Black Butterflies

by Sara Alexi

  ‘Buy yourself a coffee.’ Marina smiles.

  ‘As you like.’ He twists his moustache and clicks the donkeys on.

  Marina smiles again as he walks away.

  The way through the houses back to Zoe’s is a joy after such an easy descent, each house a step nearer to a prolonged rest. The cheese pie she ate is a distant memory and her stomach rumbles. At a corner a sign above a stone arch announces the ‘Taverna tou Kapetaniou’. There is no need to make choice, the ‘Captain’s Restaurant’ will do fine, and Marina marches in.

  The courtyard is a cool haven, with vines growing up three walls and across a wooden frame, providing a ceiling of leaves. Crude paintings hang on the walls and in the corner a boy is picking through a piece he is learning from sheet music on his bouzouki. They are alone except for a couple in the corner, obviously English, or maybe Dutch, by their ‘everything new but slightly scruffy look’, Marina decides. Marina has had years of practice guessing the nationalities of lost tourists coming into her shop. She smiles at them. It is too early for most diners.

  The waiter takes his time and eventually ambles over to her table. He wishes her a good evening and begins to list all the food that is ready, or can be prepared quickly, in the kitchen.

  Marina orders a large Greek salad of cucumber and tomatoes, stuffed vine leaves and saganaki – she just loves this grilled cheese, even though she suspects it is not good for her, but after all, she has walked a very long way today. She wonders if the stuffed vines leaves will be from a tin. When they come they are fresh and obviously home-made. Marina doesn’t even need to squeeze lemon over them as they are served in a light lemon sauce into which she delights in dipping her bread. She has just begun when she decides to be daring. She catches the waiter’s eye and orders half a kilo of red wine. She feels like a queen, presiding over her table for one, and doesn’t stop eating until she feels she might burst.

  The bouzouki boy is making progress with his piece until his mother comes out and orders him inside to do his homework. The resulting quiet silences the gentle talk of the English – Marina has decided they are English after all – couple, who after a pause begin to converse again in hushed whispers.

  Marina pushes her chair away from the table and leans back. No sooner has she has done this than a black and white cat jumps on her knee, demanding attention. Full and happy, Marina strokes the cat and feeds it leftovers. It turns its nose up at the salad but is keen on everything else. Marina finishes the wine and takes a piece of paper from her bag. It is her list of one to twenty with ‘Yanni – donkey man’ written against number one. She looks in her bag and finds a pencil. Licking the end of the pencil, she flattens the sheet on the table and puts a line through his name with great satisfaction, and a big cross at the end of it. One down.

  The remaining numbers stare emptily back at her. It will come. Marina feels, at this moment, with half a carafe of wine and a good meal inside her, that she can do anything.

  The English couple pay and leave, and the restaurant begins to fill. Greek families with young children and American tourists mostly, and a few Germans, Dutch, and a Japanese couple who Marina thinks she vaguely recognises from earlier that day. She begins to feel sleepy. With the long hours in her shop she always needs to catch up on her sleep. She pays her bill and leaves a generous tip. She was grateful for the fresh food and passes her thanks on to the chef. The waiter tells her to wait a second, the chef is his father, and he comes out to shake her hand. He is flattered by her compliments and they chat about serving the public and the decline of tourism. He suggests she comes again and says, ‘We will not charge you tourist prices!’ Marina forgets to ask the waiter how old he is and doesn’t think about it until she has left, when she decides it is too late, and beside she is sure she is a little drunk …

  She walks slowly back to Zoe’s. She climbs the stairs and is passing Zoe’s door on the way to her own room, when she hears her name called. She is too tired to answer but the call comes again. It is not Zoe calling, the words are too slurred. One more time, and she realises it is Roula. She pushes the door open.

  ‘Everything all right, Roula?’ she asks. There is no sign of Zoe.

  ‘Shhh, Mum is sleeping,’ Roula whispers.

  ‘Sorry.’ Marina backs out of the door.

  ‘Wait! Mrs Marina,’ Roula hisses.

  Marina opens the door again and Roula hands her a piece of paper. She hears a guttural chuckle. Bobby is slumped lower than usual in his chair and his head is nodding to his laugh.

  Marina opens the sheet and there is a list of names.

  ‘What’s this?’ Marina asks.

  ‘It’s what you asked for. I told you I was your man.’ Bobby’s jacket has all but fallen off, and as he laughs he slips further in his chair.

  ‘Shhh!’ Roula commands.

  Marina slides into the room and straightens his jacket and offers to pull him up a bit. He accepts without embarrassment. She hears him drawing in her scent as she lifts him into his chair. The old scoundrel.

  ‘Where did you get this?’ she whispers, holding the list in front of him.

  ‘Aha, that would be telling.’ Bobby’s eyes shine.

  ‘From me,’ Roula hisses. She is watching the television with the sound off.

  ‘How would you ...?’

  ‘Grandma told me.’ She is bouncing a little, excited by the event, but still with her eyes on the screen.

  Bobby chuckles to himself, proud of his teasing ways that got Roula to engage Grandma enough to recall the good old days, and to translate whilst he wrote it all down. Holding the pen and paper had been the biggest challenge. He stops chuckling and looks at his gnarled twisted hands. ‘These bloody hands!’ he says out loud.

  ‘Uncle Bobby, that’s rude!’ Roula hisses.

  ‘Shhh, Roula. You’ll wake your mum.’ Bobby is teasing.

  ‘So how does Grandma know all the boys aged thirty-five that are still on the island?’ Marina asks.

  ‘She was a teacher back in those days. Once she worked out one name of someone who must be thirty-five this year, that was it! The whole class came back to her, and some of the nicknames too. I haven’t heard her laugh so much ever. Really cheered her up.’

  Marina is beaming. ‘So this is all the boys?’

  ‘Well, no, we took off the names of those we knew had died – that was three of the poor buggers.’ Bobby’s eyes take on a sorrowful look.

  ‘Uncle Bobby! Bugger’s rude!’

  ‘Shh, Roula. You’ll wake Zoe.’ He grins at her and she turns to stick her tongue out at him. ‘Then I knew two of the names of families that had moved away, ones that had been friends of Zoe’s. So you are left with a list of possibilities, who may or may not be here.’

  ‘Well, Bobby, you are a sly one! Thank you, Roula.’ Marina can see Roula is back in her own television world.

  ‘What?’ Roula says.

  ‘Thank you for helping,’ Marina replies.

  ‘Helping with what?’ She is absorbed in the wordless screen.

  ‘Never mind. Bobby, where is Grandma, so I can thank her?’

  ‘She is sleeping now, but she will not remember a word of what we have talked about. Give it a few days and neither will Roula. In fact, your only threat will be me. So you had better be nice to me. If I was a young man again …’

  ‘Shhhh.’ Bobby’s voice is rising now.

  ‘It’s OK, Roula, I am going now anyway. Thank you very much.’ Marina waves the paper.

  ‘Good luck.’ Bobby tries to wave a twisted hand in response.

  Marina steps outside the door and hears Bobby whisper ‘Keep me informed’ before the door closes completely.

  Tired as she is, she nearly skips her way back to her room where she opens the window wide, kicks her shoes off and then lies face down on the bed to read her list. There are fewer names than she expected and it takes a little moment to understand the shaky writing.

  Costas Voulgaris – The Cockerel – because he was no
isy – Father owned Kafenio by the port.

  Panayotis (Panos) – His father was a barber. Grandma has seen young Panos walking past the house.

  Socrates Rappas – Always fiddling with things, quiet.

  Yannis Harimis – Known as ‘Black Yanni’ because he is so brown in the summer – his Grandmother was the midwife.

  Aris Kranidiotis – Very naughty – his sister married the Papas from the church across on the mainland.

  Apostolis (Tolis) Kaloyannis – His father owned the boatyard on the mountain village path.

  Alexandros Mavromatis – She says he made her laugh. Known as ‘The Butterfly’ for his flitting from one girl to the next.

  Marina can picture them all sitting in class. Most of them would probably have left before they were twelve, and it’s unlikely they would have attended regularly during their time at school. It occurs to Marina that the person she is looking for might never have even been to school. They might not have come down from the mountain village. She dismisses the thought as it makes things too complicated.

  Taking out her pencil, she enjoys putting a line through Yanni for a second time, although he was very kind about not wanting payment to take her down the hill on his donkey, and his mother was lovely. She releases the pressure as she finishes drawing the line, relenting her harsh opinion. His grandmother was the midwife. She puts a full stop at the end of the line.

  Marina hears a mosquito and slips her feet half-back in her shoes to turn out the light, and opens the window wider, hoping the irritation will fly out seeking somewhere lighter. She pauses to look over the town below the ridge at night. It is so beautiful, the whitewashed houses now blue-grey with eyes of orange. She goes out onto the front balcony where she can see out to the sea. On the paths between the houses lights are dotted brightly at uneven intervals and warm interior lights glow in between them where shutters are still open. The moon is bright and the whitewashed walls appear ghostly, but the warmth in the air and the smell of jasmine nearby give the view a romance that stirs Marina’s soul. She can hear the muted tones of a bouzouki coming from a far corner and quite unexpectedly a donkey brays, his retching sound echoing from across the gully where houses descend to the harbour.

  Someone shouts from another quarter at the donkey to be quiet.

  Chapter 8

  The next day Marina finds herself in the harbour early. There is a welcome breeze, cooling everything down. The port is like an ants’ nest, a mass of people all busy doing something or going somewhere. There is a large ship at the pier. Marina came down to buy breakfast from the bakery but decides to sit at one of the cafés and watch life a little. After some time the waiter stops chatting to his friend and ambles up to her.

  ‘Nai?’ He has no notebook for her order, and his white shirt is a little grey.

  ‘Ah yes, frappé, sweet, and do you have any bougatza?’ Marina tries not to eat bougatza too often. The soft pastry with cream filling is delicious but does nothing to help her clothes fit her.

  ‘Nai.’ He flashes the most charming smile at her and Marina feels like a tourist. It is quite exciting. She smooths her blouse and sits up a little straighter. His trousers fit well.

  ‘What’s the big boat?’ Marina asks just as he pivots to leave.

  ‘The Zeus. Three islands, one-day tour. Drops the tourists off for an hour, they spend their money, take pictures, and leave.’ He bends to stroke a cat before taking her order indoors.

  Further along the quayside a pair of donkeys are being loaded, luggage on the front one, and on the rear one a Japanese tourist, a woman in white gloves, holding a parasol. Marina wonders why they wear white gloves. If it is to protect them from dirt then surely black ones would be more practical; less washing to do whilst they are away from home.

  The donkeys wind their way through the throng, and to Marina’s surprise Yanni says hello as he passes her, and she smiles and waves.

  She sits for a while and enjoys people-watching, and her coffee. The breeze is getting stronger. There is a yacht trying to leave the harbour. It reverses and she can hear the rattling of the anchor chain as it is winched in. The man leaning over the bows, watching the chain, puts up his hand to signal the man at the helm. He shouts something, in German, Marina guesses. The boat moves forward again, letting out its chain, and then tries again, but still the anchor is stuck. The German crew line the rail of the yacht, leaning over to look into the water, and all talk at once. The yacht swings helplessly on its mooring, stuck fast, the anchor presumably snagged on something on the sea bed.

  A burly man on the dock hails them. He strips off his shirt and mimics diving. The helmsman nods acceptance with a relieved look on his face, and the burly man, who has a very hairy chest, dives into the water, swims like a fish to the bows of the yacht, takes a deep breath and disappears.

  Marina calls the waiter for the bill and stands to leave as she waits for her change. As the waiter counts out coins she sees the burly hairy man appear again on the surface. He shouts to the helmsman, who fishes in his pocket, unfolds some bills and throws them to the man in the water. He catches the floating notes, rolls them up and puts them in his mouth like a cigarette before heading back to the shore.

  ‘I don’t suppose you know a barber called Panos, do you?’ Marina asks the waiter.

  ‘Panos, Nai,’ he answers in the affirmative.

  ‘Does he have a shop?’ The waiter explains how to find the shop and flashes another sparkling smile. Marina’s movements become more feminine as she walks away. She allows her hips to wiggle ever so slightly.

  She turns for a last glimpse back. The yacht is now taking in its anchor easily and the hairy man is putting his shirt back on. The waiter has disappeared.

  Marina walks across the harbour to the corner where the commercial boats tie up. At this point she turns right on the wide path inland.

  The lane is lined, for a short distance, with stalls selling lace. Large pieces hang from coat hangers strung on string, stretched from rusty nails across the shop fronts. Smaller pieces are draped over the tiny shops’ shutters. There are pieces on trays on the ground and women sit on stools in the shop doorways tatting new pieces, their fingers dancing spiders spinning their creations.

  Marina, as instructed, passes the lace makers and turns hard left. The lane is very narrow, single file only, and she wonders if she has taken a wrong turn as the way ahead, further along, is blocked by a wall. But as she progresses she sees, as she comes level with it, a recessed door frame that has been painted in red and white diagonal stripes. There is no door. An arrow painted on the wall inside the door frame points up the stairs, which to Marina seems funny as there is no other way to go. She smiles to herself. The steps have dropped slightly so Marina feels that with each tread she could slide backwards. They are thickly painted in grey and the middle of each has been worn smooth, back to the wood. She holds the handrail, which rattles on loose screws. At the top of the steps another door stands open to a room from which light pours, from floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the port. The panes are not large and several have cracks running across them. Two, near the bottom, have been boarded up. But the view through them is magnificent, the mismatched cracked windows giving the impression of a stained-glass replica of the harbour scene.

  There is a strip of mirror, also floor to ceiling, on one wall by the window, reflecting even more light into the room, and through this Marina first sees the man’s back. Tall, with neat hair – well he would, wouldn’t he? – wide shoulders, narrow hips, perfectly proportioned. ‘Smart but casual’, Marina thinks the term is. Perfect. She gazes at him with compassionate eyes. He is sweeping the unadorned wooden floor around a single barber’s chair.

  Marina turns to face him in the flesh, blushes slightly, and her movements become awkward.

  ‘Welcome.’ The man smiles. He has beautiful teeth, and holds out his hand. Marina breaks her gaze and shakes it. ‘What can I do for you?’ he asks.

  Marina hesitates. She ha
d not prepared for this moment, and it suddenly feels as if it has all happened rather too quickly for her to gather her thoughts. If this is Eleni’s young man, and let’s be honest who would not want him as their young man, he is bound to tell Eleni that she has been asking questions and, even if those questions lead nowhere, Eleni will still be furious. Marina feels she cannot think fast enough.

  ‘Panos?’ she asks. The man nods, so she continues. ‘I have a son.’ Marina looks at the floor and then furtively at Panos, afraid the lies will show. ‘He is not on this island.’ She doesn’t want to start by giving the man competition. ‘He is thinking of opening a barber shop.’ She impresses herself with her quick thinking.

  Panos indicates the chair and Marina sits. Panos produces some glasses and pours them both some water from a plastic bottle. It is already hot in his shop, more of a greenhouse than a shop, with all those windows. Marina conjures an image of herself as a flower with petals around her head and chuckles. Panos looks at her enquiringly and she thanks him for the water.

  His smile broadens into a grin. He has a boyish look about him, despite the thin layer of stubble. ‘Oh yes. A good trade, men always want their hair cutting and when they don’t their wives want them to have it cut anyway,’ he informs her, and as he laughs he wraps his arms across his thin tight T-shirt, his muscles bulging, veins prominent. Thin skin, thinks Marina, I bet he scars easily, poor boy.

  She pulls herself back to the moment. ‘Do you think an island is a good place to start or would he be better off on the mainland?’

  Panos unwraps his arms and pulls a stool from against the wall, his limbs supple, his movements like liquid. ‘An island is a captured clientele, they have no choice! But the mainland has more people, so it is probably the same.’