Where the Gods Dwell

by Celia Scott

  The evening after the police had made their enquiries she worked later than usual, so that she was the last to leave the site. Hanging her cameras around her neck she started down the road in the lavender-coloured dusk when she heard her name being called, and Nikos came running down from the storage hut.

  'Lorna, wait!' He caught up with her on the dusty path. 'Do you go to the taverna? I will walk with you.' They fell into step, and after she had refused his offer to carry her cameras they started to chat. 'It is a pity that I no longer have a car,' he said, 'otherwise I would drive you, and we would not be forced to walk through the dirt like peasants.'

  'I don't mind walking through the dirt,' she smiled, kicking at the path with her slender feet. 'Anyway, there's so much dirt on me at the end of the day another layer or so won't make much difference.'

  Her companion ignored this. 'I too had a fine car… like Jason. You should have seen it, Lorna. It was red…' He trailed off wistfully.

  'What happened to it?'

  He slid his black eyes to look at her in the thickening twilight, then he said, 'I can no longer have a car.'

  'That's too bad.' She assumed that he couldn't afford to run one, and remembering the fleet of automobiles in the Peritakis garage felt a stab of sympathy. 'Never mind! You'll have another car one day.'

  He gave her another oblique look. 'Do you have a car? In Canada?'

  'I sold it. I'll get another one when I go home I guess. Once I find another job. And get my furniture out of storage.'

  'You sound so rich Lorna. To have furniture to store,' his mouth twisted with envy, 'you are lucky.'

  'Yes. I'm lucky. But it's no big deal. My furniture consists of a bed, an armchair, and some dining-room stuff. It's stored in a friend's basement at the moment.' She resented having to apologise for the things she'd worked hard for. 'You have a house,' she reminded him, 'it must have furniture in it.'

  He snorted derisively. 'Ah! The house belongs to my cousin. And my furniture is… nothing. Shabby rubbish. I should be living in a house like the villa. Not a peasant's hovel.'

  Oh Lord, here we go again! Lorna thought wearily. 'It didn't look like a hovel to me,' she said, remembering the two-storeyed house that had been pointed out to her.

  She could just make out Nikos's face in the gathering dark, and she was struck by the difference between him and his cousin. She had never noticed it so clearly before. And it had nothing to do with the fact that Nikos was smaller, or that his eyes were brown. It was the weakness in his face that made him look like a man from another race. He looked blurred. Like an out-of-focus photograph. There was nothing out-of-focus about Jason. His face was as strong as granite. And as unyielding. But she had to admit that if she were to choose the one that attracted her, Jason would win hands down.

  Nikos had left the topic of his housing, and was now going on about the police investigation. He was very belligerent. 'Why those pigs bother us I do not know,' he said. 'In any case they will never find out who took the stones.'

  'I certainly hope they will. I'd hate to think of someone getting away with that.' As usual Nikos was beginning to get on her nerves.

  'How do we know they have been stolen? Perhaps they have been lost only. And in the meantime we are insulted by the police for nothing.'

  She said sharply, 'Well the police didn't insult me.'

  'Ah, Lorna!' He stopped and grabbed her arm. 'Why do we quarrel? It is so silly. We do not care about the seal stones. I have a good idea. Let us go to my house instead of the taverna. I have a bottle of raki… we will have some drinks… play some records…'

  She freed herself from his grasp and said firmly, 'No thank you, Nikos. I have a lot of work to do this evening.'

  'You work too much, Lorna. Come with me to my house. I will make you forget working.' He lunged towards her and tried to kiss her mouth, but she was too quick for him. Bringing her foot up sharply she caught his shin hard with the side of her sandal. He gave a cry, and took a step backwards.

  'Now just cool it, Nikos,' she said, 'and let's get one thing straight. I'm not interested in any kind of romantic adventures, I'm here to work. So please don't spoil our friendship by making passes… and don't spread any more rumours.'

  He looked at her guiltily. 'Rumours! I do not know what you mean.'

  'I think you do.' She looked at him steadily. 'Cut it out, eh? Now let's get down to the taverna. I'm famished.'

  To her relief he didn't protest, but walked sulkily beside her, grumbling all the way. The gist of his complaint seemed to be that he was the most magnificent lover in Greece, and she didn't realize what she was missing by turning him down. By the time they had reached their destination she was heartily sick of him. Fortunately at dinner she managed to find a seat at the opposite end of the table, and so was spared more of his moaning, and by the time coffee was served he was well into the retsina, and didn't notice when she left to go to work in her new dark-room at the villa.

  She'd been developing her pictures there for the past few evenings. The Peritakis family seemed to be away. In any case the only person she saw on these expeditions was the chauffeur, who insisted on driving her back to the taverna each night.

  The dark-room was a huge success. The single window had been provided with a heavy curtain, and water had been piped in to a splendid new sink. She had been supplied with a refrigerator; a kettle; and an electric hot-plate. A sturdy trestle table had been built down the entire length of one wall, so she had plenty of working space. There was even a wicker chair with a faded cretonne cushion; a pottery mug; matching sugar basin and spoon; and a fresh jar of instant coffee. This final touch she felt sure had been provided by Ariadne.

  This particular evening she worked later than usual, enlarging some colour prints. Coming out into the velvety night, the moon like a circle of pale frosted glass in the sky, she glanced in the direction of the pool and saw the figure of a man poised on the diving-board. He stood motionless for a moment, his body silvered by moonlight, then he dived into the water leaving scarcely a ripple on the mirror-smooth surface. He swam to the edge and with one lithe movement pulled himself up on to the flagstones and shook the water from his hair with the unconscious grace of an animal. It was Jason. She recognised him immediately. No one else moved with such elegance.

  Holding her breath she started to creep across the patio on her way to the garage, but fate was against her. She tripped on a flagstone and her shoulder-bag fell to the ground with a thump. He called out something in Greek, and flinging a towel round his powerful shoulders bounded up the shallow steps.

  'It's all right! It's only me,' she said, kneeling to retrieve the contents of her bag.

  He gave a breathless laugh. 'You startled me. I thought I was alone here.' He knelt to assist her and she could see drops of water glistening in the dark hair on his chest.

  'I've been working in the dark-room.' She suddenly remembered that she was still angry with him. 'I'm by myself,' she said crisply, 'no lovers in tow.'

  He squatted back on his heels and looked at her gravely. 'I have only this moment arrived from Iraklion. I stopped first at the taverna. I wanted to see you.'

  Kneeling down so close to him she was overwhelmingly conscious of the contours of his body in the brief swimming trunks, the scent of his firm brown flesh. Hastily she stood upright, ramming the last of her belongings in her bag. 'Well here I am!'

  He stood too, and held out a pink plastic comb which she took and dropped into her purse. 'I wanted to apologise to you,' he said simply, 'I had no right to speak to you as I did. I am sorry.' His eyes never wavered. Lorna understood enough of the Cretan character to know how difficult it was for him to humble himself in this way, but she had no intention of making it easy for him, so she answered brightly:

  'Don't give it another thought. I haven't.'

  He released his breath with a hiss. 'How fortunate for me that you do not take such things seriously. I was afraid I had upset you.'

  'You don't upse
t me, Jason,' she said, deliberately keeping her voice level. 'My life's far too busy to concern myself about other people's opinion.

  'In that case,' he said silkily, 'you will not object to having a drink with me now. The fact that we are alone in my house will not disturb you.'

  'It doesn't disturb me in the least,' she was determined to match his tone, 'but unfortunately I can't. Your chauffeur is waiting to drive me back. It wouldn't be fair to keep him waiting.'

  His eyes glinted. 'How thoughtful you are, Lorna. However, I shall send him to bed, and when we have had our drink I will drive you myself.'

  She was about to plead that it was too late, but she felt in some strange way she would be conceding defeat. Admitting that the prospect of being alone with him alarmed her. So she kept silent.

  Smiling, he held her arm and courteously ushered her to a lounge chair on the patio. 'I will get our drinks myself,' he said, 'then if you will excuse me I shall change into dry clothes. Do you wish for brandy? Or ouzo? Perhaps some wine?'

  'Some ouzo will be fine, thank you. With water.'

  His teeth flashed white in a grin. 'A Cretan peasant would consider it fainthearted to add water to ouzo,' he said.

  'No doubt. But when it comes to liquor… I'm a coward.' She didn't add that somehow she didn't trust him. She felt she needed her wits about her, and the weaker the drink the better.

  He went into the house and minutes later returned carrying a silver tray with two glasses; a bottle of Varvaressou brandy, and another of ouzo; a heavy cut-glass pitcher of water tinkling with ice-cubes, and a plate of 'mezethakia', the Greek equivalent to hors d'oeuvres. In this case roasted chick peas, olives, feta cheese and slices of brown coarse bread called 'karveli'.

  While he went into the house to change Lorna lay back in the padded chair and sipped the drink he had poured for her. A little Cretan Owl called out from the sabled shadows, and in the lower garden the plane trees looked like great black-velvet umbrellas in the moonlight. She began to unwind. She was tired after her work in the dark-room, and the still night calmed her. She savoured the clean taste of the ouzo on her palate, and gently the tension slipped away from her body. When he rejoined her she was as relaxed as a cat. Leaning back against the blue-and-white cushions, one hand holding her glass, the other lying loosely along the rattan arm of the chair.

  He stood in the doorway for a moment, looking at her. Then he said, 'Your hair is the same colour as the moonlight.' He had changed into jeans and a white shirt, and wore a pair of casual linen espardrilles on his bare brown feet. Sitting opposite her he poured himself a glass of brandy.

  Hastily she straightened up and smoothed the skirt of her robin's-egg blue shirt dress. This caused her smooth fall of hair to swing like a silken bell.

  'Was it always short?' he asked casually. 'Or did it once sweep your shoulders?'

  'I had it cut for this trip… to make it easier to manage. It was quite long before.' She felt as self-conscious as a schoolgirl on her first date.

  'It is very pretty like that. It frames your face like the petals of a golden flower.'

  'You mean I've got yellow skin?' she said, in an attempt to make the conversation less personal.

  His voice was like satin. 'You know very well that I do not mean that. Do not be foolish. You are not unused to receiving compliments, surely?'

  'I get the odd one,' she agreed, draining her glass and putting it back on the tray. He started to pour her a second drink. 'No… please, Jason. I really should think about getting back.'

  'Why? Is someone waiting for you? Is that why you wish to hurry away?'

  'No… no of course not… only tomorrow is a working day and…'

  'And I will not detain you very long,' he promised. 'Now come! One small glass of ouzo will not harm you. Particularly if you eat something. Look! You have not touched any of my olives.'

  'Your olives?' Dutifully she took one and popped it in her mouth.

  'From the Peritakis groves,' he said, handing her the glass of clear ouzo, that started to turn milky the moment it was mingled with the water. 'Will you be here for the olive harvest?'

  'When is it?'

  'About Christmas time. The village olive press is on our land. It is a happy festival. My mother provides food and wine, and the whole village comes.'

  'It sounds wonderful,' she said. 'It must be quite a job picking the olives though. It must take weeks.'

  'We do not pick them.' He laughed, throwing back his head so that she could see the strong column of his throat. 'They are not oranges. We use sticks to beat them to the ground, where they fall on nets we spread beneath the trees. But you are right, it is a lengthy business. A good tree can take several hours to clear. Spring flowers are out before the last olives are in.' His eyes grew dreamy. 'It is a lovely season.'

  'I wish I could see it,' she said, 'I'd like to photograph it.'

  'For your album? A record of the quaint Cretan peasants.' The dreamy look vanished, and there was a sarcastic edge to his voice.

  'That's the second time you've called the peasants quaint. Frankly I think it sounds damned offensive.' He didn't answer so she went on. 'One of the things that's struck me about the Cretan people is… is an element of… nobility … I can't think of any other word for it. I'm sure life here in Crete isn't easy, but they are still the most generous and kind people I've ever met… With one or two exceptions of course,' she added.

  He smiled and raised his glass in acknowledgement of this barb, his even, white teeth dazzling. 'You are very observant. Most people come here in the summer months and see nothing but the towns and the coastal plains, where tourism helps to support the people. But here, in the mountains, it is a different story. The land is hard and the winters are cruel. At least in this village there is work for them in the Peritakis orange groves. And the land is more fertile because of our river. So between working for me, and on their kipos they are better off than most other villagers. But it is still a struggle. Believe me.'

  'What is a… a kipos?' Lorna asked.

  'Each family in this district has a small plot of land… like a garden… which is called a kipos.'

  'Like an allotment,' she butted in eagerly, 'we have them in Toronto. People rent them from the city.'

  'Here they are usually inherited,' he explained, 'and between the wages I pay, and the oranges and olives we give to the village, and the food they can raise themselves, they manage to scrape a living. But when you see a peasant couple toiling on their little plot of land, remember that although it may look picturesque and make a charming photograph for your album, it is back-breaking work, borne with uncomplaining dignity.'

  Lorna put her glass back on the tray. 'You're very unfair, Jason,' she said. 'You always assume that I look at your people through my lens and somehow… distance myself from them. But it's not like that at all. It's true that I've fallen madly in love with your country. It's as if I'm under some kind of… of magic spell. But I can still see clearly. I'm a professional photographer… remember? It's my job to see the truth.'

  'And do you see the truth when you photograph our ancient ruins?' he asked.

  'Oh! I see much, much more.' Enthusiasm swept away the last of her reserve. 'I people the dig. I imagine I hear the chatter of women on their way to market. In one house I can hear the creak of the wheel where the potter works. And then there's the baker's house, where grain is ground into flour and made into bread. I can almost see the frescos painted on the walls. Like the ones found at Santorini, but still vivid with colour, not faded yet by the years. And the shouts of children playing on the streets… and the barking of dogs. When I put my eye to the view-finder the site is full of life, and love, and beauty.' She stopped and gave a little self-effacing laugh. 'You must think I'm nuts,' she said.

  'I think you are beautiful… and very surprising.' His voice and eyes caressed her.

  Whoa! Lorna thought, this won't do. He's beginning to pay me compliments, and I'm beginning to like it. Decisively she
reached for her bag. 'This has been very nice, Jason,' she said, 'but now I really must go.'

  This time he offered no objections, and draining his glass, rose and held out his hand. His touch was warm and strong, sending pleasing sensations through her own fingers. But once she was walking beside him she gently drew her hand away. Again he did not protest, but she felt him smile in the darkness, and she knew he had guessed that his touch disturbed her. She silently cursed herself for being so transparent.

  He drove her in the Mercedes, with the sun-roof pushed back so that she could see the stars above the jagged peaks. When they were nearly at the taverna he pointed to Nikos's house on the hillside, where a light burned in a downstairs window.

  'Nikos does not wait for you tonight,' he said.

  'He doesn't make a habit of it any night.' She spoke in what she hoped was an off-hand manner, but her voice sounded strained. Once more he smiled, as if she had made the right answer to some unspoken question.

  She clasped her hands which had started to tremble, for now the erotic tension that was generated between them was beginning to unnerve her.

  The car slid to a stop in front of the taverna. No one was about. With one hand on the door-handle Lorna turned in her seat to face him. 'Thank you for the drink, Jason,' she said formally. 'I enjoyed it very much.'

  He switched off the engine. 'So tomorrow you move in to the villa?' His voice was soft as smoke.

  'That's right. I thought I'd move in the early evening… if that's all right with you… I mean…' She heard herself chattering pointlessly. Her hand was still resting on the metal handle but it seemed to lack the strength needed to push down and open the door. He was a sorcerer, and he had cast a spell on her. She was incapable of action.

  'You look like a moonbeam sitting there in your pale dress,' he murmured. 'A lovely silver phantom.'

  'Goodness!' Her laugh crackled with panic. 'How fanciful you are, Jason. First you think I look like a flower. Now I'm a ghost… believe me, I'm a very ordinary working girl.'