by Malia Zaidi
"I can assure you, we shall do our best," Caspar replies in a distinctly Etonian drawl as he gives a small bow. Did he just wink at me? His pale hazel eyes sparkle with mischief in the low light. The room is aglow in the light of numerous yellow candles in simple, elegant silver candlesticks. A warm, pleasant radiance illuminates the broad, even panes of Caspars clean-shaven face, only faintly revealing the pale pink line of a scar between his left eyebrow and hairline. His hair tells of long exposure to the sun and gleams the color of honey streaked with paler strands.
I look around, pleased by what I see. Briony has always had good taste, and this house, her new home, has clearly given her an outlet to showcase it. Speak of the devil! Briony glides through the doorway floating in a delicate seafoam green dress that I could swear is this season’s Lanvin.
"Evie, darling," She joins our little group arms outstretched, a gesture echoing that of her husband. Pecking my cheek, she turns to the couple that has followed her into the room. Both are fair-haired and tall. On first sight they are, perhaps, no beauties in the traditional sense, but their faces have a pleasent openess worth more than a strong jaw or a high brow.
Briony ushers them forward like a little mother hen, her pink cheeks matching the color of the womans dress. "This is Paul Vanderheyden," she gestures at the man, "and his lovely wife Rosie. Paul, Rosie, my cousin Evelyn Carlisle, and you’ve met Daniel and Caspar, of course." The men nod at each other, and I offer a modest smile. I am glad she leaves out my title. I do not want everyone here to think of me as English aristocracy. Nor does the new Evie necessarily want to be a lady, come to think of it …
Briony places a hand on Paul’s arm to draw him and his wife closer to us. "Paul works with Jeffrey for his research at the museum. Imagine they’ve come all the way from Amsterdam!" She beams brightly, clearly relishing the role of hostess in her own little castle.
Paul holds out a hand and I take it. He has a kind face and a wiry frame. I have a brief flash of what he must have looked like in youth, a very gangly boy, all elbows and knees, and everyone’s friend. Behind his thick-rimmed spectacles, I feel the glimmer of intelligent eyes observing me.
"Very nice to meet you, Mr. Vanderheyden, Mrs. Vanderheyden." I reach out my right hand so that I might shake hers, but she doesn’t react, standing mutely beside her husband. I pull back my hand, feeling gauche and slightly rejected. Did I do something wrong? Rosie’s face is blank. There is a moment’s awkward silence until Briony, thank heavens, launches us into conversation.
"Rosie, went to school in England, didn’t you, my dear." Briony pats Rosie’s shoulder as if she was a child though Briony must be a decade her junior. Still no reaction. Briony chatters on, as a blush creeps up Paul’s pale neck. He is clearly feeling uneasy about his wife’s behavior. There seems to be something wrong with her. I dare not stare, but cannot keep myself from tossing an occasional glance at her, watching for any signs of reaction or involvement in the conversation. Nothing comes. She smiles benignly at us, yet doesn’t utter a word. Caspar and Daniel don’t seem to notice anything amiss and wander off to fetch everyone drinks.
Rosie, nearly matching her husband in height, is of a robust build with muscled calves above her sandaled feet, and broad shoulders tinged a painful sunburnt pink. She wears her gleaming daffodil-yellow hair in an unfashionably long braid, which suits her broad face nicely and gives her, in my eyes at least, the distinctive appearance of a Germanic warrior princess. Brunhild, I think, referring to the fierce woman of the Nibelungenlied. Brunhild loses her strength eventually, becoming the humilated pawn in the games of men. Hmm … maybe not Rosie’s ideal, then. Paul seems a nice enough fellow, and it shoudl be noted that my imagination can go rampaging down many a wrong path at the best of times. I am eager to know what on earth is the matter with this, to all outward appearances, hale and healthy woman.
We chat for a while longer until the arrival of more guests. Niobe leads he local doctor and his wife, Nikolas and Laria Zarek into the room, brandishing a bottle of ouzo for their hosts. Nikolas is a bit older than his pretty wife—certainly over forty is my guess. Streaks of grey dapple his otherwise thick black hair and the crinkly lines at the corners of his eyes indicate a life lived with laughter, which immediately endears him to me and leads me to believe he will be good company. He is not tall, but well-built with a wide chest and shoulders. He carries himself with a certain self-possessed confidence and natural grace, which surely must have appealed to Laria as might his rather unusual flare for style. Nikolas wears an impeccably tailored jacket with a forest green silk cravat, for my taste a little too much of a good thing.
His young wife is a striking creature, slender and dark, exuding an air of mystery. They make a handsome couple indeed.
Laria tells me, in her low, melodiously accented voice that she, too, has visited London. As she says this, her nose wrinkles. "It was not for me," she comments diplomatically, giving me the clear impression that she has a much less dipolomatic opinion of our capital. "So much cold. So many people. I missed the sea. The river …" she grimaces as if the thought of the Thames’ murky depths is too much to contemplate, and shakes her head. "No, I was happy when I came back to Crete."
"It certainly is beautiful here, though if you ever go back to England," as I say this, I know she will not, "you might enjoy a trip to the coast. Cornwall is beautiful, and you can walk along the sea for miles."
"Yes," she says, drawing out the last letter, "perhaps I will."
As we continue our conversation, I learn that she studied to be a nurse, in spite of her parent’s objections.
"I have my own head, you know, Evelyn?" She taps her temple as if to prove her point. "And that is how I met my husband." Laria beams at him and touches his shoulder.
"My great fortune," he says, dutifully patting her hand, which has come to rest tucked in the crook of his elbow, where it seems to belong like a piece in a puzzle.
The last to arrive is the museum curator, Darius Calandra, a close friend and colleague of both Jeffrey and Paul. He is a small man, especially standing beside the other men of the party, particularly Paul, who dwarfs us all. His neat features and dark hair do little to distinguish him, but there is something about him, something I cannot quite put my finger on, prompting me think one ought not underestimate the man. How does the saying go, don’t judge a book by its cover.
Somehow or other, I am left alone with him, Briony having run off to check on the progress in the kitchen and the other men refreshing their drinks. I cannot see either Rosie or Laria, so I assume they must have gone to freshen up themselves. It’s all right, I do not mind. For some reason Darius inspires a sense of peace in me, and I feel more at ease than I did in the larger group of strangers a moment ago.
In a soft voice he quickly, though humbly, reveals himself to be a treasure trove of information. He knows everything there is to know about the history of the island and Miklos, his hometown, in particular. All my life I have been drawn to stories, real or fictional, like a moth to a flame. My earliest memories are of my mother’s lively voice telling the story of poor Cinderalla, or the cunning Shaherazade, filling my mind with images so vivid I felt certain they were real. I listen now as I did then, welcoming Darius’ anecdotes and tales with rapt attention.
Soon the others rejoin us. I am calmer, and even Rosie’s blank-eyed stare does not manage to unsettle me. Jeffrey and Darius have been working together for some time now, examining a new excavation site, which has produced the most wonderfully preserved sculptures and relics that have been found in the area in nearly a hundred years. It is a tremendous success for the museum and one of the reasons for Jeffrey’s presence here.
Jeffrey took a degree in archaeology at Cambridge before the war and was thrilled to have been offered this position even though Briony, at the time, was less so. As I look at them now, standing side by side, I think the change of scenery has done them good. Briony’s cheeks are flushed and Jeffrey appears well rested and conte
nt. Now only the sound of children’s feet running around in this large house remains sadly absent. But is is early days.
After Niobe returns and whispers discreetly in Briony’s ear, we are gently ushered to the beautiful candlelit table and sit down to eat. Hungry now, I am looking forward to the meal, if those delicious smells wafting in from the kitchen are anything to go by.
To my delight, I am seated next to Darius and Daniel, with Briony across from me between Jeffrey and Laria. As Niobe fills our glasses with the palest golden wine, Darius explains that he came here straight from the museum where he had been authenticating a new set of sculptures. He appears a little nervous, but visibly excited, his dark eyes flickering with enthusiasm behind thin-rimmed glasses.
“I now believe,” he tells a rapt audience, “we have unearthed an ancient temple site dedicated to the cult of Dionysus. Can you believe it?” He smiles brightly, like a child that has been given a new and shiny toy. “This is most unusual. The temple, it appears, was never finished. In fact,” he pauses, perhaps for dramatic effect, “we have found burn marks, and one wall is entirely smashed in. Violently. We believe it was attacked, but not pillaged as so many relics remain. Most fascinating, isn’t it?”
"Do you suppose it was damaged two years ago when the Turks were forced to leave?" asks Daniel, leaning forward to better see the man as he replies.
"I don’t think so." Darius’ brow creases and shakes his head. "The Turks, most of them, were Greek-speakers, you know. Some married native Cretans. There were even Cretans who converted to Islam. The divide was, at least here on our island, not always black and white. I am still in contact with some of my Turko-Cretan friends, who were exchanged in 1924. If they have lived here half their lives, raised their children here, they become your neighbors and friends, not the enemy. Crete is a place many choose as a new home." The words are uttered as simple fact, yet I feel their truth resonating in my own mind. Taking a slow, savoring sip of the cool wine, he continues, "You see, we have many Greek refugees seeking the chance to make new lives here after having been forced out of Asia Minor. That was a terrible business, but we will recover. I am confident of this."
There is a moment of silence as the people seated around the oval table, ruminate upon this. Most of us, I realize, tossing a fleeting look at my fellow diners, in a way are refugees. Naturally, I could not possibly compare my situation to that of the poor and frightened families seeking safety and prosperity here after having lost their homes due to the tribulations of the Balkan Wars. Yet one way or the other, Crete has become our sanctuary, and we must make of that what we can. It is Briony who breaks the, uncomfortable silence and asks if anyone is ready for the second course.
We dine wonderfully on fresh fish stuffed with olives and capers, a flaky triangular pastry, spanakopita, filled with spinach and a salty, creamy cheese, thick yoghurt drizzled with honey and sweet little fruits I have never before seen or tasted called kumquats, which have the appearance of tiny oranges with a much sweeter, sugary flavor.
Throughout our meal, Darius patiently answers my questions, not making me feel a fool for my lack of knowledge of the island and its culture, instead happy to share with someone eager to learn.
"Were you born here?" I ask, cutting a piece of my fish.
"Yes, in Miklos where my father was born, and his father before him."
"Where did you get your enthusiasm for archeology?"
"I studied in Athens. Then I joined a dig in Egypt. Most interesting." His eyes seem to glaze over for just a moment as though he is jumping back to a sandy pit in the land of the Pharaohs. "Yes, most fascinating." He smiles ruefully. "I had to return when the independence fights began."
"I have never been to Egypt. I should love to see the pyramids and the sphinx." I reply, reaching for my water.
"Oh, yes, and you must not forget Karnak or Abu Simbel, in my opinion, sites superior even to the Pyramids of Giza." He looks very serious as he explains, and the more I speak with him, the more I see a man who is passionate and devoted to his work and studies, but who seems to neglect an interest in all other aspects of life. He has not, I realize, asked me a single question about myself. Or am I simply envious of his enthusiasm? It would be nice to have something one can be so enthralled with. In time, maybe, I will be as well, I tell myself.
In 1921 I spent two years reading classics at St. Hugh’s College in Oxford, one of the few colleges admitting women. I was not awarded a degree as I had to end my studies early to be with Aunt Iris when her husband passed and she was quite unwell. Still, the grand stories of Agamemnon and Odysseus have a hold on me and the enthusiasm Darius feels for his work, exploring the reality behind such mythical tales, is an area I want to hear more about. While he may be absorbed by his own interests, he lacks the overbearing confidence of Caspar Ballantine, who, as the evening progresses and his glass is refilled and drained time and time again, grows ever louder and distinctly unpleasant. I can’t help but cringe, observing him from the corner of my eye, dip back his head again, a tiny trickle of ruby liquid dripping from the corner of his fulllipped mouth onto the left breast of his white shirt. I wish Jeffrey or Daniel would discreetly take him aside to put a stop to this before he ruins Briony’s lovely party, but neither seems keen to make a move. Unable to do anything, I direct my attention back to Darius.
He is explaining how he and a team of local diggers have found a collection of bronze masks ten miles from the town and are now busily trying to get endorsement to fund a continued excavation. Jeffrey and Paul are assisting him in this matter as well as managing the projects already underway. Much as this is all very interesting, I can’t help but allow my mind to wander a bit. I imagine myself, trowel in hand in a sandy pit, a dirty vase with dust-covered black figures pained upon its terracotta surface perched at my booted feet. Or better still, wearing a beautiful pale blue gown, draped across my body as though Michelangelo had painted it onto my form, wandering barefoot through the shallow waters. Or—
My thoughts are interrupted by a wave of laughter all around me. Someone must have made a joke. I join in half-heartedly, aware of a distinct pull in my jaw, indicating my desire to yawn. I clamp it shut and fight the urge.
When Darius and Paul begin discussing a meeting with a potential sponsor, I turn my attentions to my left where I catch Daniel Harper glancing down at his wristwatch.
"Do you have other plans tonight, Mr. Harper?" I cock my head to show my good humor.
"Pardon?" He looks momentarily startled. To his credit, he manages to recover quickly, shaking his head. "Oh, no. Just a habit, I suppose. A rude habit. I apologize, Miss Carlisle."
"No need. And please, do call me Evelyn. If we are to be living together, these formalities only get in the way."
"Absolutely, and I am Daniel as you know" He nods and grins at me. I notice a dimple in his right cheek, which in a very pleasing manner, disrupts the symmetry of his face.
“Well, Daniel. What brings you here? I myself am on the run, fleeing from London authorities of sorts.” I lower my head a little closer to him, a move that in hindsight seems more intimate than conspiratorial. Daniel blushes a little, though it would hardly be visible in the low candlelight if I weren’t so close to him, and self-consciously I withdraw a little.
“Trouble with the law. Well, I’m afraid I can’t top that. I am simply visiting an old friend who has chosen one of the loveliest places to settle down.” Daniel takes a sip of his wine, momentarily averting his gaze. His face is angular, less traditionally handsome, perhaps than that of his friend, but no less interesting for it. He has dark eyes, which I first took to be brown and have now observed to be a deep, almost pine green, changing their hue ever so slightly as the light shifts. I swirl the last of my wine in the crystal glass and continue our conversation.
“I can only agree with you on that account. Have you been to Greece before?” I ask him, starting to take an interest in the man behind this handsome veneer.
"No," he shak
es his head gently, a lock of hair falling onto his forehead I almost reach out to brush it aside, but thankfully remember decorum. This wine must be getting to my head.
Daniel continues, "I’ve spent the past year traveling in Cairo and Marrakesh, and before that … Well, there was the war of course.” Lowering his head for a few seconds, he adds no more, allowing the memories their moment of silence. The war, as it is for so many of us, must be a subject he prefers to avoid. I have found that some people need to speak of it all the time, working it into nearly every conversation, while others cannot bring themselves to say the words aloud for fear of their potency and pain. He looks young, but likely old enough to have been affected by the Military Service act of 1916, which called for the conscription of all elligible men for military duty. He has no visible battle scars, though I can only see his hands and face. Often times, the ones beneath the surface are the most difficult to bear or to comprehend.
Trying to steer the conversation back to safer ground I continue, "Your travels sound fascinating. I’m afraid, I have limited experience in that arena, only Switzerland and France for my schooling.” As I say this I suddenly feel very green in the company of all these cultured, well-traveled people. Daniel smiles again.
“Not at all. Contrary to what is expected of a patriotic Englishman, I am very fond of Switzerland myself. I holidayed there many times as a child. Where did you visit?“
With this invitation, and genuine interest emanating from Daniel, I start explaining. I tell him of my time in Zurich, then of Lyon, and later Paris. He counters with stories of his travels to Cairo, the temples, the heat, the souks in Marrakesh, and his arduous sea journey here. It seems he has avoided good old England a number of years.