The Magic In The Receiver

by Dillon, Paul

  Ben’s “Okay” was a trifle hesitant.

  “Don’t worry, the man’s a magician, an absolute magician,” said the woman.

  Anticipating some diabolical concoction, Ben looked at Elena.

  “This should be interesting,” she said, rolling her eyes.

  Ben turned to the couple, his hand rested on Elena’s arm.

  “Hi, I’m Ben, this is Elena. What were those tricks again?”

  He swiveled a bar stool, motioning for Elena to sit next to the couple. She adjusted her skirt, which rode up as she sat. Ben leaned in; his legs touched hers as he rotated her seat to face the bar.

  “Tom and Betty Henderson, from Bristol, England,” said the man.

  “The barman’s name is Spiro,” whispered Betty.

  “Popular name,” said Elena.

  “Rum cocktail; specialty of the house,” said Spiro.

  He placed two Collins glasses on the bar.

  “Thank you, Spiro,” said Ben. He sipped the drink. “Not bad, not bad at all.”

  “Where you two from?” asked Tom.

  “Boston,” replied Elena. “My father is Greek-American”

  Spiro said something in Greek, Elena attempted a response.

  “I didn’t realize you spoke Greek,” said Ben.

  “I don’t. Well, I know a few words but the Greeks speak so fast, I can’t tell what they’re saying. So I always answer with, ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand Greek’. That’s what I said just now.”

  “I live in Los Angeles,” Ben chimed in with a delayed reply.

  “But you’re not American,” said Betty.

  His reply was interrupted as Spiro reappeared, holding a champagne bucket containing Elena’s flowers. He held them in front of his face, peeking through the petals like a madman.

  “The man’s crazy,” whispered Ben.

  “Spiro, show them the tricks,” demanded Betty.

  “Man, that cocktail’s good,” said Ben. “What the hell’s in it?”

  Spiro wagged his finger and shook his head. Elena let out a laugh, sparking off a domino effect with Tom and Betty, who were quite drunk.

  “An empty wine bottle,” said Spiro.

  He held a cork in one hand, the bottle in the other and set them down on the bar. Chuckling to himself, he stood back to admire his handiwork.

  Ben wondered whether he was supposed to inspect them.

  “What now?” he asked.

  Spiro folded his arms into his white shirt. Satisfied with his dramatic introduction, he picked up the cork, squeezing it into the wine bottle.

  “You’re going to love this,” cried Betty.

  Taking the end of a wooden spoon, Spiro forced the cork into the neck until it dropped to the bottom of the bottle. Then, he rattled it around.

  “Cool,” said Elena.

  Betty slapped Elena on the forearm. “That’s not it.”

  All eyes fixed on Spiro. Ben stared at the man’s grey beard, waiting for him to speak.

  A show of empty hands, followed by a pirouette, produced a white cloth napkin, which Spiro spread neatly on the bar. Placing the wine bottle on the napkin, he flicked the toothpick holder, deftly catching one between finger and thumb. Next, he balanced the toothpick on top of the bottle.

  “The trick is to get the cork out. You can only use your hands and any object that is touching the bottle,” explained Tom.

  Ben had seen a girl perform this trick before, in a San Diego bar. The addition of a toothpick confused him slightly. He decided to play dumb.

  “Got you stumped eh?” the woman teased.

  “Free cocktails if you can do it,” said Spiro.

  “I give up,” said Ben.

  Elena picked up the toothpick and grabbed the bottle, tipping it upside down. She tried to stab the toothpick into the cork. Ben could see this was impossible; the toothpick barely reached it. Even if the toothpick could be jabbed into the cork, there wouldn’t be enough traction to pull it through the neck.

  Tom ordered single a malt scotch and a gin and tonic. “Another round, old chap?” he asked Ben.

  “Not so fast, Tom, Elena’s going to win free drinks.” Ben could handle one more cocktail but he didn’t want Elena getting too drunk.

  “Any object that is touching the bottle.” Unable to resist, Betty offered Elena a clue.

  Ben knew it was nigh on impossible to solve the puzzle, more so with the red herring of the toothpick. He pondered another round. He felt fine, the drink wasn’t too strong; one more might work to his advantage later. He glanced at Elena’s glass; it was almost empty.

  “I give up,” she said, putting the bottle back on the napkin.

  “Show them … show them how it’s done,” shrieked Betty, beside herself with glee.

  Spiro looked at Ben, who shrugged by way of resignation.

  “Watch this,” howled Betty.

  “Steady on, old girl,” said Tom. Even in his semi-drunken state, he was aware that his wife was making a complete fool of herself.

  Stepping forward, Spiro began the show.

  “Anything touching the bottle,” he reminded them.

  Shooting a conspiratorial grin towards the hysterical Betty, he moved the bottle to one side and held the white napkin by its corners, letting it drape down like a flag.

  “What’s next, a rabbit?” whispered Ben.

  He glanced back and forth between Elena and Betty. Elena was transfixed, Betty stared maniacally, as if attending a public execution; her mouth wide open, awaiting Spiro to deliver the coup de grace.

  Slowly, the dramatic Spiro twisted one corner of the napkin and fed it into the bottle until it looked like, a Molotov cocktail. Ben downed the last of his drink.

  Betty will start baying soon, if he doesn’t hurry up, he thought.

  With a deft movement, Spiro flipped the bottle upside down and juggled the cork into place, allowing it to become snagged in the napkin. Pausing for effect, he pulled on the cloth, trapping the cork in the neck. Seconds later, with a sharp tug, the cork popped out to rapturous applause from the Hendersons.

  Elena appeared to be enjoying herself. Ben was undecided whether to leave now or risk one more drink. He put his hand on Betty’s shoulder, “You were right, that was cool.”

  “You haven’t seen anything yet,” said Betty. “Spiro, show them the one with the spoon.”

  “We should be going, it’s getting late,” said Ben to Elena.

  She drank the rest of her cocktail without a reply.

  “Another?” asked Spiro, nodding at her empty glass.

  She raised her eyebrows at Ben, as if to say, “I will if you will.”

  “Sure you’ll be okay?” he asked.

  “I’m fine. I really haven’t drunk that much.”

  “Two more special rum cocktails and whatever Tom and Betty are having,” ordered Ben. “Let’s take the drinks up to the room,” he whispered to Elena.

  “Good idea.”

  Mercifully, Betty stopped talking about bar tricks while she watched Spiro prepare her drink. Her silence pleased Ben; it would be easier to make his excuses and leave.

  “Twenty-five Euros,” Spiro placed the last of the drinks on the bar.

  “Cheers,” said Ben.

  They chinked glasses. Ben reached into his wallet, putting thirty Euros on the counter.

  “We’re going to turn in,” he said. “We have an early start in the morning. Betty, Tom, it was a pleasure meeting you.”

  Betty pleaded with them to stay.

  Ben got up, offering his hand to Elena.

  “Thanks Spiro, you’ll have to let me have that recipe,” he said, pointing at his drink.

  Going over to the circular table, Ben retrieved their bags. Elena picked up the champagne bucket. She struggled to carry it, and her drink, at the same time.

  “Spiro, is it okay?” she nodded at the bucket. “I’ll bring it back in the morning.”

  He held up a thumb.

  “Efharisto,” she sm
iled.

  “Here, give me those,” said Ben. “Put the bucket under my arm.”

  “Okay, I’ll take the bag.”

  They made their way out of the bar, across the foyer, and up the travertine staircase.

  “Sorry, there’s no elevator,” said Ben.

  “How early do we have to leave tomorrow?”

  “Noonish.”

  The hotel was silent; there wasn’t a soul on the stairs or in the corridor. Ben put the flower bucket on the tiled floor outside his room and rummaged for the key. The huge thing had snagged in his pocket, frustrating him. Finally, the lock clicked and the door sprang open. Light from the corridor flooded into the room. Without turning on the room-lights, he entered, leaving the door ajar. Elena followed him inside.

  “I’ll put these here.” He set the flower bucket on the mirrored table. “Make yourself at home.”

  The maid had tidied well, the freshly made bed left a good impression. She’d also closed the veranda doors and drawn the curtains. The room was hot and stifling.

  “I forgot to pick up the remote control for the air conditioning,” he said, drawing the drapes. “It’s not like back home, these small hotels charge for the AC.”

  Opening the veranda doors brought little relief. He stepped outside into the warm dense night. The patio was dark, lit only by refraction from the garden. Elena stayed by the bed, taking in the room.

  From the veranda, Ben stared, drawn to her figure, made silhouette by light from the hallway. It was time.

  “Close the door and come outside, it’s a little cooler. I can go down and see if I can get the remote, if you’re too hot.”

  She placed the carrier bag on the bed and closed the door.

  “It’s fine. I don’t mind the heat,” she said and stepped outside. “Besides, there was no one at reception, it’s late.”

  “Cheers,” said Ben.

  Their glasses touched.

  “I’d better light those candles. I don’t want to be an entrée for some mosquito tonight.”

  He slipped back into the room and fumbled around in the carrier bag until he found a disposable gas lighter and the two wide yellow candles.

  “Here.” He lit the wick of the first one, placing it on the balcony wall. “And here…” The lighter flame flickered over the second candle on the veranda table.

  He leaned against the balcony wall, overlooking the amorphous garden. Lanterns, under the dwarf pines, cast shadows across the lawn, reflecting faint beams of light off the low stone walls. A primeval harmony drifted up from the darkness on its way to a sky, clear and scattered with stars. The garden, the crickets were goading him, abetting his desires; he knew she’d respond.

  “I’ve fallen in love with this place,” he said. “I call it the Cypress Garden. You can just make out the trees in the darkness.”

  Elena moved over to him, leaning her back against the balcony, her legs brushed against his.

  “Mmmm, I love the smell, the sounds of summer nights,” she said.

  “It’s got a different quality now. This morning, the crows and cicadas were running the show; tonight, the crickets have taken over. I can’t decide which I like best.”

  “The crickets sound just fine.”

  Ben turned towards her, tugging her arm; the momentum pulled her closer. She didn’t withdraw. In a continuation of the movement, he put his left arm around her, drawing her closer still. His right hand felt the curve of her hip. In the instant before their lips met, his eyes searched her face for an expression, for consent to his desire. Their kiss lasted only moments; he sensed her passion match his. Slowly he withdrew, excited, aroused. Inches apart, their faces smiled knowingly. Tonight, he could do whatever he wanted.

  Sharing a strange familiarity, they both took a drink. Each believing their intentions understood.

  “Something really wild is happening,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “That kiss … it reminded me of something,” he hesitated, “… so familiar.” He sought to expand but fell silent.

  Everything happens for a reason, she said to herself. Wasn’t it fate, hadn't Greg himself delivered her into Ben’s arms from halfway across the world.

  They kissed again … longer this time.

  “Let’s go inside.” He led her by the hand into the middle of the room and kissed her again. The candle lights flickered, like spirits, dancing to the rhythm of the crickets. Her breasts pushed into his chest arousing him further. Ben broke the kiss, eager to feast his eyes on her.

  She stood there, her head tilted up, looking into his eyes.

  He unzipped the olive dress and pulled it down over her shoulders, revealing her ample cleavage, which spilled over the black lace of her bra. She did not move; he stared, entranced. Time had ceased to register for him. He unhooked her bra, lifting it away, exposing the luscious curves beneath. Hypnotized, like a cobra; he felt their softness, drank in their shape in the yellow candle light until they burned into his memory—a process he was conscious of, could feel happening.

  He tried to speak, to express what she was doing to him, but words would not come. Her arms encircled his waist. He touched her breasts, caressing them. They kissed again; he pressed his hands on her shoulders, easing her down until she sat on the bed.

  With her thighs stretched out before him, he knelt on the floor, her knees against his chest. He longed to see more of her. With a mind of their own, his hands moved along her thighs, pulling the short skirt up to her hips.

  Elena just looked at him, letting him do as he pleased.

  Later, Ben would not be able to recall exactly what happened that night. Yes, they made love but it was like trying to remember an elusive dream, only fractions remained.

  Chapter 19

  By early evening on the day after the tree house quake, Argostoli had regained its dignity. Talk in the cafes around the main square returned to the humdrum of everyday life. The capital had been fortunate; the epicenter of Sunday’s tremor was out at sea. Damage to the town was light.

  Come the morning of Tuesday, August 11, the city’s mood grew somber once more. At 5:32am, a 6.8 magnitude earthquake struck with an epicenter off the northwest coast of the neighboring island of Zante.

  Conversations started and ended with speculation about the days ahead. Some predicted catastrophe, others gave thanks for their safety. Everywhere, neighbor asked neighbor the same questions; whether houses were damaged, if families were safe.

  Fortune had not been kind to the Katros house. The early morning tremor was more than just a minor incident; the ceiling in the boy’s bedroom had partially collapsed. The boys were unharmed but the outer wall suffered structural damage causing two ceiling joists to shear. Repairs threatened to stretch finances to breaking point. Ioannis’s father had assessed the costs and would have to call upon past favors to lessen the burden. It would take several days just to gather supplies. In the meantime, the family decided to move the boys to their grandmother’s cottage.

  As if Vasilis Katros didn’t have enough problems, the very day he planned to begin repairs on the stone barn, more work had piled up at home. He resolved to stick with today’s plan and fix the barn. Stamos would help his father; Ioannis would stay at home with his mother.

  Mid-morning came and Mrs. Katros announced a visit to the town’s open-air market. Ioannis enjoyed shopping trips, if his mother bought wisely or found a bargain, there was usually a little money left over for sweets or ice cream.

  Life was tough for Ioannis’s mother. Every minute of every day was spoken for; feeding the family, mending and washing clothes, working in the Matsakis’ store. If she wasn’t doing chores, she made lace with Nessa. Like other mothers in the poor neighborhoods of Argostoli, Mrs. Katros found it hard to escape the drudgery of life and enjoy her children’s precious years. All too soon, they would become adults. The recent tremors reminded her to appreciate what little time remained of their fleeting childhood.

  Ioannis and
Nicia waited on the sidewalk, watching their mother close the front door of the house.

  “Yanni, don’t let the dog follow us,” said his mother.

  An old black Labrador, belonging to a neighboring family, sauntered up to Ioannis, rubbing its snout against his leg. Nicia stroked the friendly pet, secretly hoping it would follow them.

  “But it wants to come with us,” said Ioannis.

  Not wishing to scold the children, his mother, shrugged. The old dog would turn back at the end of the street, anyway.

  August was no time to be hurrying through the hot, dusty streets, even in the morning. The wise old Labrador turned back, right on cue; a single lazy bark marking its goodbye.

  Presently, they turned right, onto a wider avenue; the market was uphill from here.

  “Cross over into the shade,” said Ioannis’s mother.

  As Mrs. Katros trudged up the hill, her thoughts returned to self-reflection. She was fortunate, many of the neighborhood children quarreled constantly, adding to their mothers’ burden. At least she didn’t have those worries. Ioannis and Nicia had run on ahead and waited beside an ice cream sign. She resolved to buy them a treat on the journey home.

  The open-air market played a key role in the town’s social life. Occupying an acre of flat ground, merchants shouted out their bargains from wooden stalls laid out in a grid pattern. Outside the main entrance, handcarts sold prasopita, kritsinia, and souvlaki snacks.

  Of all the goods for sale, Ioannis loved the spices best. Whenever his mother became distracted, haggling with a merchant or talking with a friend, he would grab Nicia’s hand, pulling her along the narrow lanes to the spice vendors in the central square. Even if he were blind, Ioannis could find his way there, following the aromas. Sumac, cinnamon, cumin, ginger, cloves, zatar; he liked to read their names aloud from the chalk signs in front of the spice sacks.

  Despite the morning earthquake, the market bustled with activity. Ioannis’s mother reminded the children to stay close; she knew they would not. Today would end up like all other shopping days, Mrs. Katros would spend minutes looking up and down between the stalls, heavy bags in hand, searching and calling out their names.