Where the Bougainvillea Grows

by Gary Cleaver

  At the northern end of the harbour he wandered along the wall between the bars and the many yachts that berthed here, sheltered by the bulk of the hills, steel halyards ticked against aluminium masts in the breeze, a gentle, soporific sound that made him think again of home, safety and security. Two of the boats were preparing to leave, Nikos stood at the stern of one of them and watched, a rotund and greying man resplendent in yellow t-shirt and a pair of union jack shorts was organising his crew of two. His shorts and accent gave him to be English, but his crew were entirely different, they were much younger than him and spoke in a burred and nasal twang, Americans, Nikos thought, and by the accent New Yorkers. As he started to walk on he heard the Englishman say

  “Right, a good wind and a moderate sea, we should make Kirios in about four hours.” He stopped and went back to edge of the gangplank, without thinking about it he introduced himself and briefly explained his situation. If he had thought it out he would never have approached such people so brazenly, but these were now different times for Nikos. The man in the garish shorts was guarded and sceptical but the two young Americans were instantly accommodating, the girl smiled at him “Sure, why not, hop on board we’ll take you.”

  He tiptoed down the narrow gangplank and shook hands all round. The Englishman, whose name was Alan, was the skipper, his two young charges, who had chartered both Alan and the yacht, were Nate and Tally. They were indeed from New York and were on their honeymoon, they had been married for just eleven days. Tally was small, blonde and pretty, she worked as a costume designer for a movie company, her new husband was high up in a Manhattan investment bank, he was tall and dark and when he smiled showed off the kind of bridgework that probably cost more than the boat he was sitting on. Though originally from England, Alan now lived in Tolo, a small town in the Peloponnese, not far from Nikos, he knew Katsimila well and had visited by land and water many times.

  Nate and Alan prepared the yacht for departure; Nikos had spent enough time around boats to make himself useful and helped. As he brought in the gangplank he asked Tally about her unusual name.

  “Oh my parents thought it would be a good idea to call me Chrystal, ugh I hated it, when they realised they started calling me Chris, I hated that even more, but a school friend came up with Tally and I guess it just stuck, anyhow I prefer it.”

  Nate raised the anchor while Alan positioned himself behind the wheel, Nikos let go the mooring lines and they motored slowly toward the mouth of Ermoupoulos harbour. Once outside Nikos took the wheel while the other two men set the sails, Alan came back to the cockpit and pointed to a small hump of land on the horizon, barely discernable through the light haze.

  ”Kirios” he said, Nikos looked and wondered.

  Once the sails had filled Alan killed the motor and a wonderful peace descended on the boat and its occupants, Tally went below and came back with a sketch pad, she showed him some of her work, as he looked he told her what he did for a living.

  “Well then, that kinda makes us kindred spirits,” she said. She presented him with the pad, opened at a blank page and produced a pencil. “Time for you to earn your passage, Nikos” she smiled.

  The motion of the boat was gentle but it was still a difficult task, he had already taken a mental snapshot of his three shipmates and their craft so that was the subject he chose. As the conversation drifted easily back and forth across the cockpit he worked, whenever one of them tried to peek he would stop, draw the pad tightly against his chest and wave an admonishing finger.

  “Not until it is finished,” he would say.

  A yacht, almost identical to theirs passed heading in the opposite direction, a little girl in a bright orange lifejacket and matching shorts waved from the deck, they all waved back.

  After an hour and a half Nikos stopped, swept the back of his hand across the page and handed the pad back to Tally.

  “There” he said.

  She looked at the drawing. “Awesome” she breathed and then added even more quietly, “this is lovely Nikos…this is…” She stretched across the cockpit and hugged him before showing it round.

  It was a simple enough work he thought, it was the yacht seen from the stern, its sails set and filled, in the cockpit the three of them were pictured waving and smiling as if for a camera.

  Nate also pronounced it to be “awesome.” Only Alan offered a small criticism.

  “You could have made me a bit thinner” he said.

  Tally carefully removed the page fro the pad and rolled it skilfully into a tube.

  “This is going home with us, I’m going to pack it right now.”

  Nate followed her below, announcing that it was time for a nap, Nikos and Alan exchanged glances before scanning the horizon in opposite directions. They sailed on and the little hump of land that was Kirios became steadily larger.

  As the yacht rounded the northern point of the island Tally came back through the narrow hatch, she was wearing a yellow bikini which almost matched her hair and made the middle aged occupants of the cockpit feel a little dizzy. Nikos remarked that it was a good thing that sailing did not need a great deal of concentration; she laughed aloud and slapped him playfully on the shoulder. Nate returned a few minutes later, he too had changed and avoided the eyes of everyone for a while. Halfway down the eastern coast they passed a headland and Kirios town came into view for the first time.

  Nikos scanned the seafront and clapped a hand over his mouth, it was exact in every detail, as he had reproduced the likeness of his new companions and their craft so he had painted the scene before him.

  Nate was looking at him, “Found what you’re looking for?”

  Nikos shrugged “Who knows?” he said.

  He had told them about the picture and as they watched Nate put forward a theory that Nikos had seen a picture some time in the past and, given his talent, it had merely resurfaced. Alan agreed, that sort of thing happened all the time he said. During the conversation Tally was strangely quiet, Nikos looked at her.

  “I don’t know” she said. “I always think that something like this happens for a reason you know? The ferry was cancelled but you found us, it’s like you were meant to get here and there’s a reason for that too,” she caught Nate’s look. “Yeah I know, sentimental bullshit blah blah blah, but one thing’s for sure, you’re not going to find out sitting here.”

  There was no room for the boat in the tiny harbour so they dropped anchor in the sheltered waters of the bay. Alan and Nate took the inflatable tender from the cabin roof and tied it to the stern, Nikos detached the tiny outboard motor from the rail and handed it down to Alan, he stepped aboard and the two of them puttered toward the shore, Tally and Nate waved him off saying they would follow later. Alan brought the small boat in to a set of concrete steps, which led down from the harbour wall, Nikos thanked him and walked up into Kirios town. Aside from the fact that this place was much more geared up for tourism, it was undeniably similar to his home village and at first he was convinced that this whole incident was nothing more than coincidence. There were more bars and gift shops mixed in with the tavernas and hotels than in Katsimila and the church was indeed at the opposite end of town, but otherwise it was very much the same. He decided to take a quick tour of the place before meeting up with his new friends for dinner, he was looking forward to this, he seldom made friends quickly and it felt good spending time with these easy going people. Leaving the harbour he walked the narrow streets, the architecture of the house was heavily influenced by the Venetians and many featured picturesque Juliet balconies with black, wrought iron railings, some dripped water, where the owners had irrigated their plants in the early evening, forcing him to keep to the centre of the street as he went. In the middle of town was a small square, just as at home, only this was ringed with tavernas, chairs and tables covered by brightly coloured umbrellas spilled outwards from each one, here and there people occupied the seats enjoying a pre dinner drink in the cool shade, waiters moved slowly among them, paci
ng themselves for the long night ahead. Then he noticed something else, in the north east corner, in front of the post office were three rows of low easels, each holding a picture.

  Nikos smiled to himself, “a fellow struggler!” he thought. He decided to give the artist’s work the benefit of his experienced eye, he walked over and wandered through the lines of easels. This man knew what sold, there were many of small villages in the islands and, in particular, the beautiful blue and white churches of Mykonos. Occasionally he glanced around to see if the artist was present, he was looking for old clothes and a careworn expression that would suit someone in his profession. During one such search he missed the picture at the centre of the second row, he glanced back at it, he took two paces backward and stood directly in front of the painting, he stood rigid, motionless, staring. It was a village viewed from the sea, but it wasn’t Kirios, it was unmistakably Katsimila.

  In spite of the warmth of the evening, Nikos shuddered, this just wasn’t possible, how could this be? He was studying the work so intently he failed to notice the artist himself, who had paid for his coffee and now rose from a table at the other end of the square, come over and walk up the line behind him. When he was barely two metres away the artist spoke.

  “There’s quite a story behind that one,” he said quietly.

  “Oh I know” said Nikos and turned to face him. Nikos Kelesidou looked at the man and felt his eyes fill with tears, a single one spilled over and ran down his left cheek. It was just like looking in a mirror.

  Theo Takes Delivery

  Late July and the heat was monstrous, at eleven o’clock the thermometers were showing thirty nine degrees and the cars on the highway between Athens and Corinth shimmered as they queued for the toll-booths. A white Mercedes truck also waited its turn, on the flatbed behind the cab there was just enough room for a single car that was invisible blanketed by a silver grey tarpaulin, though it was obviously low slung and sleek. Inside the cab Spiro Petelas sweated in spite of the air conditioning and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel impatiently; he was not worried about being behind schedule, he just didn’t like queuing. He took an Assos cigarette form the pack on the dash along with a purple Bic throwaway lighter, thumbed the wheel and lit up, he paid the cashier and drove on. His boss had given him what he felt were explicit directions, take the highway to Corinth and then the road south through the mountains to Epidavros, turn on to the coast road toward Poros and after another fifteen kilometres there would be a turning left to Katsimila, he couldn’t miss it. Spiro followed the instructions carefully and came upon the sign at five past mid-day.

  Travelling north out of Katsimila the narrow road passes the church, a number of small houses and then the cemetery which marks the edge of the village, after that there is nothing but olive trees and scrub for almost a kilometre until a shelf of land with a commanding view of the gulf is reached. Here there are five large houses, the biggest of these is a massive, opulent residence, reached by a paved driveway that is guarded at the bottom by two imposing, dark green steel gates; the locals call it, “The Hollywood house”. This was Spiro’s delivery point, he was given directions at the post office, again he was told that he couldn’t miss it, but this time he did and was forced into a long and difficult reversing manoeuvre before arriving at the gates just after twelve thirty. He was quite pleased with himself, after all he was only half an hour late, he pressed the bell on the gate post and waited. After a few seconds there was a sharp click and a metallic voice barked at him from a small, black speaker on the top of the gate post.

  “Yes.”

  Spiro looked at the yellow delivery slip for the fifth time that day, “Good afternoon sir, I have your car.”

  “Good” said the voice and then added, “You’re late.”

  Spiro began to stutter an apology but the speaker had already clicked off and the gates had begun to swing quietly open. He reversed with care up the narrow driveway to the house, his job took him to the homes of many wealthy people but none quite like this. Its grand façade was in brilliant white stucco, the massive upstairs balcony was supported by four replica Doric columns and the big arched windows were, quite obviously, of triple glazed, heat absorbing, tinted glass; the front door was enormous and solid mahogany, in its centre an irrelevant large brass knocker which glinted softly in the sun. In front of the door three glossy marble steps, lethal when wet, led down to the surface of the drive where Spiro now stood, off to his left was a beautiful, almost surreal manicured lawn and in the middle a twelve metre swimming pool with a low diving board at one end. The water was turquoise and looked deliciously inviting, the whole of the pool area was ringed with attractive flowers, Spiro thought that the bill for the watering of these alone would relieve him of an entire months salary, for in spite of the murderous sun they showed no sign of scorching. The great front door opened and out from his amazing, if a little tasteless residence, came Theodoras Pericles Aristotle Bakoyannis.

  He was a big man in his early fifties with an improbable shock of black hair on his round head, he had beady black eyes, a bulbous nose and thick red lips and whilst he wasn’t exactly fat he was certainly getting there. Theo had, since childhood, lived a life of privilege; his late father had been a shrewd business man who had built from small beginnings a hugely successful chain of electrical stores with outlets all over Greece, when the old man died Theo, then twenty seven took over. The company at that time bore the family name, but he decided that things needed livening up, now each store bore a single word in red neon above its doors, ‘GIANT’. His father had always specialised in white goods, refrigerators, washing machines, freezers and stoves; Theo had added TVs, stereos and latterly computers to this list and the company’s fortunes had soared. These days the board of directors oversaw the day to day business and he only had to put in occasional appearances at meetings, thus he was to all intents and purposes a man of leisure.

  He had been married once and things between him and Gabriella had been good, at first, but the expected children had not appeared and their relationship went downhill fast, especially as Theo, contrary to the medical evidence presented to him, had blamed her. One day he found her in the driveway of their large Athens home, loading herself and the nineteen year old Romanian pool-boy into her car. She had explained that the young man needed new clothes and as his Greek was almost non-existent, she would be going along to provide support. Theo had not seen her, her car, nor indeed the pool-boy since that day. In the years that followed he’d had a succession of gold digging girlfriends who had come and gone with steady regularity, his latest beau was Chantal, a haughty French girl, tall and elegant, she claimed to be of noble birth (her ancestors having escaped the guillotine). The truth, which involved the daughter of a prostitute growing up fast and cunning on the back streets of Marseilles, she kept to herself. Earlier in the year he had bought her a BMW, she had looked down her long nose at the car before pronouncing it to be bourgeois and vulgar, this had not stopped her driving it, but had perhaps contributed in some psychological way to the events of six days later, when she piled it into a street light, and upon climbing out unhurt, had hailed a cab and gone home, leaving her sixty five thousand Euro present lying in the gutter like a dead dog. This incident had caused Theo, or rather his personal assistant many problems which had included both fines and bribes, these little irritations, along with her staunch refusal to perform oral sex, meant that Chantal would not be in his life for much longer. She had certainly not been included in this trip to the weekend house in Katsimila, he did not need her opinions on his latest acquisition.

  Theo now stood before the diminutive Spiro, he said a perfunctory good afternoon and then gestured to him to get on with his work; he snatched the leather bound owners manual and started thumbing through its pages. Spiro quickly removed the retaining straps and then went to the controls for the hydraulics, as the flat bed tilted two steel ramps extended form the rear of the truck to form the correct shallow angle so that th
e car could be safely unloaded. When he had judged that the angle was just right he pushed a button and the winch, the last connection between the car and the truck, began smoothly paying out and the car rolled gently backward on to the driveway; he then removed the cable so that it stood free. Next came the part that Spiro enjoyed most, he grasped one corner of the tarpaulin and with a mighty tug, like a magician revealing his finest trick, whisked it away in one movement.

  They both new exactly what they were going to see, but still they stood, one either side of the machine in reverent silence, for a long moment. It was Theo who broke it, speaking quietly as if in church and fittingly with a kind of religious zeal.

  “Ferrari F355 Berlinetta Convertible” he said “ V8 three point five litres, zero to one hundred kilometres per hour in four point seven seconds, top speed two hundred and eighty kilometres per hour, rosso red, light tan hide interior”

  Spiro felt that he should supply some kind of response, as one did in church.

  “Truly a thing of beauty” he whispered, but Theo wasn’t listening, he was slowly circling the car taking in every detail, like a small boy who had never seen such a vehicle before.