by Dillon, Paul
While their mother haggled over the price of onions, the children sneaked underneath the merchant’s stand.
***
Ioannis and Nicia were playing with a black cat when the aftershock hit. Women screamed, dropping their bags, struggling to stay on their feet. Mrs. Katros gripped a stanchion at the corner of the shaking stall. All around her, boxes fell from shelves, scattering fruit and vegetables over the floor.
Under the onion vendor’s stand, Ioannis clung to a post like a drowning rat. Horrified and unable to move, he heard his mother calling but was too shocked to reply. He wanted to reach out for Nicia; she knelt on the floor, crying, in front of the cat.
Everything happened in a flash. The cat, as if possessed by a demon, hissed loudly, arching its back in terror. Ioannis watched, strangely fascinated, as Nicia reached out to the frightened animal, causing it to strike at her hand. The blow drew blood. The cat struck one more time then bolted.
The world under the stall confused and frightened Ioannis. Violent shaking, screams, rolling onions, a demonic cat then brief silence, with only creaking timber, gently swaying above. He let go of the post, crawled over to his sister and put his arm around her. Shocked by the attack, Nicia had stopped crying.
”Yanni, the cat scratched me, I just wanted to help it,” she said.
The sense of injustice in her voice caused Ioannis to relive the incident all over again. As with several other moments from that fateful week, he would remember Nicia’s simple words for the rest of his life.
“Yanni, Nicia!” His mother shouted.
She called again, this time he responded. Releasing Nicia, he crawled out from beneath the vegetable stall, concerned for his mother’s safety.
“There you are. Thank goodness.” She scooped Ioannis into her arms, hugging him tight.
Over her shoulder, he saw a chaotic scene. A woman lay on the ground, barely ten feet away; Ioannis recognized one of the market vendors, an old man, knelt beside her. The man rolled up his jacket, creating a pillow for her head. Onlookers gathered round. Everywhere, vegetables, fruits and wooden crates lay scattered on the floor.
“Where’s Nicia?” asked his mother. Her lips brushed against his ear.
“A cat scratched her,” he said.
“Yanni, listen to me. Where is Nicia?”
“She’s there, under there.” Ioannis pointed at the stall.
Mrs. Katros bent down, releasing Ioannis. He darted back underneath the instant his feet hit the ground.
Somewhere nearby, a dog barked incessantly.
“It’s safe now, you can come out,” said Mrs. Katros.
She reached out closing her hand around Nicia’s, pulling her into the sunlight. Ioannis held his sister’s other arm, the injured hand hung from her limp wrist. Drops of blood rolled down her finger, falling to the floor.
“Are you hurt?” asked Mrs. Katros.
She rubbed her daughter’s arms and legs, checking for breaks or bruises. Finding nothing, she hugged the young girl, looking to the sky in relief.
“She’s bleeding, Mom,” said Ioannis, pointing at the back of Nicia’s hand.
“It’s just a scratch,” said his mother.
She pulled a handkerchief from her dress pocket, moistening a corner with saliva. Nicia winced as her mother wiped the blood from the back of her hand.
“What about Stamos?” asked Ioannis.
The young boy’s concern for his brother outweighed his fears for Nessa, even his father.
His mother worried too, about her husband and son working on the old stone barn. It could have collapsed; they might be inside. The woman weighed up the situation, quickly reaching a decision. She must go home, Nessa was in the house alone.
“Yanni, go to the farm and check on your brother. Look out for them on the road; they’re probably on their way back. If they’re not at the barn, come straight back home—and stay away from damaged buildings.”
Mrs. Katros thought again whether she’d made the right decision sending the young child through the streets alone, so soon after an earthquake.
“If they’re hurt, get help, right away.” She kissed the top of his head.
“Come on Nicia, we must hurry,” Mrs. Katros set off at a swift pace, almost dragging her daughter along. She turned back one time to see Ioannis running helter-skelter up the hill. As he ran, the boy imagined life without his brother and wept. Over and over, he repeated a prayer to Saint Gerasimos.
Chapter 20
Ben stretched, savoring the freshness of the early morning heat. During the night, he’d woken often. Each time, he’d reached out for Elena making sure she wasn’t a dream. Now the bed was empty.
On the mirrored dresser, a bucket of flowers provided concrete evidence of the night before. He turned his head toward the veranda, light streamed in from the half-opened doors. From his vantage point, he could see the stub of a citronella candle, burned down and extinguished on the round white table.
A chair leg screeched along the patio floor, a foot appeared, resting on the table’s edge. She was outside.
Rolling to the side of the bed, he let his feet dangle to the ground and sat there, motionless. Relieved that Elena hadn’t got up early and vanished, he nonetheless winced at his overreaction. After all, foregoing a cruise for the one-hour taxi ride home seemed unlikely.
Without making a sound, he walked over to the veranda, popping his head around the door then stepped outside. Bare feet on warm tiles always gave him a childish delight and he couldn’t help but smile when he saw her.
“Hey, gorgeous.”
Elena looked up, cheerful and relaxed.
“Hi.”
The black bikini he’d bought yesterday showed off her cleavage, rekindling memories of the night before. He wanted her again.
“You’re up early,” he said.
“Hmm, I showered already. For the past week, I’ve been getting up at dawn and reading on my balcony, like a regular trust fund brat. It’s becoming a habit.”
Her chair rocked back at an angle. She placed the book on her thigh, covering part of her bikini bottom. Her legs were crossed and resting on the table. Dark glasses covered her eyes.
The ever-noisy crows called from the trees.
“I know what you mean about the sounds,” said Elena. “They’ve been at it all morning.”
“The birds are excited to see you. I hope they aren’t bothering you.”
“Why? Are you going to tell them off? No, it’s okay; I like them.”
The sun’s rays washed over Ben’s bare shoulders as he looked over the balcony. His garden stretched out before him, clean and fresh; yes, that’s how it felt.
“Did you go down there yet?” he asked.
Elena drank from a plastic water bottle then picked up her book.
“No, it looks nice though. Let’s go after breakfast—if we have time.”
“We don’t have to be at the yacht until one.”
As he looked over the garden, Ben could think of only one thing, making love to her again. Turning around, he leaned against the balcony rail, his eyes ran the length of her legs right up to the scooped front of her bikini bottom. He lusted after her. Drumming his fingers on the wall, he thought up ploys to get her back into the room.
From where he stood, the position of her arms hid her cleavage. He became fidgety and moved to a better vantage point, over by the door, where she couldn’t catch him staring.
“I put some T-shirts on the spare bed; pick anyone you want—they’re all extra-large and should fit like a cotton dress.”
“Okay.”
She answered without looking up.
I hope the damn chapter’s not a long one, he thought.
Resigned to wait, he went back in the room, lay on top of the blankets, and closed his eyes. All thoughts centered on how to act when she came back inside. He fantasized about the different ways he would make love to her. Finally, he could stand it no more and headed for the shower.
***
Elena snapped the book shut, laying it on her lap. A blue and white Greek flag peaked out from the pages, printed on her leather bookmark. She flipped it back and forth and wondered what it would be like to stay on the island; to become Greek and never go home. Reading had made her hungry.
***
With ardor temporarily dulled by the shower, Ben looked into the mirror atop the vanity table. A silver champagne bucket covered the top of his white shorts; flowers carpeted his bare chest.
“Ready for breakfast?” asked Elena, as she stepped in from the veranda.
“Sure, I’m starved.”
She bent over the spare bed, examining the T-shirts. Ben grabbed her hand, pulling it upwards, and wrapped his arms around her; he was already aroused. A waft of perfume brought back memories of the night before. They kissed. He knew she felt his excitement pressing against her side. Ben untied the bikini straps behind her neck, wondering how such thin strings could support her breasts. He moved to lift the garment away but she stopped him, clutching the straps in her fingers.
“Elena,” he whispered, putting his hands on her covered breasts.
Their eyes locked. There was something disconcerting in the way her look articulated his desperation.
“Ben, let’s not do it right now, we went a long way yesterday. I need to think about this. We should be careful.”
“Elena, I want to be honest with you, so I’m going to say exactly what I feel. I don’t want to be crude but I’m almost bursting, I can hardly stand it.”
They kissed again, passionately; he tried once again to lift her top away, she resisted. Ben was confused; she wore the same expression as the night before, giving him the green light to do as he pleased. He hugged her, kissed her neck then let her go.
“I’m sorry, you probably think I’m a sex maniac or something,” he said.
“Don’t be silly. I like knowing how much you want me. I think I told you, I’m a bit confused about the direction of my life right now.”
“It’s okay. I understand … Breakfast?”
They laughed, breaking the tension; she bent down again and picked up a white T-shirt.
“This one will do. I’m ready.”
Ben chose a black one from the remaining pile, slipping it over his head.
“What do you think?” She modeled the T-shirt-dress for him; a black and white print covered the front, the back was plain.
He sighed, longingly, “Aye, Aye, Aye.”
“Who’s the woman on the shirt?” she asked.
“Hedy Lamarr—a forties movie star.”
“You have some, err, interesting T-shirts.”
“Let’s go, I think they stop serving at ten,” he said.
She grabbed her book on the way out.
Breakfast was self-service. A waitress, in a formal black uniform, had already begun dismantling the buffet as they reached the dining room. Ben suggested an outside table and they carried their trays to the vine-covered pergola adjacent the cypress garden. A whisper of breeze tempered the heat.
As they ate, Ben explained Eric’s plan for the day. The yacht would leave Fiskardo sometime after one, sailing first to the ruined castle at Assos then to nearby Myrtos Beach. They’d anchor at Myrtos until late afternoon before leaving for Argostoli. Myrtos to Argostoli was a two-hour voyage; they expected to dock around 7:00pm.
Ben didn’t broach plans for the evening. He would need to get a room or stay on the yacht; it would depend on Elena. He suspected she’d go straight to her aunt’s villa.
“Can I get you another coffee?” he asked. “I’m having one.”
“Please.”
He returned with the drinks and they chatted a while longer. The patio had cleared of guests.
“Let me show you the garden,” he suggested.
“I can’t wait.”
The waitress hovered over them, brusquely removing their empty dishes. Taking the hint, they got out of her way and left the table.
“I’ll give you the tour.” Ben spoke in the manner he might use to a guest in his own house.
She followed him, walking between the stone walls towards the sundial. A crow squawked, hopping around in the branches of a dwarf pine. The bird was close enough for Ben to hear the air rushing over its rapidly beating wings.
“Hey, Elena, want to try something?”
“What?”
“Sit down on the grass.”
She hesitated. “Okay…”
He sat first, held her hand, tugging on it until she followed.
“Now lie back.” He kept hold of her hand and they stretched out together. “Close your eyes and listen…”
Ben looked up at the cloudless sky, soaking up the garden’s voice; the sounds grew richer with the closing of his eyes. Free from visual stimulation, his mind concentrated on her touch and the intense, hypnotic cadence of the cicadas. He remained silent, waiting for her to speak and break the spell. Birds flapped and called, punctuating the rhythm.
“I feel like we’re the two people on that T-shirt you wore yesterday,” she said. “Is that what they were doing, listening to the forest sounds?”
He liked her idea, “I never thought of that.”
He rose, pulling her up with him.
“It’s as though I’m part of this place, part of everything that lives here,” he said.
“It’s like meditating.”
They walked on, past the sundial, to the folly at the end of the garden. Ben pointed out the way the architect had built the make-believe structure—a mysterious iron door leading nowhere, overgrown with vines.
Elena touched the rusted ironwork, running her fingers over its decay. A dried leaf, shrunk and twisted, hung from a strand of spider silk, spinning backwards and forwards, holding her attention.
“This bench has some shade,” said Ben. “Let’s read here.”
They sat under the mass of red and purple flowers that covered the tree and its symbiotic vines.
“You know what? I forgot my book,” he said. “It doesn’t matter, I couldn’t concentrate yesterday anyway. I came here an hour before I met you.”
“Maybe it was a premonition.”
Two crows swooped down from the cypresses, their voices harsh and loud. They landed on the grass by the bench, startling Elena. One of the birds walked up close as if inspecting them; the other kept its distance.
“Aren’t they funny,” she said.
“See how shiny their feathers are. There’s a blue tinge to them in strong sunlight. Did you know they’re highly intelligent?”
“Not really.”
“Yeah, they use tools and can solve quite complex problems. You know, like placing a square or round shaped peg in the correct hole to get a reward. I even saw a video of a captive bird bending a piece of wire into the shape of a hook to snag pieces of food the researchers had put out of reach.”
“Fascinating.”
“…And apparently, they can recognize individual people. Like, if someone has been cruel to them, they’ll remember.” He elaborated, “Some students on campus had to net a bunch of crows as part of a study. After their release, the birds hassled those who’d netted them—even when the students came back to the university years later. Isn’t that amazing?”
“How come you know all this stuff?”
“Trust fund brat, plenty of time on his hands—hey, I read a lot.”
“You said you weren’t married?”
“That’s right, I’m not.”
The second crow took off, landing on the sundial. The brave one stayed by the bench; they cawed to each other repeatedly.
“Have you ever been married?” she pressed.
“No. I was engaged once. That’s the closest I’ve been.”
“What happened?”
“She died in a car accident.”
“I’m sorry.”
“She was twenty one,” A twinge of sorrow crossed Ben’s face, an echo of yesterday in the garden. Elena noticed.
&n
bsp; “It must have been painful”
“Yeah, it was tough. You know, it’s strange but I often think that sadness and happiness are almost the same.”
Ben’s words reminded Elena of her father, a few days earlier at the Festival of Saint Gerasimos.
“How’s that?” she asked.
“It’s hard to explain. Let’s say you’re at the theater, watching a movie, a sad movie. You’re a girl, right—you cry at sad movies,” he paused, as though awaiting affirmation. “So I look at you as the movie finishes, there are tears in your eyes—you look at me and smile, or laugh. At the same time, you’re still crying. It’s as though feeling sad is somehow enjoyable. Being sad at the end of movie isn’t so bad; some people like it.”
Unsure if his meaning was clear, he sought clarification in her expression. The crow nearest the bench cawed several times in quick succession.
“It’s almost as though the bird’s embellishing your idea,” she said.
Ben smiled, “Good, I need some help. Don’t mind him; he’s the Greek God of Sadness in disguise.”
“But you’re feeling empathy for the characters in the movie; it’s different when it’s your own life.”
“True; what I’m trying to say,” he paused. “Perhaps the more intense the sadness, the more you have to rise above it, eventually turning the sadness into something … something almost exhilarating, epic…”
Ben didn’t want to further elaborate and changed the subject, “enough of that; what are you reading, anyway?”
The God of Sadness took off, gliding across the lawn to join its companion. Elena handed Ben her book.
“The Ten Thousand Things—unusual book, do you like it?”
Elena was taken aback. “You’ve read it?”
“Yeah, but it was years ago.”
“I’m not sure what to make of it,” she said.
“I remember the garden, the inner bay. The author paints a vivid picture.”
“And the curiosity cabinet full of shells.”
“Wouldn't it be cool, if I could watch the pictures your mind creates, like I was watching a movie—and you could watch mine,” he said.
“You have too much time on your hands. Do you ever think of getting a job, doing something with your life?”