by Dillon, Paul
The rear facade, like the front, had disintegrated and now lay on the ground. The partition between the shop and storeroom remained standing for most of the building’s length, except where he and Nessa now scrambled. A load-bearing wall, it continued upwards to the first floor, supporting the roof. As he climbed over the fallen section of masonry, he caught his first glimpse of the garden beyond.
His wife sat on the ground, obviously hurt. She watched Mr. Tsakampikas lever up a piece of flooring. The nails shrieked against the wood as he pried the board loose.
A body lay next to his wife; Larissa Matsakis buried her head in the chest of the motionless form.
Vasilis rushed over. His wife’s face, black with dust, seemed to belong to a stranger. Tears and sweat ran down her cheeks, joining like tributaries of some great river. He knelt beside her, reaching for her hand. An ugly red welt, seeping with blood, stretched along her leg, from knee to shin.
“You’re hurt.” Vasilis stared, aghast.
“Don’t worry, it’s not serious.”
“Have you heard from Stamos?”
“No, I tried to go, but I can hardly walk.”
He wanted to comfort her, to stay with her. He hoped she’d understand.
“I have to go, I’m sorry.”
“No, no, you must.”
“I need to see Nicia first.”
Vasilis squeezed his wife’s hand, kissed her cheek and rose. He felt sorrow for Larissa too. Her eyes never left her mother who lay beside her, barely conscious. Vasilis ruffled the young girl’s hair. “Look after her, I’ll try to come straight back.”
Every passing second became more pressing than the last. Vasilis would have given five years of his life for an extra few minutes to help free Nicia. He ran up the incline of the fallen floor to where Mr. Tsakampikas, hammer in hand, had prized two boards loose.
“Theo, I’ll never be able to thank you enough for this.” Vasilis laid his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I have to go find the boys.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll have Nicia out soon. My family are out helping others, I’ll go back to them after your daughter is safe.”
“Let me talk to her.” Vasilis assessed the scene.
Without saw or crowbar, the rescue would take thirty or forty minutes. Equipped with only a small hammer, Mr. Tsakampikas struggled to smash the floorboards and dropping heavy masonry was too risky with the children just below.
Vasilis shouted through the hole in the floor. “Nicia, are you hurt?”
“I’m alright, Dad,” echoed the reply.
“Mr. Tsakampikas will get you out in no time; I have to go and find the boys. I’ll be back soon, I love you.”
Vasilis’s eyes welled up as he left his family at the Matsakis’ ruin. He ran, brushing away tears with his shirtsleeve. The half-mile dash to his mother-in-law’s house was going to be the loneliest journey of his life.
He passed families heading out of town to their farms or to the hills. Like a funeral procession, they trudged through the street, mournful, carrying only those possessions needed to survive.
Long before he reached the grandmother’s cottage, a somber rationale dawned. Vasilis fought desperately against the tide of logic threatening to crush his spirit. He asked himself again, If both boys were unharmed, wouldn’t at least one of them have gone back to their mother’s house by now? He knew the answer with a dreadful certainty.
***
People had begun to organize. Those not injured, or caring for the injured, went door-to-door accounting for the occupants.
Neighbors had gathered outside the shell of his mother-in-law’s home.
Exhausted and covered in bruises from stumbling through the debris, Vasilis called out as he approached the crowd. He recognized some of their faces, including Mr. Sklavounakis, the owner of the adjacent property. The man moved quickly towards him, his actions confirming Vasilis’s worst fears.
Mr. Sklavounakis threw his arms around Vasilis, preventing his passage. Vasilis struggled to break free; a second man joined the fray, forcing him back.
“Let me pass. I have to go inside.”
Blind to reason, Vasilis drove forward like a tormented bull; a third man grabbed his arm.
“They’re not inside, they’re not inside,” shouted Mr. Sklavounakis.
“Where the hell are they?” yelled Vasilis.
His strength was waning fast; he no longer made headway. Slowly, Vasilis’s struggles diminished, his shouts became sobs.
Mr. Sklavounakis spoke in Vasilis’s ear, “I’m sorry.” The innocent words came laced with dread.
“What’s happened? Dear Lord, what’s happened?”
“They’re over there,” Mr. Sklavounakis’s voice was fateful, solemn.
He signaled the other two men to let go. Broken, Vasilis followed them across the street where a patch of bare ground served as a makeshift hospital. A single pear tree grew in the center of the small dusty lot. Volunteers rigged ropes and blankets from the lower branches of the tree, over to a wire fence, sheltering the injured from the blazing sun. Three women tended the wounded in the shade of the improvised tent.
Doors, salvaged from the wreckage, served as stretchers for the injured and the dead. The blood drained from Vasilis’s face at the sight of several doors draped over with blankets.
A brown dog pushed its nose under a shroud then ambled away towards the tree.
Mr. Sklavounakis put a hand on Vasilis’s shoulder. He pointed to the tent. “Your boy is over there.”
Vasilis rushed over. Ioannis lay, uncovered, his eyes wide open, staring at the cotton ceiling.
“Yanni.”
He threw himself to the ground, cradling his young son’s head. Ioannis didn’t move.
“We don’t think he’s seriously hurt,” said Mr. Sklavounakis. “His leg was struck by something—probably a wooden beam. It’s badly bruised but not broken. If you can fashion a crutch, you should be able to take him with you.”
“Yanni, where’s Stamos?”
There was no reply.
“Yanni, where’s Stamos?” Vasilis asked again.
Ioannis stared unblinking at the blanket above, oblivious to his father’s question.
“He was speaking when we found him,” said Mr. Sklavounakis. “He’s in a state of shock, there’s not much we can do except wait until he snaps out of it.”
Vasilis staggered to his feet like a condemned man resigned to his fate. He faced Sklavounakis, burying his face in the man’s shoulder and listened to him recount what had happened.
“Your boy was lying on the kitchen floor when we arrived. His grandmother was in the same room. I’m afraid she’s dead. We don’t know how; there are no visible injuries.”
Sklavounakis paused, searching for the words to carry on.
Vasilis lifted his head off Mr. Sklavounakis’s shoulder. Like a proud man presenting a stoic face to his executioner, he waited for the guillotine to drop.
“I’m truly sorry…” Sklavounakis could hardly speak. “Your oldest boy was killed … he must have been in the garden at the time; the outbuilding collapsed on top of him.”
For a moment, Vasilis was a child again, his careless behavior had caused an accident, injuring his sister; he stood trembling before his father. An immense sadness welled up from his stomach to his throat, rendering him speechless. He tried to utter an apology but could not. A feeble squeak, audible only to himself, was all he could manage.
He followed Sklavounakis towards the shrouded bodies, as though living a nightmare. Still mute, his expression implored the man to point out his son. Sklavounakis lowered his eyes to a body at their feet and gently shook his head.
“It’s better that you don’t see him,” he said.
Vasilis Katros dropped to the dirt floor and lay on his side, his back to the dead boy. Using an arm as a pillow, he stayed on the ground for an eternity, lacking the will to move. Voices existed all around him, legs and feet moved in the periphery of his vision.
A foraging party of ants marched across the dry earth carrying a dead insect, many times larger than themselves. Their efforts meant more than his life; he hoped the ants made it safely home.
Chapter 26
Freshly showered, Ben left his room and walked through the air-conditioned lobby of the Royal Ionian Hotel into the hot sultry night. The balmy air acted like an elixir, restoring his amorous mood.
A bunch of carnations wrapped in magenta paper nestled in his left hand. In his right, a hand-drawn map sketched the route to the villa. The hotel’s parking lot was half a block away; he walked at a snail’s pace, determined to reach the car without a single bead of perspiration sticking shirt to skin.
The sight of the red Jeep brought a smile. One hour earlier, the car hire representative had delivered the vehicle, sparking off a moment of amusement.
“On this island,” the woman told him. “A Jeep means anything resembling a Jeep.”
In this case, his Jeep was a Suzuki. Despite his persistence, no actual Jeeps were available—he really didn’t care. Stepping into the open-topped car, he fired up the motor and unfolded the map.
Navigating around the unfamiliar town at night wasn’t a concern. He had navigation capability on his phone and he could always call Elena if he got lost. Ben felt confident of arriving in good time.
He studied the directions. Arriving at Argostoli by boat had given him a general idea of the peninsula’s topography. Elena had pointed out her aunt’s house from the yacht, he knew it was on the western edge of the narrow peninsula; the Royal Ionian lay on the eastern shore.
“Be careful, there are many one-way streets,” the hotel concierge had warned.
Mindful of the advice, he turned out of the parking lot into the street, concentrating on the first ‘very important’ turn.
The route took him past the town’s main plaza, its lower side lined with restaurants. Tables filled the sidewalk, extending out over the road and into the square. Classic Mediterranean late-night dining; the scene hummed with activity, whetting his appetite for the evening ahead.
Getting out of Argostoli proved easier than expected. Once he’d located Gerasimou Germeni Street, a straight run uphill took him to the top of town. A couple of twisting bends later he found himself on the lighthouse road. He was almost there.
Elena’s message had said ‘turn right after you pass the stone house with pine trees in the garden’. Her instructions were precise. Ten minutes after leaving the hotel, Ben turned into the long private drive leading to Aunt Nicia’s villa.
He pulled up alongside a Mercedes roadster, switched off the engine and dialed Elena’s number. She answered after two rings.
“I’m outside,” he said.
She told him to wait.
Ben spent the moments anticipating her outfit—it was too hot for jeans. She’d said, ‘come casual, it’s a typical Mediterranean al fresco family dinner.’ He remained in the car, watching the front of the house.
Lanterns hung from ornate posts, illuminating the driveway and immaculate grounds. The villa had a classic and timeless charm though its date had to be post-earthquake. In the orange-tinged light, the color of the pale walls was difficult to identify; the window frames were probably bright blue.
The door of the house swung open and Elena appeared. She wore white three-quarter length curve-hugging pants and a sleeveless top; its neck high and scooped. A silver pendant hung from a black chain decorating the plain outfit. Tied-back hair completed her look.
She walked across the drive to the open-top car and leant against the door. “I like the Jeep.”
“It’s a Suzuki, but…”
Ben got out, holding the carnations.
The gift brought a smile. “Flowers, again; you shouldn’t have.”
“I didn’t. They’re for your aunt.”
Before they entered the house, she reminded Ben of his role.
“Remember, we’ve only just met. I’m thanking you for the boat trip.”
“Got it.”
Once inside, she led him along a wide corridor tiled with brown terracotta squares. They passed a wooden staircase, entering the kitchen through a pair of pine doors. Tempting aromas of garlic, spices, and roasting meats filled the air. Ben hadn’t eaten since Assos; he was famished.
Outside, through the open doors, he got his first glimpse of the courtyard. Elena hadn’t overstated its charm.
Two women prepared food. A small television tuned to a Greek news channel sat on the counter.
He recognized Sophia immediately, even though she faced the counter. The older lady had to be Aunt Nicia. She wiped her hand on a cloth towel and turned towards him.
“This is Ben,” said Elena.
“These are for you.” He held out the carnations.
“Oh, how lovely, thank you.” Nicia’s serene disposition appeared to match Elena’s description or perhaps his preconception amplified the impression.
“I have heard so much about you,” he continued. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
“Now Elena, what have you been telling him?”
“Just that you’re the happiest woman on the planet,” she replied.
Sophia turned away from her task to shake Ben’s hand. As their hands clasped, he wondered how much Elena had told her of the night before.
“Thank you for taking such good care of my cousin,” said Sophia. “She told me all about her adventure.”
“We had a fun time.”
Elena watched her aunt closely, trying to gauge her first impressions of Ben. Already an influential figure in her life, Nicia’s disapproval would be a significant setback.
“Why don’t you take Ben into the courtyard and introduce him to Andreas,” suggested Nicia. “We’ll be serving soon.”
“Do you need any help?” asked Ben.
“No, No thank you. You go on outside.”
Ben followed Elena into the luxuriant night. The whirring of the kitchen fan and the chatter of the television dissolved into slow, melodious piano, perhaps a nocturne, the silence between its notes filled with the natural harmony of night insects. Ben felt he could cut the air with a knife such was its substance.
Elena nudged his arm. “I told you the courtyard was a magical place.”
Her statement went unanswered as Ben adjusted to the change in light. Lanterns, hidden in foliage, cast muted colors from the walls.
Two men, one wearing a fedora, sat at an enormous table under a pergola covered in wisteria. Thick fluted candles, flickering in the faint breeze, added warmth to the men’s faces.
As Elena’s ethereal-white figure approached, the man in the hat rose. Much older than the other, he was over six feet tall and athletically built. She introduced him first.
“This is Andreas, my uncle.”
Andreas removed his hat, revealing a head of thick, grey hair.
“Hi, I’m Ben, pleased to meet you.”
The man smiled, welcoming Ben to his house. Ben recognized the smile as genuine; he liked Andreas instantly.
The other man, in his early thirties, remained seated until Elena introduced him as Nik, Sophia’s boyfriend. His greeting, more reserved, reminded Ben of last night’s cancelled dinner arrangement. He hoped there were no ill feelings. Nik sat down before Andreas. Ben looked him over again. His hair, medium length and dark brown, was untidy. A moustache and short beard added to his unkempt look.
***
A dozen people could easily sit at the wooden table; only six places were set. Elena showed Ben to his seat, opposite the men, and went back to help in the kitchen.
Silence followed Elena’s departure, Ben searched for a topic of conversation but his mind was blank.
Andreas spoke first.
“What would you like to drink?”
Both men were drinking red wine. The label on the bottle faced away from Ben.
“I’ll join you in a glass of wine, if that’s okay.”
The moments of silence before
Andreas spoke were anything but awkward; the tranquility of the courtyard wouldn’t allow that. Andreas poured the wine. Ben watched the red liquid tumble into his glass, all the while increasingly attentive of the melody flowing out of speakers hidden in the vines above.
“Chopin?” he asked, with a reasonable degree of certainty; he did know the name of the piece.
“Yes, Moravec. Do you like Chopin?” replied Andreas.
“The music suits your garden,” Ben turned towards the kitchen, distracted by women’s voices.
Sophia pushed a rustic wooden cart across the terracotta floor, the wheels rattled. Nicia and Elena followed a couple of steps behind. Ben considered helping but, unsure of the protocol, remained seated, sipping wine. The label now faced him, a Côte Rôtie from one of his favorite producers—a good choice, not too expensive. Two more unopened bottles of the same vintage stood to Andreas’s right. He complimented the host on his selection.
Before the cart reached the pergola, Elena moved in front, placing trivets on the table. Each of the protective placemats bore painted motifs of common fruits. Ben focused on the one nearest to him; red and green apples on a faux, cracked-plaster background. The women quickly covered the trivets with sizzling iron skillets, his apple motif becoming a dish of baked tomatoes, onion and zucchini, sprinkled with sprigs of rosemary.
Two tiered, the serving cart held hot plates on top, cold below. In no time, the space between the diners teemed with mouthwatering dishes. Two glass bottles of olive oil with cork stoppers followed by three bowls of mixed olives completed the serving.
“The olives are home grown, there’s an orchard in the back.” Elena pointed in the direction of the rear wall. “I’ll show you after we’ve eaten. The orchard runs all the way down to the sea … we can see the lights of Lixouri across the bay.”
The women took their seats.
“Please, help yourself,” said Nicia, signaling the start of dinner.
At some point during the serving, the music changed from piano to flamenco guitar with a female gypsy vocal; Ben couldn’t remember exactly when. He looked at Andreas, curious whether he had some remote device, controlling the selection.