by Sara Alexi
‘Eleni …’ Marina offers. ‘I love you.’ Her tone of voice whispers a thousand ‘sorries’, her heart on a plate, an absorption of blame. There is a momentary pause. Someone coughs and the spell is broken.
Eleni steps toward Marina. Marina hungrily pulls Eleni to her and encloses her in her arms. Petta cannot resist, and he wraps his longs arms around them both. Irini claps her hands together once and then interlocks her fingers to stop herself doing it again. Panos steps back into the room and puts an arm around Irini and gives her a supportive squeeze.
‘What! The moment my back is turned you find a girlfriend?’ It is Panos’ boyfriend. Petta releases Eleni and Marina, and all of them are smiling.
Later that evening at Zoe’s Marina is pressed for every detail. Bobby has a smug look on his face, aware of the part he played in the turn of events.
‘So you tracked down every one of the boys in Petta’s class and one by one ruled them out?’ Zoe is crying with laughter. ‘I have never heard anything so absurd.’
‘I thought it was pretty smart!’ Bobby says. He is in the shadows, which are being kind to him, reflecting his younger self.
‘You would, you cunning old fox. But well done, Marina. Families are tricky things. It sounds like you handled it well, if bizarrely.’
The door opens with a bang and Irini rushes in, out of breath. ‘We are getting married!’ The sun streams in behind her and Marina blinks with the sudden light.
‘Yes, we know, Irini.’ Zoe lifts a spoon to her mother’s lips.
‘No, I mean immediately, the day after tomorrow. Petta says he will wait no more, life’s too short and all that. He’s talked to Socrates.’ She turns to Marina. ‘The Papas. Remember, Marina? You met him in the hospital.’
‘Can I be a bridesmaid?’ Roula is watching a western. She is standing, her arms dangling by her sides, and she has drawn her fingers at the ready for a shoot-out.
‘We were just going to have a quiet little wedding.’
‘And then a huge party!’ Bobby says.
‘Why not?’ Zoe agrees.
‘No money,’ Irini answers.
‘You don’t need money. We are all family here on the island. If everyone brings a little something we’ll be fine.’
The taxi boat men do not want Petta to have a low-key wedding. They agree he should get married in style. But they do not arrange this with Petta or Irini. Petta’s parents, Mr and Mrs Mavromati on the farm, are approached and Marina is invited to their house for the discussion.
They are an elderly couple, more like grandparents. Marina is touched by their warmth towards her. They repeatedly say how her sadness in losing Petta became their joy and how much they love him, in a tone to reassure Marina that they have been good loving parents to him. His mother impresses upon Marina how she never let Petta think they were his birth parents and she always made sure he had his butterfly hanky with him. ‘Like an anchor,’ she says. ‘But,’ she adds with a sigh, ‘we are poor and the farm is not ours. The lease will end when we die. It will make me so happy to see him married, something we could not help him with …’ There are tears in the old lady’s eyes.
Marina is surprised at how little they need to say to each other to make the situation comfortable. Which is just as well, as the taxi boat men have a lot to say, mostly loudly, with arms flying in gesticulation. Eventually Mrs Mavromatis brings out Greek coffee and ouzo chasers and the discussion becomes even louder. Mr Mavromatis is enjoying the noise and joins in with the shouting as much as he can. Finally, when the coffee and ouzo have all been drunk, the taxi boat men come to an agreement and everyone is sworn to secrecy. One man volunteers to tell Socrates, the Papas, but another says he will do it and there is a secondary raising of voices in which everyone is assigned a role. Those who are given bureaucratic roles grumble a little and Mrs Mavromatis pours them a second ouzo.
There are surprises for everyone. Marina calls Juliet and invites her over. Juliet is thrilled. Eleni calls her sister, Artemis, in Athens, and she and her new husband Sottos make arrangements to arrive the next day. Panos calls all his and Petta’s classmates and every one of them, including sour-faced Yanni, is delighted.
Marina tells Zoe the secret plan for the wedding and Zoe says that, obviously, she cannot come with her family, which disappoints Marina, but she can see why. Bobby is listening.
‘And the party afterwards, where will that be held?’
‘Oh, no one has discussed that.’
‘Have it here then, in the square, with tables and chairs from Irini and Petta’s house, and from the rented rooms. Then at least I can come,’ Bobby says. Aunt Eleftheria wakes up with his jiggling happiness shaking through the chairs.
The day of the wedding arrives before everything has been arranged. Petta stays the night on his parents’ farm. Marina stays with Irini.
The taxi boat men go to pick up Petta, and as he marches to the church they manoeuvre him in a different direction.
‘Hey, guys, come on! I’ll be late.’ But they are not to be deterred. They take him down to the port where several guests have already arrived.
Marina helps Irini dress. She has been lent the most beautiful white lace dress by Zoe’s mum. It had been her wedding dress. Panos arrives to stand in for Irini’s father, and he leads her out to the street where Yanni waits, twisting his moustache, dressed in a suit and looking distinctly uncomfortable, his donkey beautifully adorned with ribbons and flowers. Panos lifts little Irini on side-saddle and they set off for the church, only to turn down toward the port. Yanni tells Irini to trust him, as he twists his handlebars.
By the time Irini gets to the port, Petta and the guests are nowhere to be seen. There is a yacht in port, which is covered with pale orange bougainvillea, wound into the stays and along the boom, and littered over the deck. Irini is helped aboard. Costas Voulgaris, the millionaire waiter, wishes her welcome. Marina climbs on board, followed by Panos.
The yacht has a different movement to the water taxi, a slower, more even roll. But the water is like oil and there is not a breath of air. The engine ticks over, driving them effortlessly from the harbour.
Out in the channel they turn west toward the end of the island where Ship Rock lies. Irini is grinning and chattering and cannot sit still. Panos is fussing with her hair. Marina sits and takes it all in. The view down the channel still lifts her like no other. She feels proud of her family.
‘So, where are we going?’ Irini is looking up and down the coast for clues. Panos makes one last tweak to her hair and sets her free. She still can see no trace of anything on shore and they are fast coming up to the boatyard.
The millionaire waiter-come-captain turns the yacht hard to starboard and they swing round to face out to sea.
Irini gasps. A dozen taxi boats are circling round the tiny island with the church. One taxi is moored to the quay. The yacht lowers its anchor, its keel too deep to allow it to moor close to the island. A taxi boat comes to carry Marina, Irini and Panos to shore.
The island is even smaller than it had looked from the sea. Petta and his parents take all the room there is by the church door. The church inside is so small that only the Papas, the couple and the best man can fit. Two large decorated candles provide some light.
Panos walks Irini up the quay and hands her to Petta, and then swaps sides to become the best man. The Papas begins his incantations. He changes from quiet Socrates Rappas to a bellowing priest. Marina, peering in through the church doorway, takes out her hanky to dry her eyes. The rings are exchanged, and the couple are crowned three times by the Papas and then three times by Panos. They can hear cheers from the boats which have all stopped circling and are crowding as close as they can to the island.
The couple sip from the wine chalice, and then Socrates the Papas asks who will be the stronger of the two. Marina cringes as she remembers this part of her own wedding. The stamping of the toes. Whoever stamps on the other’s toes first will be the boss. Her toes had been bruised.
Irini makes to stamp on Petta’s toes, but he is too quick. He lifts her in the air and lowers both her feet upon his toes and whispers, ‘I wouldn’t have it any other way.’ Marina can feel her cheeks blushing and turns away as if she is intruding on a private moment. But the boats all around sound their horns and Marina laughs. The taxi boat men compete to sound their horns the longest, recent memories of the pirate re-enactment igniting their endeavours. Costas Voulgaris on his yacht sets off a flare, which starts a trend. The port police have come in uniform on the port police boat. One of the crew, who is smoking a cigarette, fires a gun repeatedly in the air. The noise echoes off the island and people instinctively duck.
Eleni is leaning on the prow of one of the larger boats taking photographs with a long-lens camera. Marina smiles and waves; Eleni waves back, still pointing her camera at the island.
Petta and Irini make their way to the yacht and they are left to sail back to the island alone.
Marina and Panos join Eleni. The Papas nearly falls in the water as he climbs aboard the port police boat. The police cheer when he saves himself.
Costas Voulgaris surprises them all. When they return to the square he has all but removed his whole café there. The tables match and are covered with white table cloths. There are waiters, albeit in jeans, but they have white shirts on. There is a jug of wine on every table and people are bringing plates of steaming food out from crates, strapped to donkeys, that have come up from his kitchens.
Zoe is sitting at a table with her mum, Bobby, Roula and a sleeping Aunt Eleftheria. With a trembling hand, Bobby is drinking Aunt Eleftheria’s wine, his own glass already empty. Maria the candle maker is sitting with them, her phone on the table.
To Marina’s utmost joy, she sees Artemis and her husband are here. They say they arrived by the first ferry, in time to see the wedding. Eleni explained it all over the phone and they think it is fantastic. Artemis says she cannot wait to get to know Petta better, and could they all celebrate next Easter at the village? They agree it’s a date.
Soon everyone is dancing. They dance the syrtaki in a line, arm over arm, snaking around the tables, followed by the complex foot-sliding hassapiko. As they get their breath back a boy, of no more than ten, dances the slow-strutting zeybekiko. With people half-kneeling and clapping to encourage him, he dances like a drunk. On and on they dance. The music changes to a series of harsh, raw Cretan war dances, and the men are up and stamping their feet, dancing the pentozali. Marina is mesmerised and wishes she was not so stout.
She slowly backs away from the hub of the party and sits on the bench by the peeling grey door, watching everyone enjoying themselves. It is a perfect moment. Irini looks wonderful in her lace gown. She comes over and sits by Marina’s side.
‘How perfect is this!’ Marina says.
‘Marina, I want you to be the first to know, I am pregnant ….’ Irini jumps up from the bench and is dancing with Yanni before Marina has time to reply.
Tears flow as she laughs. Life cannot get more perfect.
Marina looks up through the throng of dancers, and for a moment, there in the middle, she sees Meli, dancing and laughing, his lithe body full of rhythm, life, the same sparkle in his eyes as that night so long ago. And then he is gone, hidden in the crowd. She searches for him amongst the dancers, her heart yearning for a second glimpse; she begins to stand to be ready to run to him as soon as he reappears. But as quickly as her love to grown to full strength again, she knows that of course this is not, could not be Meli – he was lost to her years ago. Her throat constricts, tears fill her eyes, she lowers her weight back to the bench. She has seen Petta dancing and mistaken him for his Father. What is Meli doing now, she wonders, and does he think of her? She has rarely allowed herself to think of him over the years; the pain is too much to bear. Life, she reasons, gives moments of joy, and snatches them away, replacing them with years of sorrow. Better not to dwell on these things.
Tonight is one of those moments. Joyful, bursting with love and perfection. Tomorrow, who knows what tomorrow will bring? But for tonight, whatever sorrow might follow, all she can do is dance.
Petta is winding his way through the crowd towards her laughing. He takes her hand and pulls her to standing, he wipes away her tear with his thumb, kisses her on her forehead and swings her in dance across the flags.
‘Lady,’ he says breathlessly, ‘I told you you would dance with me at my wedding!’
Marina seizes the moment and dances.
***
If you enjoyed Black Butterflies you'll love book three in the series, The Explosive Nature of Friendship. Read a preview below:
The Explosive Nature of Friendship
Book Three of the Greek Village Series
Chapter 1
The whitewashed village basked in the summer sun, the red tiled roofs hazy in the heat. The road shimmered, the dust along its edges still. Not even a dog barked.
The kafenio, usually full of old men and farmers taking a break from work and wives, was empty. Behind the glass doors the old wooden chairs and rough tables were neatly arranged for their return. The chemist’s and bakery that also flanked the town square were closed. The area in front of the church was devoid of shirtless boys playing barefoot ball. The school on the edge of the village, on the road that led into town, was finished for the day. The sun was past its highest and people were asleep during the afternoon’s heavy heat. All was quiet, not even a dog barked.
The deep dull thud was felt as much as heard, tremoring the ground like an earthquake, a sickening resonance that alerted the senses. Its unnatural quality penetrated the villagers’ slumbers, rousing them to an unsettled wakefulness, questioning.
Sleepy, half-dressed people emerged from doorways, looking to their neighbours for explanation. Gates had rattled, windows had shaken, a glass had fallen over. They exchanged their experiences, trying to make sense of the unfamiliar sound. They felt alarmed but could find no cause to panic. They looked across the village to the sea, glistening in the afternoon sun; they looked up the hill to the dotted houses that nestled there amongst the olives. Everything appeared as normal. Sleepy, warm, unchangeable.
Rubbing eyes, they drifted back to shady, cooler interiors, muttering and grumbling.
It was only as the day’s temperature dropped, and people pulled back on their working clothes to venture outside that, clustered in unsettled groups, they heard the news, the whispers, flowing like water through crevices, until they all knew the source of the disturbance and were horrified.
Marina's life changed in that instant.
At forty-three, Mitsos’ life would never be the same again and he felt he owed Marina even more. His constant remaining question: how much was he to blame for everything?
Fixed with twists of wire to the rusting metal gate at the end of the unpaved track is a home-made post box. Mitsos made it from pieces of an old wooden crate, with nails in his mouth, the construction pinned between his legs, his grey hair falling into his eyes as he worked. He was going to paint it, blue perhaps, like the sky, but then he took the time to admire the grain of the wood, rubbed his veined and age-spotted hand along its smooth surface, and left it unspoilt.
Worried about the spring rains, he gave it a sloping roof using the front piece of an old drawer, still shiny and polished. The brass handle with its ornate back plate now sits uppermost to glint in the light.
A lizard is sitting on the handle, its long toes spread as it basks in the morning sun. The grasses around the gate, dotted with delicate pink and purple flowers hiding in their length, are tall after the winter rains - the rains that found their way through Mitsos’ kitchen roof and dripped here and there on his kitchen floor.
At his approach the lizard disappears down the back of the gate into the undergrowth. Mitsos smiles, takes a moment to follow its progress through the undergrowth. He bends to examine the flowers tucked away amongst the grasses, but he doesn’t pick them. Mitsos uses the drawer handle to
lift the lid, edges the elbow of the same arm to hold it open as he slides his hand under and into the box to feel around. It is a well-practised manoeuvre. He scrapes his nails along the wooden insides to see if anything has become lodged flat, and with joy, and nervousness, he retrieves an envelope. He has been expecting this letter for days.
Mitsos looks up at the clear blue sky and mops his brow with his forearm. Even though it is hot the spring rains have not finished yet and Mitsos can feel the pressure changing. By the gate the grasses rustle as another lizard runs through them, or perhaps it is a snake.
He feels the envelope. It is thin, a single sheet perhaps. He heads up the lane towards the house.
He wonders how long the letter has been in the village. The postman, Cosmo, brings letters to the village every day. But after a ride on his moped to the central depot in town and back, he often gets as far as his home near the square and feels in need of a little time to himself and a coffee. Then he often loses his sense of urgency, and the post can remain on his kitchen table sometimes for days before it is finally delivered to its destination. Mitsos recalls that Cosmo was just as lackadaisical back in school.
Holding the corner of the envelope between thumb and forefinger, he reads the return address as he walks: Berlin. His breath catches and suspends; he stands still. The enormity hits him. He can feel his heartbeat in his chest, his pulse in his temples. If he handles it well this could put everything right … Mitsos feels an unfamiliar tremor of excitement. He puts the letter in the back pocket of his coarse serge trousers, breaths deeply to compose himself, and continues his steady pace home. There is never a reason to hurry.
The track to the house is stone and mud, much of which the rains have washed away and which Mitsos has not repaired yet this year. Some stones stand proud, the soil around them eroded. He stops, checks his balance, which is good today, and is about to kick one of the stones away when it moves. At sixty-five his vision is filmy and the edges of things appear fuzzy. He screws up his eyes and looks more closely, his slightly bulbous nose wrinkling in the effort. The baby tortoise is no bigger than his palm. Its head disappears. After a while the creature slowly extends its neck out of curiosity, its eyes blinking. As a boy, he once collected three such tiny tortoises. With wood and chicken wire he built a corral for them, the construction careful, but the next day his creep of tortoises had all gone. A mystery.