Black Butterflies

by Sara Alexi

  He is mercifully brief, and Marina crosses herself in thanks. Another voice comes over the speakers. This one is more muffled than the last but speaks in a dramatic tone. Two spotlights come on and scan independently across the town and away up onto the hill. Marina shields her eyes when in full glare, turning her head sideways. The couple next to her are briefly illuminated. It is Panos and his boyfriend. Marina feels happy for them, the cover of the night allowing them some normality in their display of affection towards one another.

  The spotlight turns towards the cannon at the top of the steps guarding the entrance to the harbour, and Marina can see men with flaming torches begin a walk down to the quayside where there is a boat with flags and a canopy. The men climb in and the narrator is superseded by a triumphant piece of music by the composer Vangelis, which Marina loves. She recently heard this particular piece in a film on the television in her shop. She tries to think of the film’s name but her mind is a blank.

  The little boat full of the men is rowed slowly out of the harbour.

  ‘Chariots of Fire!’ Marina announces, and slaps a hand over her mouth at the unbeckoned sounds.

  The little boat is passing the last of the harbour walls, and Marina at this point notices the red and green navigation lights of a dozen small boats out in the open waters. More are joining them as she watches, and Marina guesses every fishing boat and taxi boat on the island must be out there, waiting, in a semi-circle. Marina straightens her back and searches them to see if she can distinguish which one is her friend, the dancing captain. But the sea is dark, only the lights can be seen.

  The spots, which have been tracking the little boat, split, one remaining on the boatload of torch-bearing Greek sailors, and the other scanning across the water until it falls upon what for the world looks to Marina like an old-fashioned galleon out of a black and white film, of the kind with pirates swinging from the rigging.

  The music swells and fills the hollow of the town, rippling off the hills, filling Marina’s heart. She feels excited and wishes she had a friend with whom to share this experience. She suddenly feels lonely. She wonders if the taxi boat man is single. She contemplates that as you grow older a decade or so difference in age means less than when you are young. A fifteen-year-old with a twenty-five-year-old is obscene. A seventy-year-old with an eighty-year-old, for example, is sweet. At which end of the continuum would they be?

  As the little manned vessel rows closer to the old-fashioned boat Marina realises that it is not a full-sized ship but a replica with a rowing boat base. It is flying the Turkish flag, the enemy of the battle being depicted. The rowing boat shines a light to signal to the shore and the music changes to something military. The sound of cannon firing fills the watery arena, and the assembled fishing boats and water taxis put out their red and green lights and with bright flashing lights depict cannon fire aimed at the Turkish vessel. Some let off red flares as they pretend to be fired upon. Marina, loneliness forgotten, is finding it hard to sit still, the music stirring, the sights all-encompassing, the whole of the harbour below her the stage and the townspeople the players. She feels like a goddess. Hera, perhaps, like the dancing captain’s boat’s name. Goddess of …? Marina can’t quite remember. She scans her school memories. Marriage! Oh well, sort of appropriate. She could not be called interfering if she were a goddess. Marina, goddess of marriage. She chuckles.

  Then quite suddenly, amidst the flashing lights, red flares and music, the Turkish boat is on fire. There are no lights creating this as it is no illusion. The boat is ablaze. Marina gasps out loud. She senses Panos, or his friend, turn and look at her but it is too dark for Marina to tell who it is, or for him to see her. She puts her hand over her mouth to gain some control but it slips to her lap as the ship continues to burn, lighting up the fishing boats and water taxis that are now circling like vultures.

  Blink. Crack. Marina’s hand to her mouth. Fireworks explode from the ship. Star bursts and red flares. Rockets and fizzings. Marina’s eyes water and she wipes away a tear of fun and fear. As each explosion rips through the ship the scene below is lit up bright as day, like lightning striking. The music swells. The fishing boats circle menacingly. The ship is sinking now, but still the silver fireworks ignite, the surrounding Greek fleet slowly backing away into the darkness, lights extinguished. The Turkish ship capsizes, the mast dipping into the water, the Turkish flag now beneath the waves, the flames flickering and struggling for life as the water takes their oxygen, until all is dark and still. Marina wants to cheer. But as soon as the feeling comes upon her a series of rocket fireworks are launched from along the harbour’s edge. Her emotions are left suspended as a new spectacle unfolds.

  And then, the rockets gone, silence and dark remain. Not a light, not a sound. The island could be empty.

  Out of the silence come the first few bars of a sirtaki, Zorba’s dance. Steady and slow at the beginning, baram de de de, baram de de de, dropping a tone, baram de de de, baram de de de, and then picking up at a gallop. Marina can no longer help herself and she claps in rhythm, only to find, very quickly, her hands not meeting as she is overwhelmed by the firework display of rockets from the harbour exploding in time to the music’s beat. As the music gets faster so do the explosions of silver until, the music is played out by coloured fireworks ignited from behind the cannon at the top of the step with nothing but sky for a backdrop. The fireworks are thunderous, bursting overhead in reds and greens and purples, showering the island.

  The sky grows wider and wider as the pyrotechnics reach greater heights and explode in a sunflower of colour, only to detonate again in fizzing puffs of spiralling embers. Silver to blue to red, the intensity of light illuminating a lacework of smoke trails drifting in the sky.

  One after another the florets and dandelion clocks of illuminated spectrum fill the sky until the music can no longer be heard for the whizzes and bangs, cracks and whistles. The dome of sky above Marina’s head is filled to capacity, each phenomenon being surpassed by the next extravaganza, until the sky is bright with colour and Marina’s face shines in the glow, her blue dress reflecting each colour in turn, becoming itself part of the painting. Marina looks down at her hands. They too are changing colour.

  Just as she thinks there can be no more, the final earth-shattering bang sends a rocket so high Marina thinks it has extinguished itself, but when it appears to be directly overhead there is an explosion of light followed by the accompanying delayed crack. Each separate spark of this first disgorging flare detonates again, and the night sky is filled with silver rain that falls and falls, trails of white smoke streaking the sky in the aftermath.

  One of the boats in the harbour sounds a rude horn in a token of appreciation. This is followed by another and another, the large boats moored outside the harbour wall blaring their baritones for minutes at a time, smaller vessels parping repeatedly, everyone trying to outdo their neighbour. All around the town people are whistling.

  Marina, hidden in the dark, whistles and whistles, first to show her appreciation but then because she is trying to out-whistle someone on a hill the same height as her across the harbour. Back and forth they shrill it out, Marina feeling every bit like the naughty child she is enjoying being.

  A tap on the microphone is dimly audible in the massive noise the people of the island are making. It brings some order, and the wave of quiet grows until the man on the microphone can be heard thanking this person and that for their contribution to the evening, ending with thanks for the anonymous donation that paid for the fireworks. He names every child who has danced and even gives good wishes to those who could not for whatever reason, mentioning each by name, the island united by their youth. No one is forgotten, judging by the long list he reads out.

  Panos and his friend turn and begin the delicate and careful trek down from the very top as the list of names continues. As they near Marina, Panos acknowledges her and Marina greets them both with a smile and wishes them ‘Kali Nikta’ – goodnight �
� although she is aware that for them the night will likely not be over, as they will probably go down to a bar or a friend’s house. They pass by, discreetly holding each other’s sleeves. The second couple comes towards Marina.

  Marina quickly bends to the ground and fumbles around in her bag on the floor. She has heard Eleni’s voice. This is Eleni and her boyfriend. The desire to look and see who he is tugs at her but she dares not look up. She continues rummaging in her bag and they pass behind her in the dark.

  Eleni says, ‘Goodnight.’

  Such good manners. Marina opens her mouth to reply but takes a second to lower her voice and hold her nose in the dark. The result is she sounds unbelievable, and as if she smokes forty cigarettes a day.

  Eleni’s friend replies in a light youthful voice. He doesn’t sound thirty-five, which feels like a relief for some reason. After they have passed Marina feels safe in the dark on the top of the hill to look after them. He is about the same height as Eleni, slim built, lithe perhaps, and he is offering his hand to help Eleni on every step. Marina instantly likes him for this action alone. Eleni trips and she is caught, and gifted with a kiss. Such tenderness.

  Marina tries to hurry down the steep unlit slope to get a better look at him, see his face, but it is treacherous and the hill drops away down to the town on one side. A false step could be fatal. She looks up to see them again. He is wearing a strange hat, but then in the dark everything can seem strange. She focuses on placing her feet until the ground becomes more solid.

  She can still see them away in the distance as they turn into the whitewashed passages. Eleni looks so light on her feet, so carefree. They are so similar she could confuse the two at this distance.

  Marina makes a mental note that she can now eliminate any of the three men left on her list by height and build. Now she knows his dimensions she could have easily ruled out chubby Aris Kranidiotis without even talking to him, as well as the tall millionaire Costas Voulgaris, although she had enjoyed his performance. Panos would have almost fitted the bill, although perhaps a little tall and with broader shoulders. Eleni’s man had been narrow top to bottom: a wiry stick, although it feels unfair to judge in the dark, the dark being so deceiving that Eleni had not even recognised her own stooping, nose-pinching mother.

  The way down to the lit paths seems very quick as soon as she is off the hill top. Once amongst the houses, Marina makes it back to Zoe’s within ten minutes. The house is dark; no sound of the television as she passes the front door.

  Just before Marina turns out the light in her own room she takes her list from her bag and puts a line under Apostolis Kaloyannis. It is late, but if she can get up in time she will walk out to the boatyard before the sun is up tomorrow.

  Chapter 12

  It is still cool when Marina’s little alarm clock rouses her at 5 a.m. For a moment she thinks she is at home and must get up to open the shop. She turns onto one side and pushes herself up, swinging her legs to the floor, which her feet find before she expects it. She sits up straight and leans her weight forward to stand. Only when she is upright does she open her eyes.

  The sight of the rented room dispels all thoughts of her shop and she feels tempted to sit back down again, lean over, allow gravity to pull her down to the mattress and curl up to go back to sleep. She even begins to bend her knees to sit, her bottom poised over the mattress edge. But a vision of Eleni from last night focuses her commitment. Her flip-flops feel cooler than her shoes and most of the creases have dropped out of her dress overnight.

  She steals into the unbroken dawn with her hat pulled firmly down on her head, but at the last minute she changes her mind about the flip-flops and returns to put on socks and her comfortable old shoes. Much more practical for walking.

  The houses are silent. Windows wide open to let in the cool night air, black interiors for the sleepers within. Marina is not sure she remembers how to get to the upper road which joins the coastal path heading to the boatyard. She knows she must go behind Zoe’s, up the side of the hill, and she trusts she will join the top path that will lead her all the way to the village of five houses with the beautiful beach-front further along the coast road to the western end of the island.

  The narrow paths are deceptive in the half-light. They look like public rights of way between houses, but twice Marina finds herself turning a corner into someone’s back yard and retracing her steps. It is taking longer than she anticipated just to find the main path she needs. At this rate the dawn will break and the sun will chase into the sky, leaving her return journey heat-stroke hot and shadeless. She walks faster until she finally finds the path and sets out at a good pace.

  She took this path once before, way back then. Aunt Efi had been asleep again and Marina had tiptoed down the steps, lifted the door open so the bottom wouldn’t scrape, and headed out in the hot afternoon. She had found the top way that leads to the coastal path by chance, and when it had opened out into a pretty little valley down to the sea Marina had felt she was in a different world. Goats grazed in the fields above the path, and donkeys and goats in the field to the right. To Marina’s knowledge it is the only working farm on the island, the only fields of green. The farm house is planted under a rocky outcrop whose top must have incredible views of the sea. However, the farmer must have decided shade was more important and his house nestles into the rock so its back provides the fourth wall.

  Nothing has changed. The smell of goats and the sounds of goat bells tell Marina they are there, but the goats above the path in amongst the scrub and the rocky outcrops blend to invisibility.

  The gently undulating field to her right also hosts the sound of goat bells, but they too are invisible. In the middle of the field is a twisted old olive tree, beneath which a white ghost of a horse is tethered, the pre-dawn light melting its outline into the haze. Its head nods as it plucks grass, and its flicking calls to mind the flies that will grow more persistent as the heat increases. Marina presses on, aware that the cool she is enjoying has a limited window.

  She can hear a distant voice up on the hill. The silhouette of a man leading four donkeys heads toward the town. Marina wonders why, if he is talking to himself, he is being so loud. He stops and the donkeys, following his lead, dip their heads to the ground. The man’s silhouette turns and Marina can see his arm is raised, he is on his mobile. He sees Marina and waves, and continues to shout down the phone as he turns and resumes his morning trek.

  Marina’s path begins to drop and the hills slide away to the sea, which has just begun to take on a pale silver-orange sheen on its oil-like surface as the sun peeps its first tentative rays over the horizon.

  Marina joins the coastal path slashed into the hillside, which continues its descent without relenting its curve towards the sea. There are a few houses dotted at this joining of the paths. A small church embraces the hillside, the stone above the door inscribed 1820.

  Past the houses she can see the coastal path stretching along the length of the island. Dawn is breaking over the sea behind her and the path is golden. A black butterfly lands in front of her. It pauses motionless, wings closed, until it darts up to join a friend, circling in dance. The charms of these butterflies have not diminished over the years. She was so taken when she was last here that she spent hours when stuck in Aunt Efi’s apartment embroidering them onto hankies and other things. Always two of them, joyfully circling in depressing black thread. Joyful and depressing, reflecting her ambivalent mood.

  Marina, on the level path, increases her speed, her flat black shoes at one with her feet. She watches her feet for a few steps. A small piece of cotton thread sticking up on the toe of her right shoe is new. It looks strangely clean against her old shoes.

  The view down the channel is uninterrupted here. There is a small island close to the shore, black against the orange water, with a tiny whitewashed church on top like a piece of royal icing. The island further out is larger, also boasting a church. The island beyond casts a long shadow across the w
ater behind it. Far across the water a tiny black speck accompanies the low chug of its fishing-boat engine, heading home for breakfast.

  Marina makes a note of the sun’s advance and looks ahead along the path. She is making good progress but is concerned that she cannot see the path some way ahead at all. She wonders if there has been a hill slide. There will be some sort of path, presumably, but the way will become harder.

  What Marina thought was a small inlet before the path disappeared turns out to be a sizable recess, the path becoming a concrete road as it cuts across the beach to section off the dry bay, sharply scooped out from the steep hills. She has reached the boatyard, and the sun is barely off the horizon. Marina congratulates herself on her speed. Half a dozen little wooden fishing boats have been dragged up onto the shingle beach. On the other side of the wide raised concrete path, inside the yard itself, a few larger vessels are lined up, standing on their keels and propped up by wooden poles on either side, with makeshift wooden ladders dotted liberally where needed. A grand wooden caique, next to a small wooden tug, next to modern fibreglass yacht. The supporting poles look like giant insect legs, a frozen army ready to march, tarpaulins, slung like greatcoats over shoulders, protecting them from the sun as the hulls are caulked and painted. Underbellies half-stripped of paint, the underlying wood scorched by the flame-torches of the workmen. A silent platoon of suspended effort. All is still.

  To the left of the yard is an impressively large old stone house set into the hill, the covered veranda with its stone arch overlooking the place of work. But all is quiet here too. The shutters closed, abandoned chairs on the patio.

  A cockerel crows as if to prove someone lives in the valley’s bowl. Amongst the orange and olive trees Marina can see half a dozen low-lying stone houses, blue in this light, their orange roofs burnt dark in the sun, belying their age.