Black Lion of Skiapelos

by Annabel Murray

  Courteously, he seated her at the table, a process which brought him once more into close proximity, with an unsettling effect upon her nerves. Lena had expected a bevy of servants, but he helped her himself from a side table.

  'I thought you might not be accustomed to our food,' he observed as he offered her a choice between a chicken salad and freshly cooked fish. 'So I asked my chef to prepare a simple meal.'

  In fact Lena was quite used to Greek cooking and very fond of it, but she thought it best not to enlighten him. If Domenicos Theodopoulos's name was to be kept out of this, the less Marcos knew about her background, the better. She was very much afraid anyway that he was going to question her about herself, and she searched her brain frantically for a topic that would divert him and last throughout the meal.

  'Tell me something about your grandfather,' she said as he sat down.

  The black eyes were quizzical. 'What do you want to know?'

  She hadn't expected the conversational ball to be returned so smartly to her court, and she fumbled a little for words.

  'Basically the sort of person he is, I suppose. Whether or not he's likely to accept his grandchildren.'

  'He has a very strong sense of family, of course,' Marcos said slowly. 'But in return he demands loyalty, the observance of tradition. Irini's elopement caused him a great deal of embarrassment among his social equals.'

  'That's not the children's fault.'

  'True. Tell me, Miss Thomas, what do Irini's children ask of my grandfather?'

  This was not the line she'd hoped the conversation would take, but she struggled to give an answer.

  'Stephen is too young to understand why he's here,' she pointed out. 'Chrys says she doesn't even want to meet him. She sees him as a tyrant, I'm afraid, and she's hot in defence of her mother.'

  'Then let me put my question another way. What does my aunt ask of her father? Money? The inheritance that would have been hers if she had not estranged herself from her family?'

  Lena shook her head.

  'Irini's not hard up. Her husband left her very well provided for and his parents are very fond of Irini. Mr and Mrs Forster had no other children, so presumably Stephen and Chryssanti will be their heirs.'

  'They are wealthy?'

  'Moderately—nothing to compare with the Mavroleon millions, of course.' She was joking. She had no idea what Marcos and his family were worth, but if the Theodopoulos Company was to be taken as a measure of wealth…

  'So you have done your homework!' His face was stern suddenly. 'What else do you know about my family?' He sounded almost accusing, as if he believed her interest to be one of cupidity.

  'I think you misunderstand, Mr Mavroleon.' Lena could be abrupt too if she felt her probity was under attack. 'I know absolutely nothing about your family, and for myself I'm not really interested. My remark was meant as a joke. As far as I'm concerned, there are more important things in life than money.'

  He raised a cynical eyebrow, and his expression irritated her.

  'Oh, I know you Greeks think making money is the be all and end all, but…'

  'You know this?' he enquired smoothly. 'Tell me more.'

  Lena shook her head, regretting her outburst. She mustn't be drawn into revealing her wide acquaintance with Greek businessmen.

  'That's not what we're discussing. You asked what Irini wanted of her father. I'll tell you what she told me. She never stopped loving her father, even though she went against him in the matter of her marriage.'

  'She regretted this marriage?'

  'Certainly not. It was a happy, successful marriage. But even so she always felt a certain sadness. She was deprived of affectionate contact with her father. But it was a two-way thing. He had lost a daughter. By sending her children to their grandfather, she's hoping to make amends before she dies, hoping he can give them the love denied her and vice versa.'

  Lena was entirely caught up in what she was saying, in the vivid memory of Irini's face, wan with ill-health, sad with recollection. She remembered the tears the other woman had let fall as she spoke of her father and her homeland, and her own blue eyes were full and brilliant as she concluded her impassioned speech.

  Marcos seemed convinced and impressed too, for he leaned forward and rested his hand on hers.

  'You make a good advocate, Miss Thomas. Tell me, are all your emotions as strong as these?' He paused and his voice became subtly deeper. 'Do you love as deeply as you feel for the misfortunes of others?' And as she did not reply. 'Miss Thomas…' He broke off with an irritated gesture. 'Theos mou! I cannot keep up this ridiculous formality. You will call me Marcos.' The pressure of his hand increased. 'And your name?'

  Lena had clung to formality as a barrier against the attraction he held for her. Now, reluctantly, she told him, 'Lena. Short for Helena,' she explained as his brow wrinkled over the unfamiliar form.

  'Ah!' His expression lightened. 'That I like. I shall call you Helena. It is a Greek name, you know. Have you any Greek blood?' She shook her head. 'But you have heard of Helen of Troy? It is fitting that you share her name. "Is this",' he declaimed suddenly, '"the face that launched a thousand ships"?'

  No doubt he intended it as a compliment, but Lena was suddenly reduced to a fit of most unromantic giggles. At his look of puzzled outrage the giggles threatened to become worse. But he was obviously unused to being laughed at in this fashion. With difficulty she mastered herself.

  'I'm s-sorry!' she gasped. 'I'm not laughing at you. It's just that when I was at school the boys used to tease me about my name. I was a very plump child—oh, yes,' in reply to his grunt of disbelief, 'and they used to misquote that saying—"Is this the face that lunched a thousand chips"?'

  He wouldn't understand, of course, she thought in the momentary pause that followed but it seemed his English was equal to making the connection, for he broke into delighted laughter, his face creasing into a dozen attractive lines. He murmured the words over to himself.

  'This I must remember. But,' he sobered and his black eyes were eloquent, 'they could not say this of you now, Helena. So slender, so chic, so very, very lovely.'

  The compliments were coming a little too thick and fast for her liking, Lena thought uncomfortably, and his hand still rested on hers. Carefully she withdrew it. Deliberately prosaic, she observed, 'This fish is really very good.'

  He made a noise in his throat that sounded like one of irritation. With her eyes fixed steadily on her meal, she waited a little nervously for an explosion of wrath. But it did not come. Instead he too went on eating. After a moment he asked, 'What would you like us to do tomorrow?'

  'Tomorrow?' In surprise she looked up from her plate. 'Us?' And as he nodded, 'I wasn't expecting… You're busy. Your appointments. Your secretary said…'

  'You understand Greek?' He was down on her remark like a flash.

  'Not really, just a few words. Enough to know…'

  'My appointments have to be kept. But they will not take me all day. So! Tomorrow?'

  Lena gestured helplessly.

  'There's so much. Museums, I suppose, the Acropolis…'

  'Ah, yes, the Acropolis. But you do not want to see this for the first time by day, with a thousand others. The time to see it is at night.' He pushed back his chair and moved over to the side table. He brought her a dish of creamy yoghurt liberally sprinkled with nuts and honey. 'I will take you there tonight.'

  'Oh, but…'

  'It will be my pleasure,' he said with the masterful air of finality she was beginning to recognise.

  Like the prow of an enormous ship, the Acropolis soared above the roofs of the city. On all sides but one its cliffs rose a sheer five hundred feet high. Floodlights played not only on its cliffs, but also on its temples, making it appear a phantom city of palaces high in the night sky, a worthy dwelling for the gods.

  'Forget everything you have read,' Marcos had told Lena. 'To the insensitive, the Acropolis is little more than a pile of ruins. To a romantic, it is a memoria
l to all that is fine about Greece and her people.'

  Marcos had his chauffeur drop them off below the southern face so that they could walk up the steep ascent, then climb the giant staircase to the Propylaea, the gateway to the Acropolis. From the plateau, a splendid panoramic view lay before them. One hand resting on her shoulder, with the other Marcos pointed out in turn the distant mountains of Argolis, Piraeus and the islands of Salamis, Aegina and Poros, the blue waters of the Gulf, and Mount Hymettus, famous for its honey, its slopes now flushed deep violet in the aftermath of sunset.

  Lena breathed deeply, a sigh of appreciation. Here, high above the city, the air was a heady blend of pine from the hills, ozone from the sea, jasmine from a thousand balconies and courtyards. Beauty, in any form, always had the power to move her—unbearably, sometimes. It was difficult to put her feelings into words. But she might have tried, she thought, had she been with someone she knew really well. Once, she'd thought to share scenes like this with Petros. Instead she was here with this admittedly attractive stranger, and it was foolish to suppose he could ever be more than that. Her eyes blurred as a great sense of loneliness engulfed her.

  'What are you thinking?' Marcos asked suddenly, the touch of his hand startling her into an unguarded reply.

  'How sad it is that nothing lasts.'

  'The Acropolis has lasted for many thousands of years.' He sounded puzzled.

  'I meant people, relationships.'

  'Ah, you are thinking of the broken romance? What was he like, this man, I wonder? You are feeling sad because you still love him?' Subtly his voice had changed, and her heartbeat increased its tempo as his hand tightened on her shoulder. She swallowed. 'You still love him?' Marcos repeated.

  'I suppose so,' she whispered a little breathlessly. But she wasn't at all sure what it was she was feeling right now.

  CHAPTER THREE

  For some part of each of the days that followed, Lena explored alone. But she found herself looking forward more and more to the hours she spent with Marcos, when he could spare the time, seeing more of Athens and learning a little more about the enigmatic man who had constituted himself as her guide. She had known him for such a short time, and yet everything about him excited her.

  However, she was more than a little puzzled by Marcos's attitude towards her. He still continued to pay her compliments, and she had no doubt they were genuine. At times she could have sworn the sexual attraction she felt was mutual. But, every time she sensed he was about to make some move towards greater intimacy, he seemed suddenly to withdraw into himself.

  On the occasions when she attempted to question him about his grandfather, he remained evasive. Even so, she gained the impression that Thalassios Mavroleon was still very much the autocrat, ruling his family with a rod of iron.

  'My grandfather saw to it that I went to your Oxford University and had a training in business administration before he allowed me to become his aide. My cousins he sent to school in Paris. They all speak French. No Greek is considered well educated unless he can speak at least one other language.'

  For all his wealth, Marcos Mavroleon was capable of enjoying himself at a simple level.

  They talked endlessly about art and their favourite books, late at night in the fashionable heart of the city, seated in a carefully preserved replica of a Greek village cafenion. There were a few other foreigners around, Lena noted, but mostly there were Greeks, sipping endless cups of their beloved thick black coffee with the inevitable accompanying glasses of water. They visited some of the best examples of Byzantine churches as well as the major museums. But, because it was Lena's favourite they went again and again to the Acropolis, seeing it in all conditions of light—the pearly pink reflection of early morning, the brazen glare of shimmering noon, the gentle peach and purple glow of sunset and the mysterious shadows of bright moonlight.

  'I shall always connect you with this place,' Marcos told her. It was on one of the occasions when Lena had felt particularly close to him, and his words jarred unpleasantly on her. They referred to a future when she would no longer be in his company.

  She still couldn't be certain whether her growing feelings for him were genuine. To Sally she wrote, 'He's an interesting man to be with. He knows so much about so many things. He has a sense of humour, too, though he doesn't laugh very often. But he's exasperatingly secretive about his family and I don't seem to be any nearer getting to see his grandfather. Yes, the more I see of Marcos, the more I like him. I know you'll probably laugh and say I'm on the rebound in spite of what I said. And you could be right, which is why I'm trying hard not to fall for him.'

  As a pleasant and refreshing contrast to the dust and glare of the city, Marcos suggested they take a ferry excursion to one of the islands.

  'Aegina, perhaps?' he suggested. 'The hydrofoil would be quicker, but we are in no hurry, hmm?' and Lena wished she could believe he wanted to extend his time in her company.

  They drove first to Piraeus, the port of Athens for three thousand years, where ships seemed to arrive and depart every five minutes. Lena found Piraeus a noisy, rumbustious place. Taxis screeched to a halt depositing voluble passengers who shoved their way aboard the various vessels, shouting farewells to relations and friends on the quayside. Ships sirens shrieked, laughter issued from tavernas, accompanied by thin pagan strains of Greek music from an unseen radio.

  There was a mad scramble for seats, and Lena guessed that without Marcos's forceful presence and the protection of his strong arm, she might not have secured one.

  'Thanks!' She laughed up into his face, the sound melodious and unselfconscious. 'It's worse than a trip from Southend pier.'

  He looked at her with a curiously arrested expression on his face. Then, 'You do not mind being jostled so?'

  'Not a bit.'

  'Many women would dislike it.'

  'Not me! In the right company it's…' She stopped short, colour running up into cheeks that in the last few days had acquired a honey-gold tan.

  'You were going to say?'

  'It's fun,' she said lamely.

  'My company is…fun?' With raised eyebrows, he queried the word.

  'It just means I'm enjoying myself,' she explained, feeling more and more embarrassed. 'Fun means to laugh, to be happy.'

  'Ah! You are happy with me!' She couldn't tell if he was pleased or otherwise, and she was relieved when he changed the subject.

  The sea was lovely and varied in its colouring, from violet blue to rich jade greens, and the crossing was enjoyable, long enough to be refreshing, not long enough to be boring.

  'Aegina,' Marcos said at last, pointing to a picture postcard mountain, sloping down to the Saronic gulf.

  The little boat edged her way into the smooth waters of the delightful port—homely and traditional with its ochre-hued houses. A dazzlingly white church like a mosque stood at the end of one pier. Trawlers were moored tightly side by side in the harbour.

  Ashore, they relaxed for a while in the sunlight, watching the movement in the harbour, and Lena feasted her eyes on the mountains of Poros and the ranges of hills on the Peloponnesus.

  'But you have come to see history, not just scenery,' Marcos said.

  A bus trip from the quayside took them to the northeast of the island to the pretty village of Messangros. On the pine-covered hill above the village stood the temple of Aphaia which was, Marcos told her, one of the most remarkable monuments of its kind in Greece. They sat among the ruins, overlooking the coastline with its long, sandy beaches and magnificent views that stretched as far as Athens.

  'I love islands,' Lena said dreamily. 'I've always thought I'd like to live on an island.'

  'So? But not all Greek islands are like this, Helena. Some are very remote, with no means of communication—no mail, no telephones.' His words touched a chord in Lena's memory.

  'Does your grandfather by any chance live on an island?'

  'Why do you ask?'

  'Something you said made me think… And I
've heard it said that a Greek shipowner without an island is like a king without his clothes.' She wondered for a moment if her frankness had offended him. But he gave a wry smile.

  'We Greeks are used to myth and legend, even where it concerns ourselves. But in this case you are right. The Mavroleons own not just an island, but a group of them. And, yes, my grandfather does live there.'

  'Tell me about the islands,' Lena begged, but he shrugged.

  'In a few days you will see for yourself. That will be better than any poor description of mine.'

  'We're going to see your grandfather? At last? He's given his permission?'

  'We leave the day after tomorrow. But he knows nothing of our visit as yet. It is our custom in Greece to celebrate a friend or relative's name day—the feast of the saint after whom they are named. We shall visit as a family. Perhaps the occasion will make him more inclined to accept two new grandchildren.' He paused, then, 'You will find my grandfather's establishment an old-fashioned one. You may not understand or agree with all you see there.'

  'I promise not to be rude enough to say so,' Lena told him, more rashly than she realised.

  When Marcos had said they would visit his grandfather as a family, Lena had not envisaged just what that would entail. They drove up to Anastasia's villa to collect Stephen and Chryssanti. Stephen was his usual placid self, but the few days had wrought a miraculous change in Chryssanti Forster. She met Lena with a radiant face and a glowing smile.

  'I'm so glad you left me with Aunt Tassia. She's a darling.'

  But an observant Lena soon noticed that it was Christos Mavroleon who was responsible for the change in his cousin. Christos and his two brothers still lived with their mother, thus Chryssanti had seen him every evening. Apparently the good-natured young man had paid her a considerable amount of attention, and Lena was a little worried to realise that the impressionable girl was already fathoms deep in love with him.