Haldane was at a loss to understand. 'You are not pleased ·to see me, Babis?' he asked.
Spiridakis did not turn to him. 'I have often wondered,' he said softly. 'Is he alive or is he dead, my English brother. He who fought alongside me in the war. He who was my right hand.'
Was that it, thought Haldane. Is that the reason for his coolness? Because I didn't keep in touch? Surely not.
‘I meant to write,' he said. 'But always tomorrow. You know how it is.' Spiridakis nodded. 'And then, as the years passed, I thought perhaps now it is too late. Babis will have forgotten.'
The lawyer shook his head and turned to him. 'Never.' And he meant it. He smiled; but it was a smile which did nothing to dispel the atmosphere between them. 'So, Leandros, what have you been doing with your life?' he asked.
Haldane shrugged. 'Too little I think. Building boats.
And losing money. Lately anyway.'
'You still build boats?'
'No.'
Spiridakis gave him another faint smile. 'Well, that is a saving then,' he said.
'And you?' said Haldane. 'From what I have heard there have been times since I last saw you when things have been difficult for you, eh?'
'For all honest Greeks. There are always barbarians who would oppress other men. Fighting them is never easy. You know that. From the old days.'
'From the old days, yes. From those days when each time we met we embraced as friends,' said Haldane.
'As brothers.'
Haldane nodded. 'So tell me, Babis,' he asked. What's happened? Are we no longer brothers?'
Spiridakis winced. 'Always,' he said. 'Believe me. Nothing could ever change that.'
Haldane made a helpless gesture. Now he was totally confused. 'You say that,' he exclaimed. 'But yet here we are, after all these years, almost like two total strangers making polite conversation. What's wrong?'
Spiridakis' eyes searched his face. 'Melina,' he said at last.
This was a surprise. 'Melina!' said Haldane.
Spiridakis nodded. 'Do you ever think of her, Leandros?' he asked.
'Often. A great deal lately. Is she well?'
Spiridakis shook his head. 'She died. Four years ago.'
The news came as a stunning, almost physical blow to Haldane. He stared at Spiridakis. 'Melina's dead?' he said dully. This was something he had never expected. A possibility which had never even entered his mind.
'A brain tumour. It was very sudden. She did not suffer. '
Haldane found it difficult to accept the fact. She had been so young, so vital when he had last seen her. 'I can't believe it,' he said. And then he sighed deeply and crossed slowly to stand beside Spiridakis and stare out of the window but seeing nothing, only remembering. After a while he said, 'I wrote to her, you know. When I got back to England. Three times. But she never replied.'
Spiridakis looked at him. 'Well if that is so,' he said quietly, 'I can tell you for certain, Leandros, that those letters never reached her. And she did write to you. Once at least. I helped her with the English.'
Haldane turned to him with a look of surprise. 'Where did she send the letter?' he asked.
'To the War Office in London. We had no other address.'
Haldane swore silently and shook his head. 'And they didn't forward it. Or if they did it must have followed me from posting to posting. Either way I never received it.'
Spiridakis studied him closely. 'And that is the truth?' he asked gravely.
Haldane felt himself bridling. 'What do you mean?' be protested. 'Of course it's the truth. Why should I lie about a thing like that, for God's sake?'
To his utter amazement Spiridakis' expression slowly changed to one of relief and joy and sadness all intermingled. 'Then you don't know about . . . You really never knew!' he said.
Haldane looked at him blankly. 'About what?' he asked with a note of irritation in his voice. 'Tell me.'
Spiridakis hesitated but Haldane was insistent. 'I want to know,' he demanded. 'About what?'
The lawyer shrugged resignedly. 'Soon after you were sent back to England in nineteen forty-four Melina found that she was pregnant. She was carrying your child. That is what she wrote to tell you.'
CHAPTER FIVE
'Oh my God!' said Haldane. Then came the sickening realisation. 'And she heard nothing from me in return.'
Spiridakis shook his head. 'She thought you had abandoned her.'
'But I'd never have done that, Babis,' replied Haldane urgently. 'I loved her. You know how much. I was coming back. And then, when I didn't get any reply to my letters I thought she had changed her mind about us. I took her silence to mean that what she really wanted was not to see me again. I never knew about the child. You have to believe me.'
'I do,' said Spiridakis. 'Now.'
Haldane frowned. 'And before? What did you think then?'
Spiridakis looked away from him, unable to meet the challenge in his eyes. He walked slowly over to his desk. 'It was wartime,' he said. 'These things happen. In a war a man seeks consolation and moments of forgetting wherever he can find them. But when the fighting is over ... ' He shrugged. 'A foreign wife, a woman already carrying a child, that is something different.'
The hurt went deep. 'Did you really see me like that?' asked Haldane, sadly.
The lawyer swung round to face him again. 'I saw you as my brother. I knew you as the man you are. But where there is strength there is also weakness. I was disappointed, yes. But I did not judge you.'
Haldane turned and stared down out of the window once more. The street below was a noisy river of traffic. 'Little has changed,' Annika had said. and he knew that she was right. He saw it in the faces of the men and women passing by on the opposite pavement. The Cretans always had been and always would be proud and generous. But where honour was involved they could be cruel and seldom forgiving.
'What happened?' he asked. 'How did she manage alone? Here of all places.'
Spiridakis read his mind and nodded. 'Fortunately she was not alone,' he said. 'Do you remember Stelios Papadakis?'
Haldane remembered him well. 'Yes of course. He was in our group. A good man.'
The lawyer corrected him. 'A very special man. Only Melina and I knew that she was pregnant by you. But then, when Papadakis saw how distressed she was, he must have guessed the truth. He knew the shame and disgrace she would have to suffer here if she had a child and no husband so he asked her to marry him. Melina accepted of course. She had little choice. Papadakis went to her family and took the blame for what had happened. As you can imagine Melina's parents, although they were angry, were anxious to see them married and quickly. '
'Papadakis must have loved Melina very much,' said Haldane pensively.
Spiridakis nodded. 'Yes, he must have done. To give her his name and take on the responsibility of another man's child. And she was fond of him and very grateful. She was a good wife in the little time they had together.'
Haldane turned from the window and gave him a questioning look.
'Stelios was killed in nineteen forty-nine,' Spiridakis continued. "During the civil war. Fighting with the army on the mainland.'
'And the baby?' asked Haldane.
'A girl. They named her Elena.'
There was a gentle tap on the door of the office and then it was opened and Spiridakis' secretary stood in the doorway. She looked apologetically across at Haldane and then spoke to the lawyer in Greek. 'Excuse me,' she said,
'But Mr Vandoulakis is here.'
Spiridakis glanced at his watch. 'Ask him to wait a minute, please.'
The secretary nodded and retreated back to the outer office, closing the door behind her.
Spiridakis turned to Haldane. 'Forgive me,’ he said. 'A client. On urgent business.'
'But there are so many questions, Babis,' Haldane protested. 'So many things I want to know.'
'Later,' replied Spiridakis. 'There will be time. For now all that matters is that you are back. After so many years.' He smi
led. 'And among friends. So.' He opened his arms and crossed to the Englishman. 'As it should be with brothers.' He swept Haldane into a warm, loving and firm embrace.
'Welcome home, Leandros,' he said. 'Tonight we celebrate.'
'I am grateful to you, Matheos, for bringing the olive oil to me,’ Katerina said as she ushered Noukakis into the sitting room. And her tone was gravely polite.
Apart from the rugs on the tiled floor, the room had little colour in it and the furniture was bulky 'and severe; much of it old pieces made of dark, intricately carved wood. There were hand-made lace antimacassars and doilies on the backs and 'arms of the sofa and the two upright armchairs. The walls were hung with framed photographs and yellowing tintypes covering many generations of the Matakis family. Noukakis noted that even in the winter the old woman kept the windows which overlooked the front garden and the street shuttered against the midday sun and the resultant gloom only enhanced the atmosphere of solemn, respectable discomfort.
Katerina Matakis was seventy-two; a handsome, grey-haired woman of peasant stock who carried the scars of age and of her early struggles in life well and with great dignity. She was dressed entirely in black, as she had been for the past three years, in mourning for her husband, Georgios, who had died leaving her a wealthy woman, respected and, by some, feared. Noukakis both respected and feared her.
'Annika said you were in need of it,' he said.
'And that is true,' replied Katerina as she moved across to a large, ornate cabinet on the far side of the room. 'And tell her I thank her for it. But you should not have bothered to come yourself. You are a manager. A busy man. You should have sent Someone with it.'
Noukakis waved away her mild admonition with a quick movement of his hand. 'It was no trouble, Kyria Matakis.' he assured her, casually but with deference. 'I had to be in Neapolis anyway. And it always gives me such pleasure to see you.'
Katerina acknowledged the compliment with a gracious nod and opened the door of the cupboard above the two wide drawers in the cabinet. 'You will take a glass of raki?' she asked.
Noukakis nodded. 'Please,' he said. And then he turned to examine the antique, bas-relief plaque hanging on the wall beside the doorway. The plaque depicted the three Moerae, the Fates of ancient Greek mythology; Clotho, the spinner of the thread of life, Lachesis, chance and Atropos, the ultimate fate against which there is no appeal. This was the one thing in the room which appealed to Noukakis and which he coveted, for quite apart from any aesthetic appreciation he had for it he knew its value.
Katerina took a silver tray from the cupboard on which there were half a dozen small glasses in silver filigree holders. 'And how is my daughter?' she asked.
'She is well, Kyna,' replied Noukakis his eyes still on the plaque, and then he scowled, 'As far as I know. But I am not sure if she would tell me if things were otherwise .' things were otherwise.'
Katerina carried the tray across to the table and set it down. She glanced at Noukakis and smiled quietly to herself. 'She is a headstrong woman; she said, returning to the cabinet and this time taking from it a delicate, glass decanter half filled with raki. 'But she is free and you are a good man. A woman is nothing without a husband. Do not give up easily.' She crossed back to the table and opened the decanter. 'If you were to marry her it would be with my blessing. You know that’.
Noukakis turned to her, a sullen expression on his face. 'Unfortunately, at the moment there is someone who it would seem interests her much more than I do,' he said. And then he added scornfully. 'An Englishman.'
Katerina was about to pour the raki, She hesitated and frowned. 'An Englishman?' she said quietly.
'Yes. She entertained him to dinner at her house last night. They were alone together.'
The old woman shook her head in a gesture of disapproval and despair. 'I will speak to her about that,' she said sternly. She sighed. 'Not that she will listen of course.'
Very carefully and with a steady hand she began to pour raki into one of the glasses. 'This Englishman,' she queried. 'What is he like?'
Noukakis shrugged dismissively. 'He did not impress me when I met him,' he said sourly. Then he remembered and scowled again. 'But strangely Annika acted as though she had known him for many years although I know that is not possible. He is here on holiday. A tourist. His name is Alan Haldane.'
Katerina Matakis reacted with a violent start as though in the grip of a sudden, searing pain. The colour drained from her face, her head jerked up and the decanter slipped from her fingers and shattered on the tiled floor.
Pavlos, the school teacher, and Leonidas, the taxi driver, had made the long journey from Chania, Manolis, the boot maker, had driven in from Anoyia and Vassilis, the policeman, from Mires in the south. The others were farmers from villages nearer to Heraklion or professional and businessmen from the city itself. There were more than a dozen of them, all veterans of the Andarte. And they were there to welcome and honour Leandros who was among them once more.
They sat at a long table in a taverna on the outskirts of Heraklion close to the trio of musicians, two of whom played bouzoukis and the third a guitar. The old comrades had already drunk many glasses of raki between them and they had danced, insisting that Haldane join them and they had laughed good-naturedly when he had difficulty remembering the steps. And when they had danced the pentozali, the wild dance of the Cretan warriors, Haldane had found the leaps and high kicks beyond him and he had been grateful when the music had stopped and, to the applause of his companions, he had been able to collapse, exhausted and breathless, back on to his chair.
Now they ate and laughed and talked and drank a heady, red wine, a speciality of the taverna and poured into jugs from a large cask. And, after thirty-six years, their undisputed leader was still Babis Spiridakis who sat at the head of the table with Haldane on his right; The Eagle and Leandros side by side as they always had been in the old days.
Pavlos raised his glass to the Englishman. 'Stin iyassou, , he shouted above the laughter and the excited, animated conversations going on around the table.
Haldane smiled and lifted his glass to him. 'Episis,' he shouted back and then drank.
Leonidas, the taxi driver, who was sitting beside Haldane, pulled a worn leather wallet out of his pocket, extracted a photograph from it and handed it to him. 'See, Leandros,' he said with a hesitant smile. 'My children, six. Four boy, two girl.'
Haldane examined the photograph politely, smiled and nodded. 'A big family, eh, Leonidas,' he said, mustering his Greek. 'Very nice. The girls are beautiful and the boys are handsome. Just like their father.'
Leonidas beamed proudly and slapped Haldane on the back. 'How many children you have. Leandros?' he asked.
Haldane hesitated and shot a look at Spiridakis.
Leonidas shouted to the assembled company. 'Quiet!
Leandros is going to tell us about his family.'
There was a sudden silence at the table. All eyes were on Haldane. His companions were genuinely interested and they waited expectantly. He frowned slightly and then looked at Leonidas. 'I have no children; he said quietly.
'No children!' exclaimed Leonidas, aghast. 'Your wife has cheated you. Better you should choose another.'
Spiridakis stepped in quickly to save Haldane from any further embarrassment. 'The wife of Leandros is dead,' he announced in a low tone. 'She died six years ago.'
There were murmurs of sympathy and condolence from among those around the table.
Leonidas looked crushed and ashamed. He reached out and put a hand on Haldane’s seeking forgiveness. Haldane smiled at him. An atmosphere of sadness threatened the table.
Pavlos shook his head sadly. 'Six years,' he said. 'That is a long time. It is not good for a man to live alone. You should marry again. Leandros.' Then, inspired, he smiled.
'We must find someone for you here on Crete.'
This declaration was greeted with nods of agreement, laughter and cheers. The atmosphere lifted a little.
&nb
sp; Haldane was as anxious as the others not to dampen the proceedings. He picked up his cue. 'Very well,' he said. 'You find someone for me. Pavlos, But two things I insist on. She must be beautiful.' He paused for effect. 'And, above all else, she must of course have a good dowry.'
There was a great burst of cheering at this and every man raised his glass and drank to the prospect. The air of gloom was totally dispelled.
At three o'clock in the morning they were the only customers left in the taverna. And, while the waiters sat patiently playing cards. the musicians played on. The guitarist was singing a melancholy, nostalgic song to his own accompaniment and that of the two bouzoukis. Haldane and Spiridakis sat alone at the table and watched while their companions danced, no longer in an exuberant group but separately, each man in a world of his own and expressing the music individually.
Spiridakis had his worry beads in his hand and was absently toying with them. Both he and Haldane were very subdued, caught up in the mood of the moment. Then the lawyer stopped flipping his komboloi, caught the beads in the palm of his hand and looked at them. He showed them to Haldane who saw that attached to the tail of them were two flattened and distorted bullets.
'See; said Spiridakis quietly. "The bullets that you took from my chest. That day when you alone refused to accept that I had to die. Here on my komboloi they are with me always so that I shall never forget.'
'I couldn't afford to let you die,' said Haldane lightly and smiling to cover his embarrassment. 'You owed me a hundred cigarettes.'
Spiridakis grinned. 'That's right; he said. 'Did I ever repay you?'
'Yes. So you see you are not in my debt.' He sipped his drink. 'In any way.'
Spiridakis turned his head to watch the dancers again.
Putting down his glass, Haldane reached into his pocket and took out the photograph of Melina. He studied it for a while and then glanced up to find Spiridakis watching him thoughtfully and frowning. 'Where is the child, Babis?' asked Haldane.
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