Where the Bougainvillea Grows

by Gary Cleaver

  Sofia Hadjadakis had been thirteen when her mother died. She had never known her father and found herself alone in the big city without family or friends. The old woman who lived in the apartment below had taken her in. The woman looked after several girls and it would be no problem to accommodate one more, especially a pretty one. Sofia was young and would be easy to train. For her own part she had taken to her new life quite readily, her only alternative was the street and Mama had always taught her to be realistic. When she was seven, her mother had taken her to a wedding. She had marvelled at all the splendid people and their wonderful clothes and was enchanted by the Bride’s beautiful dress, she had thought the pretty lady to be a queen or a princess. When the groom took her to the floor for their first dance as man and wife, the people all around as was traditional, pinned bank notes to the dress. During this Melina had been surprised to find that her little girl was weeping. When she enquired Sofia told her that they were making the dress look ugly. Melina smiled at her.

  “Always remember little one that while money will not necessarily bring you happiness, poverty will surely bring misery.”

  It was a simple philosophy that Sofia had never forgotten.

  By the time she reached nineteen she was a skilled and experienced prostitute. She had managed to avoid addiction to the drugs and alcohol that were readily available to her. She decided that to become strong in her profession, it was wise to stay as clean as possible. Sofia discovered that whilst the men who came to her required sex always and all ways, this was not their only need. Warmth, company and conversation, these seemed to be almost a greater want. Intimacy was as important as passion and her willingness to provide such things quickly made her very popular among the regular customers. It was no surprise therefore that the old woman selected her, in the summer of 2000 for a special assignment. A wealthy Russian businessman had chartered a motor cruiser and intended to tour the local islands for a few days. He required a “companion”. He would pay well and the work would be pleasant. As she packed for the trip Sofia could hardly contain her excitement. This was her chance for improvement, a man like this would have many contacts, as well to do as he. On the strength of this trip she could become a real call girl, an escort commanding good fees. If she could specialise in this kind of work she could have her own life, away from the brothel. She hailed a cab and made her way to the big marina south of the city.

  His name was Yuri, he was forty five, tall and quite good looking. Sofia stretched out her hand, he took it, turned it over and kissed it gently, making a half bow as he did so. Sofia stifled a giggle, she reflected it was the first time she had been treated like a lady. It was very nearly the last.

  They left that same afternoon. For the next two days they cruised the blue waters of the Saronic Gulf, the weather was perfect and she had felt happy and relaxed. Yuri’s Greek was reasonable and he seemed kind, if a little distant at times. On the third night they anchored in a remote bay on the western side of the Methena peninsula. At one am clad only in the bottom half of her pink bikini Sofia made her way into the galley to make coffee. They had consumed a large amount of vodka and cocaine during the evening, she was more than a little unsteady. When she reached for the pot she brushed against a porcelain dinner plate, which immediately fell and shattered on the teak deck, she swore quietly and stooped to pick up the pieces. She looked up, he was standing in the doorway, a strange half smile on his face. She smiled back and apologised for her clumsiness. He said nothing. He walked over and punched her so hard in the stomach that her feet actually left the floor before she collapsed in a heap in the corner. For the next twenty minutes, which seemed to her more like twenty hours, he beat her furiously and relentlessly. At first he used his fists, when he tired of this he used his feet. Finally he used the pieces of broken plate as well. When he was exhausted he leant against the counter for a few moments to get his breath back. Then he turned and walked out as if nothing had happened.

  She lay on her back on the stern deck of the boat. She tried to move and found that she couldn’t, the signals just did not seem to be getting through. She could however feel the pain, it was horrific and it was everywhere. She could taste blood and through her functioning eye could see a lot more of it around her on the deck. One of her eardrums was perforated, but she could still hear. She heard the thrumming of the diesels beneath her and the rattling of chain as the anchor was raised. With rising panic she realised what was to happen next. In the darkness the yacht would head out, out to where the water was dark, deep and quiet and there he would throw her over the side and she would surely drown. Unable to move and light headed from blood loss, she was powerless to prevent this. But Yuri’s cruelty had reached it’s zenith, in the grey light of pre-dawn the boat stopped, she felt herself being lifted with a curious gentle care, she was placed on rough concrete. Moments later the diesels roared and the boat powered away. Sofia Hadjadakis lay naked, bleeding and broken on the harbour wall in Katsimila, and waited to die.

  George Karamis could not sleep. He was accustomed to the experience; every so often the arthritis that had settled on his injured leg would give trouble in the small hours. He got up and went to the bathroom, in the cabinet on the wall he found a pack of painkillers, he dry swallowed three. He needed to walk, experience had taught him that exercise, while it would not cure the pain, would provide a little distraction. He dressed and left the house. He walked slowly through the quiet darkness of the village his stick tapping on the pavement, serving to punctuate his stride. Turning on to the seafront he stopped and looked up at his hotel. All of the rooms were unoccupied this week and Andreas would have locked up as soon as the last bar customer had left; the lighted blue and white sign was the only evidence of life. He walked on towards the harbour. Arriving at the base of the wall he stopped again and looked along the line of small white fishing boats moored there, beside each one was an irregular pile of nets, there was no room to spread them out to dry so they were left in untidy mounds. At the end of the line he noticed a small pile with no corresponding boat, this was not unusual but something about it made him curious, he moved closer. In the half light he got to within three metres before realising what he was looking at. In spite of the pain he dropped his stick and knelt beside her.

  “Sweet mother of Christ, what is this?” he breathed.

  He knew at once that there was little time, he snatched a glance at his watch, four fifty, there would be no one to help for at least another hour, he would have to manage alone. He bent close to her

  “If you can hear me please understand that I must leave you for just a few minutes, I must get you help and I will need transport.”

  He gathered up his stick and made his way as quickly as he could back to the Artemis. Five minutes later he returned to her in the Mercedes. The car was only a year old and George took a last look at the leather upholstery he was about to ruin. He lifted her as gently as he could and placed her on the back seat, his leg by now a bolt of agony. If it had not been for the automatic transmission he could not have driven at all, as it was he had to clench his teeth against the pain. He drove the fifteen kilometres to Ligourio as fast as he dared, every bump and pothole caused low moans to emanate from Sofia and a couple of times from him, but at least the noise told George she was still alive. The infirmary was a long low building on the outskirts of town. The large car park was empty save for a silver grey Volvo station wagon, George was relieved to this for it meant Pavlos Foundas was on duty, he was an excellent physician and a personal friend. He brought the Mercedes to a halt at the foot of the concrete ramp which led up to the glass doors of the main entrance. Foundas had heard the car’s approach and came out to meet him. George opened his window and allowed no time for pleasantries or formalities

  “In the back Pavlo, I found her at the end of the harbour about half an hour ago, she’s in a very bad way.”

  Foundas opened the rear door and made a quick, perfunctory examination. “Let’s get her inside.”
<
br />   George shook his head, “I’m sorry my friend I can be of no further help…my leg.” Foundas nodded, “It’s alright George I will manage.”

  He got her on to a trolley and wheeled her straight into the small, meagrely equipped operating theatre. George followed slowly and flopped gratefully into a chair in the waiting area. It was ten minutes before Foundas re-appeared.

  “I have called a colleague of mine, he’s an orthopaedic surgeon and I’m going to need him. My God, George what happened to her? If you hadn’t picked her up from the harbour I would have said a truck had hit her. Do you know who she is?”

  George held up his hands. “What you have is what I found Pavlos, no clothes, no bag, nothing. I can only think she was an unwanted passenger on somebody’s boat.”

  The surgeon arrived twenty minutes later, he and Foundas set to work. George sat in the empty waiting room and reminded himself to ask them for more painkillers when they returned. They did not do so for nearly three hours. Foundas came out mopping his brow; he sat down and stretched.

  “Well, we have done our best my friend, but I really can’t say if she will live. The next twenty four hours will decide one way or the other.”

  He listed Sofia’s injuries. She had multiple lacerations on her back, stomach and upper legs, three broken ribs, a broken arm and collarbone; there was a hairline fracture of the skull, her jaw was dislocated and there was bruising just about everywhere. Foundas was mystified because in all of this, aside from a black eye her face was relatively untouched.

  “When the swelling goes down and her jaw heals there will be virtually no facial scarring at all, if she is lucky enough to survive she will be a pretty girl again, she is not much more than a child.”

  George stared at the floor. “Whoever did this should be flogged in the streets,” he said quietly.

  “Yes” Foundas replied. “But I seriously doubt that he will ever be found.”

  The next morning, with Sofia still fighting for her life in the infirmary, Yuri boarded a plane and went home. Two years later he was driving his big grey Audi limousine down a Moscow street. He stopped at a news stand, as was his regular habit, to pick up a paper. A man in a loud Bermuda shirt and even louder check pants approached, he was waving a street map.

  Yuri grunted, “Another stupid, lost tourist”, he opened his window.

  The man allowed the map to fall, revealing the Glock nine millimetre pistol in his right hand. The gun was set to automatic and when he squeezed the trigger all eight slugs in the magazine entered the car in a little under five seconds, six hit Yuri, one would have been enough. The police assumed, correctly, that it was a gang related killing. When they went through his pockets at the morgue they found, among other things, a tiny silver toe ring that had once belonged to a young Athens prostitute. He had kept it, as a good luck charm.

  At nine fifteen George called Christina and told her the whole story, she was appalled but also insistent that he come home at once to rest, he was not a young man anymore and had already exerted himself enough for one day. He could not help but agree, he ended the call, spoke briefly to Foundas and went back to Katsimila. When he was safely tucked away in bed Christina quickly filled a bag with the things she was going to need. She loaded herself and the bag into her car and drove up to Ligourio, someone would have to provide nursing care for the girl and in the absence of any family Christina had decided it should be her. Her first task was to deal with the two local policemen who arrived at the same time, she did so with all despatch.

  “What do you think you are doing here? The girl is unconscious, she may die and you idiots come to interview her? Go away! I will tell you when she is ready for your questions”

  The younger of the two began to protest, “We are just trying to do our job…” Christina was in no mood for excuses, she jabbed a finger at the poor individual “You Nikos Cacoyannis, I mopped your mother’s brow on the night she gave birth to you. I would have dashed her brains in if I knew she would bring you up to be so stupid. Now go, both of you, go and write some tickets or what ever it is you do between cigarette breaks.”

  They retreated in some confusion. She marched into the infirmary, spoke with Foundas for ten minutes and then set to work.

  On the afternoon of the third day Sofia regained consciousness, the pain was waiting, but over the following two weeks she grew gradually stronger. Christina came every day and always stayed for several hours. She fed the girl, kept her clean and even took over the supervision of her medication. When the wire was removed from her jaw and she was able to speak again she told Christina about herself and, as best she could, how she came to be where George had found her. Christina did not approve of the girl’s profession but didn’t think it her place to pass judgement. She had without doubt saved Sofia’s life every bit as much as George and the doctors, but she could not tell her how to live it. When she was well enough to leave hospital they gave her a room at the Artemis where she could complete her recovery. She insisted that while she could never hope to repay the Karamis’ for their kindness, she would pay back the cost of her treatment, every drachma. Just as soon as she got back to work. But going back was not easy. It was simple enough to locate the woman who looked after the local girls, but it took many months for her to regain any kind if confidence. Every time she was alone with a man she found herself on the verge of total panic. It is not in the nature of a prostitute to trust any man, but the irony is that without some kind of trust the job is simply impossible. However Katsimila is a small place and it was possible for her to build up a collection of regular clients and in time she became more settled. Things would never be the same again and this was an advantage, it helped her formulate a plan. She would save money and use it to, one day, start a new life, a real life. She had no idea what she could do, but it would come to her, she was sure of it.

  By the spring of 2008 Sofia was an established, though somewhat shadowy, member of the community. Of the three girls working in the village she was the only Greek, Tia was Filipino and Anja Ukrainian. She had few friends but the fact that she had any at all was to her credit. George and Christina were still her best friends and she could often be seen on the terrace outside the Artemis sipping her favourite, tequila sunrise. If any local had a problem with this he or she would have to talk to the fearsome Christina, this kept them quiet. None of her established clientele would bother her there, it was her strictest rule, at the Artemis she was very much “off duty”. She had also become firm friends with Anna Cristidis, who kept the gift shop. On a bright lovely day in April they were talking outside the front of the shop. Anna, a big round jolly lady in her in her early fifties was pointing in the direction of a little empty shop unit in the opposite corner of the harbour.

  “I told her, I told her I don’t know how many times, Eleni, there is no call for expensive jewellery in Katsimila, but she wouldn’t listen. Now? Well I suppose she can try her luck in Epidavros, but I don’t think she will find it any easier there.”

  Sofia looked over, “It’s very small” she said.

  “Yes, but someone could make a go of it, with any luck some bright person will open another gift shop.”

  Sofia was puzzled, “But that might put you out of business.”

  Anna chuckled “Competition is what I need my dear, give people more things to choose from, more variety, they are more likely to buy. I would welcome some competition. All it would take is a little imagination, and money of course.”

  Sofia shifted her gaze from the little shop and looked directly at her, “I will do it.”

  “Aha!” said Anna and laughed her big chesty laugh, “A splendid idea! Perhaps you could call it Lady of the Night! That would certainly bring in some custom”

  Sofia was looking down at the ground “You know Anna, I never get tired of looking at my shadow. It proves I’m really here. Do you honestly know what my life is like? There are a thousand people in this town and I can count the ones who will talk to me on the fingers o
f these two hands. I am invisible, I do not exist, I am a non person. Mothers hide their children from me, people cross the street when I come along. Last week I was in Voula’s supermarket, I bought some things, I can’t remember what. When I gave her the money our hands touched for a moment. She pulled her hand away and wiped it on her dress, she wiped it Anna, as if she might catch something. I did not choose this life, I think if you asked a hundred, a thousand girls like me they would say the same. And I am tired now; I want to be someone now. Not someone rich or famous. Just someone. I can do it Anna. With a little bit of help, I know I can.”

  Anna’s almost permanent smile had faded, she took Sofia’s hands in hers, “Right then! It will be done. And we will start this very day.” She looked hard into the young woman’s eyes, “Time to get off your back lady, time for some real work!”

  Through the following weeks Sofia worked harder than she had ever done in her life. She negotiated the rent with the shop’s owner, spent hours in the internet café and with magazines, finding and listing ideas for stock. She endlessly discussed plans with Anna and worked mornings in her shop for no wages. She sent off for and filled in form, after form, after form from the government. At the end of August the final form arrived, she filled it in with same care as all the others. At the bottom of the last page there was space for a final signature. She knew this moment would come, but still her heart sank. The signature required was that of the Mayor of the Municipality of Katsimila. In truth she had ignored the small matter of going to see him, mainly as she knew it could mean the end of everything she had worked for. She screwed her courage, flipped open her phone and made an appointment for the following Monday morning.