have met before.’
He began to speak very rapidly. The clock was always ticking on these visits, and he had to finish telling Maria his story before the guard came. She could see it was a matter of urgency to him and resolved not to interrupt.
‘There was something in his eyes. Nobody is born with such eyes. They are eyes that look beyond. He can look into the soul, Maria. Anyway, he wasn’t always a priest.
‘He is Cretan – born somewhere near Anogia – and there was a vendetta between his family and another. He tried to kill a man in revenge for the death of his brother, but his victim survived and he was arrested the following day. He was given a ten-year sentence and got sent to the prison in Iraklion, a barbaric place compared with here and the conditions even worse. An epidemic of tuberculosis swept through the place and about one third of the inmates died. He was one of them. There was no treatment and he was pronounced dead.’
‘He died?’ interrupted Maria incredulously.
‘Yes. He remembers a cold sheet on his skin as they laid it over his face. He remembers a smell as sweet as a lily. He felt with his own hands the inside of the coffin in which they had placed him. Suddenly there was a very bright light as he came out of the darkness, a sense of the divine. Before they had time to nail down the lid, he managed to sit up.’
Maria sat spellbound. She had never heard of anything like it.
‘There is only one reason for such a thing to happen, Maria. God. God wanted to save him. And there was only one way he could thank God. As soon as he was released, he went to a monastery and gave his life to the service of the Lord. Eventually he was permitted to enter the priesthood.’
‘So it’s as if he was resurrected,’ said Maria, not really knowing what to think.
‘He came back from the dead,’ replied Andreas without hesitation. ‘And if you met him, you would have no doubts. He is like Christ. He is not like you and me.’
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Maria knitted her brows. Andreas had more to say.
‘It is impossible not to believe in . . . this,’ he said, holding the Bible aloft. ‘And if I had one day of my life to be a free man, I would go and find that priest again.’
‘You mean you haven’t seen him since that visit?’ Maria was slightly aghast.
‘He just came on that one day, Maria. But it changed my life. I am no longer afraid. I used to watch the sun fall on that patch of wall and weep. I could not bear that one more day of this miserable life had gone. Now I look on it and rejoice, for I am one day closer to the Lord.’
The bolt was being drawn back. Maria stood up. She was bemused. Andreas was talking like an octogenarian, not like a man in his forties. It was disturbing and strange.
She assured him she would not leave such a gap before the next visit, and was escorted quickly to the prison gates.
On the way home, she had plenty of time to reflect. She went regularly to church herself, listened to the chanting of the priests and knew the sense of peace it gave her, heard passages of the gospel being read and believed them. She followed the Epitáfios and wished everyone ‘Christós anésti’ two days later. When she said ‘Alithós anésti’ – ‘Indeed he is risen’ – it was with sincerity. She believed that a man had once conquered death, on one occasion all those years ago in Jerusalem, but not again in a prison in Iraklion.
Was the priest who had visited Andreas really a priest? Or was he a fraud? Perhaps even a figment of his imagination? Though if Andreas had found solace, did it matter?
She mentioned Andreas’s new-found faith to Nikos, but his response, as she expected, was a little sceptical.
‘If he thinks God himself will shorten his sentence, he might be disappointed,’ he said.
Maria managed to see Andreas again a few months later. The prison officer was ready and waiting to intimidate her. This time he demanded that she empty her bag out onto his desk. He picked over every item: keys, purse, a shopping list, her lipstick, a hairbrush. It was of no possible use to any prisoner here, but he took the brush in any case. He came close enough for her to smell what he had eaten the previous night, but did not touch her.
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