A Poisonous Journey

by Malia Zaidi

  The Delage slows and Briony’s bright voice announces, "This is us, my dear, time to stretch our legs, and our purse stings!" She climbs out of the car, waving off Yannick’s motion that he will get out and open the door for us. "No, no, you stay where you are, we can manage. Would you be a dear, and find us here in a few hours time?"

  "Yes, Mrs. Farnham." Yannick is either quite shy or simply unused to the more relaxed attitude of his employers, because he barely dares to glance in our direction as we alight from the vehicle and smooth out our dresses on the pavement.

  "Ta-ta!" Briony waves, but is already turning toward a sidestreet, too broad to be called an alley. Other people, mostly women, join us on our route.

  "I am going to show you the Agora, Evie darling, I know you must be burning to see an authentic Grecian market, and Agora is one of the few words having thus far wormed its way into my vocabulary, so I rather enjoy visiting it." Briony tucks her hand in the crook of my elbow, leading me along. It is near mid-day and the street is cast in a warm yellow light that pours down on us from the large gaps between the buildings, and the sun is at its zenith. It is not hot, but pleasantly warm, and I enjoy the sensation of sunlight on my sun-starved skin. I hear loud voices up ahead, and though they are unintelligible to me, I know a market vendors call when I hear it. As we round the corner, a strong mixture of heady aromas washes over us like a fragrant wave. The sweet, citrusy tang of lemons and oranges mingles with the sharp scent of cinnamon, thyme, sage and other herbs and spices I cannot identify.

  "Here we are. What do you think?" Briony looks at me proudly, and I feel a surge of affection for her.

  "It’s wonderful!" My eyes drift over the stalls of fruit and olives, jars of honey and oil. There is even a table laden with big white rounds of cheese! I don’t know where to begin and need Briony to tug me by the arm, to let other more seasoned shoppers get on their way. We wander over to a stand where a small, stout and heavily bearded fellow is selling plump figs and juicy-looking grapes.

  "Good day, my ladies," he addresses us in deeply accented English. "You would like to try my figs? Yes, they are the best figs in all of Heraklion." He takes one from a large pile and slices it in half, offering us the pieces. Obligingly I take mine, sinking my teeth into the sweet, juicy flesh. Briony shakes her head at the vendor, and he raises his eyebrows in slight confusion and pops the other half into his mouth.

  "Delicious!" I declare and the man looks delighted.

  "You want to buy? I give you very good price, best price in all of Heraklion."

  I am about to agree when Briony tugs at my arm.

  "Not today, thank you," she tells the man, and before I can protest she pulls me away.

  "Why didn’t you let me buy some? They were lovely, you should have tried it."

  "If you plan on buying something from every stall we pass, we will be here all day. We buy most of our food in Miklos, you know, to endear the villagers to us Brits. I still wanted you to have a look around. It’s the largest of the food markets on the island."

  "All right," I shrug, already catching sight of a stand of piled nuts. "But I simply must…"

  We wander all over the market for a good hour, sampling here, tasting there. As we leave,

  I clutch a paper bag containing Pistachio nuts I insisted on buying, though Briony couldn’t help but roll her eyes. I made the argument that, as a tourist, I must do my bit for the economy of the island. She couldn’t argue with that!

  We make our way down the lane leading away from the market. People are still hurrying in the opposite direction, though it has calmed down a fair bit, and the sounds from the shouting vendors and haggling customers fade into the distance.

  When exiting the narrowing alley at a junction, as luck has it, directly opposite we spy the sign for the post office. I drag Briony and myself across the street to send the obligatory telegram to Agnes and Iris.

  To: Agnes Tremaine

  Arrived safely. Am well. Staying with Briony. Will write soon. Take care.

  -Evelyn Carlisle

  To: Iris McNally

  Dear Iris. Am on Crete with Briony. All is well. Nice holiday. Will write more soon. Sending love.

  -Evelyn Carlisle

  A veritable weight falls from me, having completed the task. Now I can enjoy the rest of the day. We dawdle around the shops, Briony purchasing a ream of a gauzy blue fabric imprinted with a delicate floral pattern. I find an English book in a musty shop, selling second hand texts. It has the intriguing title, Crete, Island of the Gods, and was written by a fellow Englishman called Charles Maypother. Clutching the book in my hands, I rejoin Briony, waiting for me outside, claiming that the dust would give her a migrane. She has become quite a little madam, good old Briony.

  "Where are we going next?" I glance across he road at the clocktower. "We still have at least an hour before we are set to meet Yannick."

  Briony exhales loudly and lets her shoulders droop. "I could do with something cool and refreshing. Shall we sit in a café for a moment? We can watch the people going by. Do you remember, we used to love doing that in Paris."

  I am not at all tired, but notice the weariness in my cousin’s manner and nod. "Of course, lead the way!" I would have liked to walk to the harbor, to get a whiff of the salty sea air without having to endure its wild temperament as I did on the ferry, but I plan on staying a while, so it will simply have to wait for another time.

  Briony leads me to a small, quaint café with a few round tables set on the narrow sidewalk. There is only one table unoccupied, and we sit down quickly, pleased at our good fortune.

  A waiter, no older than us, appears almost immediately and Briony orders two lemonades in an admirable effort, though not quite natural sounding Greek. She looks proud of her accomplishment, and I want to show myself suitably impressed, which I am.

  "Very nice. In no time, you will fit in with the locals."

  Briony looks suddenly crestfallen. I reach across the table in concern and clasp her hand.

  "Briony, what on earth is the matter? Have I said something to upset you?"

  At this her face crumples further and, to my shock, she is close to tears. "Oh Evie!" She pulls away her hand, holding it up and covering her face. "It is not how I expected it to be at all!" She lowers her hands onto the table, and I see they are shaking.

  "I thought everything wasn’t quite right, has something happened? Jeffrey appears as devoted as ever. You’re not ill are you?" I almost whisper the last sentence, fear momentarily clutching my heart. Briony is like a sister to me, I could never bear anything bad befalling her. Before she can answer and put me out of my misery, the waiter reappears with two sweating glasses of pale yellow lemonade. I thank him, settle up, and he drifts on to another table.

  "No, no I am not ill. Well …" She lets out a shuddering breath and clutches her glass, not drinking. "I am so lonely here, Evie," it pours out of her. "I try so hard to be a good wife, a good hostess for Jeffrey’s friends, but, but—" she breaks off, looking down at the scratched tabletop.

  "Why didn’t you say something? If you had written earlier I would have come, you know I would have. Briony, you are not telling me everything, are you?" My tone is firmer than I had intended, and I try to soften it with a sympathetic smile. "Please, let me help." Briony shakes her head and a lone, heartbreaking tear tumbles from her eye, dripping into her lemonade with a solitary plop. When she speaks again, her voice is steady but low and cheerless.

  "I thought we would have a family by now." Swallowing, she goes on, "I was pregnant, you see." She says it in a flat tone so unfitting to her usully bright and lively self. It startles me.

  "But—" I cannot think of what to say. Fortunately, she continues before I get a chance to utter something foolish.

  "I lost it. It is quite common apparently, the doctor said. I just … Oh Evie, I so wanted it!" Another tear and another.

  "Briony, I am so very sorry. But you can try again, surely? It is horrible this happened to you
so far from home, too. Still, surely you will have another chance."

  "I hope so, but it hasn’t happened. Jeffrey and I have been here a year now, married for nearly three, and our loss was seven months ago. Seven months!" Her face crumples and her lip quivers.

  "Seven months is not such a long time." I try to sound comforting to mask the fact that I have not the slightest idea what is normal in the realm of conception.

  "It is long!" Briony pushes away a tear with an angry gesture. "I want a baby, Evie! When we married I thought I would have a family. I never had any siblings myself as you know, and I want a house full of children. What if it will never happen! What if I am barren? My mother had only me. What if this was my only chance! Am I to throw dinner parties for the rest of my life, while my husband is buried in some sandpit digging up old pottery shards?" She tugs at a curl of her straw-colored hair. Only moments ago she looked the picture of loveliness and now, well, she looks wretched, and I say that with love. A few passersby throw odd glances our way, and I glare right back.

  "Briony," I say softly, "whatever happens, you will be a mother. There are options, you know that. And no one says you will not bear a horde of your own children. Or have you spoken to a doctor?"

  "Yes, the doctor said there didn’t seem to be anything wrong, but who knows!"

  "What about your mother? Your parents visited a few months ago, what did she say?" Again Briony shakes her head.

  "I couldn’t tell her. I couldn’t say it. Everyone was so jolly, admiring the house, the home Jeffrey and I created. I just couldn’t spoil it by speaking of such ugly things." She looks so vulnerably and small, and I desperately wish I had something of any use to offer, but I don’t, so I stay silent, allowing her thoughts to settle.

  We sip at our lemonades in this state of quiet restlessness. Slowly, Briony’s face, which had taken on a blotchy pink hue, calms and returns to its usual porcelain likeness. When we finish, we rise, gathering our few belongings and head back in the direction of the Agora where Yannick is to meet us.

  Walking along, we make an occasional remark on the pretty flowers overflowing their windowboxes, or on the strangeness of the Greek spelling of street names, neither of us mentioning what has been said. There is nothing I can offer, and I am sad and helpless as I see Briony’s yearning eyes follow two beautiful, tiny, black-haired children, passing by us in an alley, clinging to their mother’s hands. I ache for her, but am hopeful her fears are soon to be allayed.

  Yannick is true to his word and meets us at precisely the corner where he dropped us off hours ago. Despite all I saw and the delight I took in it, I feel drained. Briony’s troubles have drifted over to me, and I cannot get her tear-stained, desperate face out of my mind.

  Daniel and Jeffrey are already waiting as we drive up to the entrance of the museum. They climb into the car, both appearing pleased and relaxed. For a split second, I begrudge Jeffrey his pleasure. Is he struggling, too? Has Briony told him how she feels, what she fears? Am I the only one in her confidence?

  "Did you ladies have a nice day?" Jeffrey asks, all innocence as he cranes his head slightly to look at us. Briony’s face is once again shaded by the wide-brimmed hat, and I cannot see her reaction.

  "Yes," I attempt a light tone, forcing away my worries, "yes, Briony took me to the Agora, and I found this in a little shop." I hold up the small book.

  "Oh yes, the Maypother. Quite amusing. He was a raving lunatic, you know." Jeffery places his arm on the shoulder-rest as he talks to us.

  "Why do you say that?"

  A knowing smile pulls up the left corner of Jeffrey’s mouth. "He was convinced the gods lived here among us. He worried and rather upset a number of his neighbors with his antics, until he was asked to leave. Or so the story goes. In truth, I think he was a lonely man with a wild imagination. It frightened people that he seemed to live more in his mind than in reality. Lonliness can do that to people. He wrote his book, but left shortly after. I don’t know what became of him."

  "What a sad story." Briony’s voice is flat and low, and for a moment I fear a new onslought of tears.

  "Yes, I wonder what happened to him." Daniel’s tone is subdued as well. Dear me, what have I gotten myself into!

  "Well, an active imagination is something to be envied, in my opinion," I announce, trying to bring a sense of lightness back into the car. "It certainly makes for interesting reading."

  "Indeed." Jeffrey nods and moves back around to look at the view ahead.

  The drive seems shorter than in the morning, and before I can fully relax against the plump upolstery of the seat, the car crunches over the gravel of the villa’s driveway. The sun is still glowing white and beaming amid a canvas of blue.

  "Let me help you," Daniel offers as I struggle out of the backseat, holding my bag of pistachios in one hand and the book in the other. I let him assist me and hand him the nuts to hold while I disembark.

  "Thank you," I say, reclaiming my treat and follow the others to the front door, which is being pulled open by a harried looking Niobe.

  "Thank you, Niobe," Jeffrey hands her his hat and briefcase. As she holds out her hand for Daniel’s, he declines with a smile.

  "Shall we have drinks on the veranda in an hour or so?" Briony asks. She has removed the hat, and her face is again looking rosy, without red-rimmed eyes unveiling her distress.

  "Yes, lovely," I nod, "It is so pleasant outside, I might just sit below the great oak and get a start on my book."

  "Yes, do, you can tell me what you think at dinner," Jeffrey chimes in.

  "I will go to write a few letters, and then I had better see how Casper is faring and let him know we’re back." Daniel disappears up the stairs. Jeffrey vanishes into his library, leaving only Briony and me in the hall.

  "Briony, you should get an hour’s rest. Try to stay optimistic," I reach out and sqeeze her hand. "You will see see, it will all work out as it should." I cannot be at all certain it will, but I am hopeful nonetheless. She smiles halfheartedly.

  "You are probably right." She sighs. "I think I will have a little lie down, you don’t mind do you?"

  "Don’t be silly. I have Mr. Maypother for company. Go on."

  Nodding, she walks off, and I take myself outside to the garden. To be honest, I am quite happy for a few moments quiet. So much has happened, and I need some time to think. Holding my book, I make my way along the small stone-laid path toward the tree. The wind, at this greater elevation is stronger, but not at all unpleasant, and I take off my hat to let it tease my hair. Is there anything like the warm wind in one’s hair? Bliss.

  Oh, what is that? I take a few cautious steps toward the tree. Someone has left their shoes lying here. No … someone is here. Taking a nap? For a moment, a flash of irritation that someone else has taken my spot stirs in me. It must be Caspar, who else could it be. I step closer, around the tree to the spot where the bench is half hidden beneath embracing branches.

  It is Caspar. He is sprawled out on the grassy ground, dead to the world. I sigh with undisguised disappointment. Fine, I will find another place to read. I don’t want to wake him and be forced to make polite chit-chat. Just as I am about to turn around and sneak back, I notice the peculiar color of his face. He must have been out here for hours and has become terribly sunburnt. But the oak casts such a shadow … How would the blazing rays of the sun have reached him? I take a step closer, thinking now I ought to wake him, to tell him he needs to drink some water and cool himself down. As I bend to tap his shoulder, I cannot help noticing there is something unnatural about the slightly purple tint to his lips. Wine stains? Drinking in the middle of the day and then lying in the sun is certainly not a healthy combination. Shaking my head at his folly, I carefully prod his shoulder. Nothing. I push a little harder.

  "Mr. Ballantine? Caspar …" Nothing. Oh dear, what if he is ill. Swallowing my growing fear, I press two fingers nervously to his throat. I start to tremble, forcing myself to lean closer. His chest neither rises
nor falls. No movement. No breath. No life. As the realization comes to me with alarming force, I shudder. It takes only a moment to find my voice, and I let out a highpitched scream.

  I don’t know how long I wait beside the dead body of a man I met less than a day ago. My eyes are still transfixed on his face in mesmerized horror. How could I have been so blind? While I was mentally berating him for drunkeness, he was lying dead at my feet. My whole body is covered in goosebumps, and I wrap my arms around myself, more for comfort than warmth.

  Finally, after what seems an age, but in truth has been only one or two minutes, I hear footsteps coming from the house. They are heavy, and I experience a flash of gratitude that it is not Briony. What will this do to her? I turn around, relieved to see Jeffrey approaching.

  "What is it? Have you fallen? Are you hurt?" He comes around the bend where I am still sitting on the ground. I force myself to shake my head, to speak.

  "J-Jeffrey, he," my voice falters for a moment as I watch him take in the scene, "he is dead!" The last word leaves my throat in a shrill tone, which startles me all over again.

  Jeffrey looks at the little tableau in confusion. It takes only a moment for it all to register, and I notice the change in his face as confusion turns to horror. In two swift strides he is at my side, repeating the desperate search for signs of life. He finds no pulse, nor any breath left in the young man’s body.

  "Good God." He whispers. I can hear another footfall nearing.

  "Jeffrey? Did I hear someone scream?" It is Daniel. Oh no, he shouldn’t find his childhood friend like this. A tremor of panic flashes through my mind, but I am in no state to prevent the footsteps from drawing closer, keeping Daniel from turning the bend. So I sit as though frozen beside Caspar Ballantine’s body as Jeffrey rises, turning towards his friend, beginning to speak, to explain, to soothe. I am deaf to their words, blind to the blue sky, the colorful birds, blooming flowers, numb to the gentle breeze. I hoped I had left death behind. What a fool I was! I saw only the majestic Zeus and powerful Poseidon, forgetting their other brother, dark and dreadful, Hades.