‘Why do you hug trees, Dylan?’
‘Sometimes I like trees more than I like people. I get a nice feeling inside me. I can smell the bark, feel the ridges on my face, and it feels like the tree is holding me. It’s a nice warm feeling.’
For a moment Adam is silent, he looks at Dylan, whose eyes are closed; his arms embrace the tree as he rests his cheek against the bark and it occurs to him that Dylan is happy in his world amongst the trees, cocooned from the social world of conversation, of reading others’ body language, predicting others emotions, deciphering the meaning of words within sentences that jump around in his head, a confusing mass of misinterpretation. In his world of hugging trees, Dylan is safe in his sanctuary.
Adam steps forward and places his hand on the tree. He hasn’t really given much thought to trees; they are just there, part of his scenery, but as he feels the texture of the brown ridges of the trunk and looks up to the sprawling crown of branches that reach towards the sky, he feels dwarfed by its presence and by its magnitude.
‘I like your tree, Dylan.’
Chapter 26
Athens
Stephen smiles confidently, even though his stomach churns, as he shakes the outstretched hand of Spiro Rossis, an Athens lawyer and his contact. Spiro is tall and thin, with receding grey hair; he wears spectacles and is dressed in a dark suit, white shirt and blue tie. Stephen puts him at about fifty, but the hair could deceive, the late forties maybe.
They stand in a spacious room, minimalistic and clinical; the floor to wall glass offers a panoramic view of a sprawling Athens, shimmering in the summer heat.
The villa is perched on a hillside, an affluent northeastern suburb of Athens; it is just one of many upmarket properties camouflaged by trees and vegetation, fortified by imposing walls and gates.
Stephen had taken a taxi from his hotel and gained entrance to the villa by relaying a password into the speaker on the wall. The villa sequestered amid lush green trees and capacious lawns. The whine of the security camera, as it turned and followed his progress along a winding driveway to the entrance of the villa, unnerved him, his heart thumping wildly.
He asks himself, what is he doing here? Even in the asking of such a question, he knows the answer. It is just another venture, a transaction, it is business; the merchandise and marketplace are different, the rules remain the same.
Spiros smiles back at Stephen, with what seems like genuine warmth. ‘Please take a seat, Stephen,’ Spiros gestures with his hand. Stephen notices the Rolex watch.
‘How was your journey from Palma?’
‘A bit bumpy, but fine.’
‘Ah, first class can be a bitch at times.’ A sarcastic smile crosses Spiros’ face. ‘Where are staying?’
‘At the Royal Olympic Hotel. It’s nice.’
‘It should be at those prices.’
‘I thought it was hot in Majorca, but I wasn’t prepared for this.’ Stephen loosens his tie.
‘Even for us Athenians it is warm. Would you like a drink?’
‘Water would be good.’
Spiros speaks in Greek to one of two men sitting on sofas at the far end of the room.
‘All the arrangements are in place. As I told Mr Ramos, there’ll be no problems at this end.’ Spiros smiles reassuringly.
‘I’m sure he already knows that, that’s why you are involved.’
‘Precisely,’ Spiros says with an air of self-worth.
‘Shall we get down to business? All we need to do today is make sure you're happy with the contracts and sign them. I’ll inspect the warehouses tomorrow and we’re good to go.’
Stephen’s water arrives. He places his briefcase on the glass table in front of him, flicks open the latches and hands Spiros a fold of papers. Spiros scans the documents and Stephen notices small beads of perspiration on Spiros’ forehead.
‘Everything seems to be in order.’
‘That’s your copy; we need this one signed too.’ Stephen places another contract on the table top. ‘Take your time; there’s nothing there that hasn’t been agreed.’ Stephen takes a long drink of water.
Spiros nods his head confidently. ‘Mr. Ramos is a very thorough man; I’m sure everything is how it should be.’
Spiros continues to study the documents for a few minutes more. Stephen sits back in his chair. It is his first time in Athens and, as he looks out, he is surprised at the expanse of the city. Eventually, Spiros takes a silver pen from his breast pocket, ‘All in order.’ He smiles exposing perfectly aligned teeth.
Stephen wonders if the smile cost Spiros several thousand Euros.
‘Let’s make it official shall we?’ Spiros signs the documents with assertive flicks of his pen.
Stephen takes out his mobile, scrolls his contact list and activates the letter ‘C.’
‘It’s done. We’re live.’
Chapter 27
Evaluation
The days pass and stretch out in a languorous haze. Now
and then a light breeze ruffles the trees, nudging oranges and lemons, daring them to fall. The sun dazzles in the sky, leprous in blue, and the sea flits from displays of dazzling azure to pellucid turquoise.
Georgia often tends to the flower beds, adorned in irises, white freesias, jasmine and white roses, mauve and blue flowers, an illustrious play of colour, spraying the garden in an iridescent quality that seems to have appeared in a short space of time. Butterflies skirt from flower to herb adorned in yellow and blue, black and white. The Jacaranda tree with its blue flowers gives way to the grove of lemon and orange trees. The pervasive heat stops everyone from becoming too energetic and a sedated pace settles into the life of the house.
Georgia has begun to redecorate. She has bought bed linen, throws, natural shades of paint, a new sofa and fridge, several pictures and a large mirror, all delivered from Corfu Town.
It has taken the painters a week to finish sanding, varnishing and painting the house. The walls of the house have a fresh look about them, complemented by the Corfu light that seems to have a special quality all of its own. Outside, the wooden shutters have been sanded and painted, brightening the exterior of the house where they look new again.
This fresh look to the house and Georgia’s interior design skills have given her a sense of achievement and, now that Dylan has recovered from “the incident,” as it is referred to, Georgia feels a period of normality has been enjoyed by all. Stephen’s work in Majorca and now the additional trips to Athens has meant his visits have been less frequent. Normally, such absences were cause for discontent; however, Georgia knows it has influenced the air of contentment that has descended around them. With each passing day, the house has become a haven for her; quietude prevails, the likes of which she has not known in years.
There is a constant equilibrium. Yet, there is something else, and it prods at her now and again. She is sitting on the terrace looking at the garden, at the hills and terraced olive groves. Something inside her has changed, and she pinpoints it to the moment she closed her mother’s diary after her first reading.
Georgia is thrilled to discover her mother was also in the middle of decorating the house, but the more she reads the diary, she is unprepared for the detailed accounts of her mother’s thoughts and feelings that pepper the tone and pace of her prose.
Georgia has found the diary to be, not just a record of events and happenings, it is an intimate transcript of experience and discovery, and intense personal revelations, but, also light-hearted and frivolous. It celebrates the bonds of friendship; it ponders decisions to be made; the cracks appearing in her mother’s marriage are portrayed with all their warts.
Georgia has wondered why her mother never spoke of the diary, or of its existence. As it languished in an attic, did she just misplace it and as time passed, forget about it? No, when Georgia discovered the diary in the trunk, it had been deliberately put there amongst other possessions that were folded and ordered, not carelessly or randomly; there had been a sys
tematic approach towards the packing.
Georgia feels privileged to learn about this period of her parents’ lives. The diary is giving up the stories it has held and kept secret. Georgia wonders if it was written for others to read or for personal gratification. Why did her mother keep it hidden in this house? Was it precious to her?
She has thought a lot about her mother and concluded that reading the diary has begun a process of evaluating her mother’s identity. There is the mother of Georgia’s childhood, her adolescence and into womanhood. She does not know this other woman that the diary reveals. Georgia has entered another world, her mother’s private space.
These thoughts and others like it, accompany her day, like close companions.
In the past, her mother often glossed over the time she spent at the house, before Georgia was born, preferring to reminisce about the times Georgia was there as a child. Now looking back, it is as if she erased from her memory what the diary now discloses. When she considers such things, Georgia is aware that, even now, Theresa is also often evasive about her mother’s past.
Georgia rarely thinks of her mother’s connections to this house, but the last few days have changed that, and resurrected feelings and memories that have been submerged deep inside her for years, raw and undisturbed until now.
Chapter 28
Gabriella
1972
Sunday 4th June 1972
Paul has been reading, under the covered terrace all morning, Eudora Welty’s new novel, ‘The Optimist’s Daughter’ He tells me with great interest that the book’s main themes involve death, class, grief, love and loss within a family context. I’m not sure whether I would enjoy the story, it sounds rather a heavy read; anyway, I have far too many pressing distractions to occupy my mind.
It seems to have stirred his creative juices though. After lunch, he spent a successful afternoon writing, which seemed conducive to his celebratory mood this evening, and the two bottles of wine he consumed before falling into bed in an unsavoury fashion.
This morning, I took a walk into the village below us. It is only a brief five minutes on foot and constitutes a leisurely downward gradient. However, the return journey is less agreeable. Walking in flat shoes was not as easy on one's calves and, with the added addition of the afternoon sun and two overflowing bags, I soon regretted the irresistible urge I gave in to, the purchase of a consortium of fruit and vegetables and the many fine items from Gabriella’s treasure trove of a shop. Their combined weight dug into and pulled at my fingers, so much so, I had to stop frequently to stretch my fingers and dull the burning ache in my shoulders.
As I eventually and thankfully entered the welcome coolness of the house, I stood there, wordless in my discomfort, as droplets of sweat trickled down my spine and dampened my dress. Paul chuckled and said I looked like I had just walked out of the shower.
My morning in the village was worth the arduous walk back home...
Emily walks the declining gradient of the dirt track that leads to the village. She can feel the morning sun growing increasingly warm on her shoulders, its presence a welcome companion, as the scent of pine floats around her, like feathers. Emily wears a strapless white dress that sways at knee length with each step. She fingers a small lucent cross, a birthday present from Paul, wrapping the chain around her forefinger. Contentedly, she contemplates the morning ahead.
Ochre-coloured stone buildings meet her, as she leaves behind the crackle of pine leaves underfoot. Their facades stand decorated in iron railed balconies where blue and white wooden shutters sit imprinted and bold, like the features of a well-known face. Emily wanders through a labyrinth of narrow cobblestoned lanes that twist and turn, revealing tavernas and bars around each new corner.
She fights off the irrepressible urge to enter a baker’s shop, whose decorative displays of cakes and pastries have already lured an unsuspecting small crowd with its indistinguishable sweet aromas. She almost trips over two skinny kittens, as they chase each other, blindly darting between ceramic pots that border her path, watched by the dozing eyes of their mother who spreads herself across a shiny stone step.
Emily’s eye is drawn towards a window and a dark blue dress that hangs like a picture. She admires its cut, the delicate detail of the embroidery and the quality of the fabric.
Emily looks at the sign above the doorway and an inevitable realisation comes over her, ‘Gabriella.’
‘It couldn’t have been anyone else,’ she smiles and delicately steps over the somnolent cat.
She is met by an unannounced coolness of air that blows over the inside of the shop by a fan on top of the counter. The walls are stripped back to their original stone and whitewashed. Perched in each corner of the ceiling, two small white speakers immerse the shop in the deep bass resonance of Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1.
Compartmentalised shelves house assorted fabrics and cushions, their rich colours intensified by the backdrop of the white walls. Emily is particularly attracted to the tasteful ornaments and sculptures that project a distinguished style, some might think overly pretentious, but it is very much to Emily’s liking. A glass case houses rings and necklaces, which she studies. Then several railings of clothing consume her interest. She shifts the fabric between her fingers, holds a blouse to her chest and admires the reflection in a walnut framed mirror.
From an archway, Emily is aware of a figure. A young woman moves towards her.
‘Yassas.’
‘Oh hello… Yassas.’
‘You are English?’
‘Yes, I was just admiring your clothes. Well, everything really.’
‘Thank you. Can I help you with anything? There’s a small room in the back you can use to try on the blouse, or anything that catches your eye.’
The young woman inclines her head and flashes hazel eyes over the garment. Emily notes she ties her hair back with a red ribbon. She has an attractive face and a small frame that her tight jeans accentuate. A fine gossamer plume rises from her cigarette which she extinguishes in an ashtray on a nearby low counter.
‘If you don’t like the colour, I can make you one in the colour of your choice.’
Through the archway, Emily notices a sewing machine and shelves, stacked with uniformed rolls of cloth, a rainbow of fabric: orange, lemon, purple, white and green.
‘I like the dress in the window. Could I try it on?’
‘I have one I’ve just finished. I’m sure it will fit you.’ She disappears through the archway.
‘Where are you staying?’ She calls from the other room.
‘Just outside the village. I’m freshening the décor of the house so I thought I’d have a look around. Actually, you were recommended.’
The young woman leans out of the arch. ‘You are the woman Theresa works for?’
‘Yes, I am.’ Emily smiles, the affirmation she is Theresa’s employer leaves her embarrassed. She swings her gaze to the cushions, avoiding the subject. She has always considered Theresa a friend, as opposed to an employee.
‘I love the detail in the embroidery on the cushions. I think I’ll take these two and this fabric as well.’
‘My name is Gabriella.’ Gabriella emerges holding the dress. ‘Do you like the colour?’ She gives it to Emily.
‘I call it ice blue.’
‘It’s perfect.’
‘Try it on,’ Georgia urges, casting an eye over Emily. ‘It will fit you perfectly.’
Emily follows her to a small changing room.
‘Theresa speaks fondly of you. Your husband is a writer?’
‘He is. This is our third year in Corfu. We visit each as much as we can. I adore the place.’
‘Yes, we’re lucky to live in such a beautiful village, but unfortunately, we don’t attract the number of tourists that Corfu Town does. I’m moving there to open a boutique.’
‘I’d better buy some of your dresses before you do. This one is beautiful,’ Emily says, emerging from the changing room.
‘
It’s made for you. I’ll give you a ten percent discount today.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ Emily says.
She looks in the mirror. The dress fits perfectly. I’ll wear it tonight, she thinks. She is having dinner with Paul in the town square to celebrate Paul’s recent news. His agent has just secured a new publishing deal in the States after the recent success of his book there.
Gabriella folds the dress and places it in fine wrapping paper. She puts the cushions and throws into a separate bag emblazoned with the logo ‘Gabriella’.
‘What about that ten percent discount?’
‘No. How are you going to open a shop in Corfu Town if you give away discounts to everyone that knows your friends. If Theresa asks, I’ll say you gave me a discount.’
‘Then take this.’ She hands Emily a ticket.
‘What’s this?’
‘I’m having an exhibition of my work in two weeks. I’d be grateful if you would come. Theresa is going. It’s always better to have people at these things that have actually bought from me. It’s good for business.’
Emily looks at the ticket and smiles. ‘I’d be delighted.’
Emily sits in the square, under a white umbrella that shades her table from the sun, the bags from Gabriella resting at her feet. She orders a coffee and a slice of walnut cake. There are only several tables occupied, the lull before lunch. She congratulates herself on her purchases and promises herself she will return soon. She takes the ticket from her purse and looks at the venue; it isn’t a name she recognises. She thinks of asking a waiter but then reconsiders; Theresa is going as well. They could go together, as friends, and she looks forward to the prospect, full of ardent anticipation.
Chapter 29
Inhabitations Melting
Above their heads, strident bougainvillaea and vines populate trellises that shade them from the heat. It is midday and Adam and Georgia are sitting enjoying a coffee. The owner of the tavern, Pandelios, an old friend of Georgia’s mother, has taken their order. He is in his seventies, his hair is silver and thinning on top and he walks with a stoop and limp. He is unshaven with a forest of grey whiskers on his chin. Georgia feels his gaze, a kind look that enjoys her presence.
The Boy Who Hugs Trees Page 15