by Tony Kaplan
At our designated spot, under an overhang of beautifully contoured and coloured sandstone, we set up the picnic. Antonis seats himself on a rock which is shaped like a throne. He likes the regal authority this gives him, but his seat places him a little away from the rest of us, where the blanket has been placed on flat dry sand. He considers getting up and joining us, but will wait until his grand presence is acknowledged and he can comment on it, before jokingly relinquishing his throne and coming down to our level. When he does sit on the sand, I see he is afflicted with the common male problem of tight hips and has to position himself on his side, leaning as casually as he can on one elbow. Eleni wants me to join her. She takes my hand and leads me to a shallow rocky inlet where barnacles cling and crabs scurry. Agapi looks with pleasure to her daughters’ forwardness with me. She has only met me once, but she trusts me. Antonis meanwhile has her mother’s attention, and in his anxiety to impress, is being garrulous. The old lady is polite, but when he looks away, she regards him curiously. She is not sure what he is about or what this educated man wants from her.
After a while Agapi gets up and joins Eleni and me at the rock pools. Antonis considers getting up too, but doesn’t want to seem needy, so instead he rolls over and lies on his back, examining intently the patterns in the rock face above his head. Then, with alacrity, he sits up, uncorks the wine and pours a glass for himself and one for the old lady. She declines, but he insists, he clinks her glass and shouts “Yammas!” with forced exuberance, before pouring the dark red liquid down his eager throat. The day is not going as he wished, but there is still time.
Later, when we have finished the delicious chicken (if I’m correct, flavoured with coriander, fennel and oregano), Antonis brings out his cousin’s bottle of Metaxa brandy – a fourteen-year-old – and insists we all drink a toast to Agia Sofia, the island’s saint. “My cousin explained to me, Saint Sofia, Agia Sofia, is the saint for this island because of the way the island looks – with the big mountain in the middle and the three smaller mountains towards the sea, is like St. Sofia (Wisdom) with her three daughters, Pistis, Elpis and Agapi – Pistis: Faith, Elpis: Hope, and her youngest, Agapi: Love. So today, on this beautiful day, with these beautiful women” – he raises his glass to first the old lady, who giggles girlishly even though she probably doesn’t understand the English in which Antonis has chosen to make his speech for my benefit – and then with a wink, to Eleni, who looks at him suspiciously - “we drink to Agia Sofia, to Wisdom, but also to her daughter, Agapi. To Love,” he says, lifts his glass to Agapi and then downs his brandy. Agapi murmurs “To Love”, but she does not make eye contact with him. Instead she turns her gaze to me.
21
Because I’m using the internet service so much, often briefly, Nitsa now doesn’t charge me every time – she gives me a book with hand-drawn columns and says to put down the minutes I use and pay her 5 euros when I get up to an hour. Very decent of her. Her mother-in-law does not approve. Stavroula continues to eye me with haughty suspicion. But then she’s like that with everybody, except Xanthe, whom she lets fuss over her.
I check my e-mails before going to bed. There is no reply yet from my e-mail to Lucy. I must be patient. There could be any number of explanations. At least two of these are alarming, but I must wait it out. I compel myself to consider the benign, banal possibilities and let them float me like lifebuoys.
The is an e-mail from my editor. Marsha is encouraging about my last posting on the body in the bridge story – Mavros’s story - but she says, as I expected she would, that it is too long and that I have time to shorten it myself – it won’t go to print until the story comes together more. She is equivocal on the environmental story – she says it’s too tentative, speculative and has been done before.
I ponder Marsha’s response to the environmental story – she’s right of course. But what is the story Lucy was chasing? She wouldn’t have contacted me if it hadn’t been something hot. What exactly is going on on this island? I think I will keep my appointment with Christos Papademos after all.
****
This time I go to the Poseidon via the main town. I want to see the lagoon and get a closer look at the sludge. The road from Agia Sofia is all new tar with precipitous edges, dropping a good six inches onto the gravel in the culverts. The route is mountainous and serpentine, lined by pines of varying ages, some old and twisted, others young and vibrant. Cicadas are in full voice and the sky is deep blue. The road out of the town ascends to a non-descript small town on the ridge. A small all-purpose store, a chapel on a ridge, a kafenion and a hand-painted sign saying “B+B. Nice. Cheap.” Once through the town, the road follows the coast and on my right the cliffs plunge into the sea far below. I must drive carefully, I think, as I accelerate and feel the wind in my hair. The views are spectacular, the mountains magnificent and silver, the forests dense and undulating, the ravines terrifying and muscular, the beaches at their feet inviting and tranquil. Finally, after about a thirty-minute ride, I get to a crest from which I can see the lagoon shining below, beyond it, in the distance, on a promontory, tastefully decorous, the Poseidon, all steel and glass, all smoke and mirrors.
On my left, as I descend, the forest becomes a fire-ravaged ghost of itself. Dark grey ash lies thick on the ground. Blackened skeletons of trees and bushes claw at the sky. Here and there, green shoots burst out defiantly. Half way down, men are at work repairing a section of the road, they have to stop what they are doing to let me ease past. They look at me, some curious, some impatient. I greet them cheerfully. Not one responds.
At the bottom of the decline, the road flattens and follows the sea. A concrete pipe juts from the hillside nearest the Poseidon, disappears under the road, emerges again on the beach and then continues resolutely into the sea. I pull my bike over and set it on its stand. The hum of the motor lingers in my bones, but the only sound is the sea. The beach is pebbled and there is a high-water mark of foliage and debris from a storm surge. The water at the sea edge froths brown, and beyond, the surface glistens a sickly rust and maroon, flecked with nauseating pink and yolk yellow excrescence. The tang from the sea is inflected with sulphur and ammonia. Not healthy. The slick extends, perhaps a hundred metres into the sea, maybe more, and is about two hundred metres wide. I notice some seabirds have made it home, bobbing easily on this discoloured surface, occasionally dipping their beaks in and then shaking their heads vigorously to swallow. It may look like shit, but to them it’s tasty. Don’t know how much good it’s doing them.
I go back to my bike and set off, looking for a road which will take me to the lagoon. I have to go only a few hundred metres before a dirt road on the left takes off into low bushes and reeds. This must be it. I go carefully on the rutted road. A lizard scuttles across the road in front of me, stops looks around, then scuttles back again. Probably forgotten something at home. The road becomes a track and I decide to go the rest of the way on foot.
I don’t have far to walk. Soon I am at the water’s edge. The water is dark and finely rippled by the sea breeze. I make out at least four different species of bird floating on the water and nipping the ground at water’s edge for bugs and worms. A pair of pelicans stand proud and cranky in the shallows towards the far shore. A cluster of ducks (or are they geese?) squabble amiably amongst themselves. In the sand, an imprint of something reptilian which has slithered into the reed bed. Are there snakes here? A rat, nose twitching, back hunched ready for flight, sneaks towards the water and licks a drink, before scuttling back into the bushes. I have seen enough.
The Poseidon is further along the main road. The tar sweeps in between two heraldic gates, emblazoned with gilt-tinted sea gods, tridents at the ready. A watering system hisses over the iridescent lawns, neatly trimmed and edged. A rosemary hedge is in its infancy. On a terrace to my left, men are at work constructing a wall. A digger crunches and groans, and darts into reverse, before depositing its load. A gardener is at work in a flower-bed, planting succulents. The ro
ad opens into a wide turning at the entrance to the hotel. Over the elaborate front entrance, “Poseidon Luxury Spa and Eco-Resort” announces itself in bold confident lettering. The doors glide open as I reach the portico. The reception area is empty and as yet unfurnished. My footsteps echo on the granite flooring as I approach the front desk.
A hirsute man with a prodigious moustache pops up from behind the counter, pliers in hand. On his knees, only his head visible over the counter, he looks like a dwarf. His dust-imprinted attire and body odour suggest he is a construction worker. “Nai?” he asks peremptorily. He must suppose I am here to deliver something.
“Christos Papademos?” I ask, “Pou ine?” Is it my syntax or my accent that gives me away?
“Wait,” he says in English. He walks off, fiddling with some sort of electrical thing with wires attached. His pungent body odour is at odds with the silence and the sharply defined edges of marble and chrome. Plaster busts relax in the shade of impressively realistic ginger flowers perched like cranes in long vases. Accommodation here will not come cheap. The hairy guy ambles back a while later, still fiddling with his connection box. “Come,” he says, jerking his head over his shoulder without meeting my eye. He turns and I follow.
Christos Papademos gets up to greet me as I am led in. “Christos Papademos,” he says, extending his hand. “Chris,” he says, smiling. He must be in his early forties, lean and fit-looking, his head shaven into a stylish trim of blonde stubble and his lavender shirt is newly-pressed. “Tom Pickering,” I say and place my hand in his. His grip is comfortable, his hand large and meaty. His eyes examine me curiously from behind blue-framed designer spectacles. He smiles beguilingly. He is used to being sociable. “What can I do you for, Mr Pickering?” he says. His American accent is immediately apparent. “Ah, wait… Tom…? Tom… Michalis sent you? Yeah? You the journalist looking for our mutual friend, Lucy? Crazy chick. What’s happened to her?”
Christos’s office looks out onto an unnaturally green lawn, encircling two four-foot palm trees, recently planted and edged with crisp hedging, beyond which the pale blue of the pool beckons. Maybe the man’s pretentions will mean peacocks in the garden at some stage.
“Last saw her a few weeks ago. She came and stayed over. But I haven’t heard from her since. I was getting a bit worried myself. But you know, chicks, eh? And our Lucy was far out,” he says with a chuckle. “Say, you want something to drink?” Why not? I accept his offer of a Scotch on ice. He goes over to a cabinet and pulls out a bottle of fifteen year-old Laffroaig. “This okay for you?” he asks. He smiles. He wasn’t really expecting an answer. He tinkles ice into a tumbler and pours us each two fingers.
“I’d love you to write something about our resort for the London papers,” he says as he hands me my glass. “Its eco-friendly,” he says, “I think our Lucy was quite taken with it.” He sits himself back down behind his walnut desk. His plump leather chair sighs contentedly as if it has missed his presence. “It’s all my own money, or my father’s money actually. We made our money in New Jersey.”
“I met your father briefly,” I tell him. “He is… urbane,” I say.
He chuckles. “Urbane - I love that. He’d love it too. Urbane,” he chuckles some more. “I love the way you English people speak.” He toasts me and sips his single malt. “We emigrated to the States in the early 70s. My dad had just started his construction company, but, you know, the new government, under old Karamanlis, was tidying things up so we could join the EU (the Common Market as it was then) and well, some people got scapegoated – they had to make an example of some people, some businesses, to impress the suits in Brussels. My dad had business interests with the States…”
I can't stop myself. “CIA?” I say with a complicit grin.
Christos’s eyes narrow momentarily and then he affects a look of astonishment. “CIA? Where did you get that crock of shit from? He was on the other side, dude!”
I want to tell him I’ve known lots of cases where the undercover operative goes to extraordinary lengths to prove they are loyal to “the other side”, but I desist.
“No, he’d worked in the States before, in the 50s, he knew people in Jersey, he did business with people who became… unpopular… ‘undesirable’. Italians. You know what I’m saying? Anyways, after the junta fell, there were strong anti-American feelings over here in Greece. So my dad suffered for his American connections. I don’t blame the government – they had to do what they had to do – I would have done the same. Luckily for us, our American contacts helped us get set up in Queens. That’s where I grew up, where I went to school, where I met my first wife. Where I left my first wife. And the kids. Lucky me.” He chuckles, his eyes going to slits with his amusement. “Don’t print that,” he says. I realise he is giving me an interview for an article on the Poseidon I haven’t agreed to.
“Also not for printing, we came back to Mythos in the late 90s when our Italian partners got greedy, the IRS got too nosey and the EU was offering tasty incentives for businesses in underdeveloped economic zones. You know, in Greece, taxes are optional,” he says straight-faced, then laughs with hilarity when I look nonplussed. “Only joking, man,” he says. “What a hoot!” he laughs. “But, and here I am being serious, the EU were keen on eco-friendly tourism – the Green lobby, political correctness, all that – so getting an eco-friendly design for this resort was win-win – we got the grants and tax allowances, they got low carbon and zero pollution - well, we all want that, right?”
“Well,” I say, “What is the slick on the water in the sea near the lagoon? I couldn’t help noticing it as I rode in.”
“Oh, that – that is… temporary. Got it covered. Just something from the effluent that’s built up from the construction process. We’ve had the local municipality take a look at it – all fine, all in hand. The Mayor has signed off on it. You should go and see him. Nikos Angelopolis – great guy. Yeah, it’s all there – Lucy and that NGO she was working for, came for me, guns blazing – but’s it’s all A-ok. Check it out: the re-zoning, the environmental impact report – it’s not a walk in the park with all the paperwork the fucking EU want, man! – the approval for the new road – it’s all there. Lucy was bowled over by how thorough we’d been and she was charmed, I think, by the technology we got working for us here. We are carbon neutral and we have subsidised a recycling centre in St. Sofia. The ducks on the lagoon have never been happier. We want them to be. It’s a huge draw card for us – bird watching. There is a huge variety, all year round. We are constructing bird hides, in keeping of course with the local flora, all around the lagoon for the guests we hope will flock here, like the birds, from next season. Win-win. We don’t do losing.” His smile is pure PR confidence, pure Americana.
“You want another finger?” he asks, holding his glass to the light. “Mmm, this is good stuff, the best thing to come out of England since the Beatles!” My Scottish friends would bristle, but I restrain myself. “Lucy and I became good friends,” he says. “You’re not her boyfriend, are you?” he asks, dipping his head forward.
“No, just friends, colleagues,” I tell him.
“Phew,” he says, “That’s okay then, ‘cause I fucked her. Or should I say, she fucked me! Crazy chick!” I try to hide my chagrin. He doesn’t seem to notice. “Jeez, like the second time she came here, she wanted to suck my dick. I’d offered her a decent amount to write a favourable report on the Poseidon, to get that NGO she was with off our backs – they had no justification, but those batshit crazy NGOs have some clout in Germany and we didn’t need bad publicity. What I was prepared to pay her was what she’d have earned in a year she told me. She was so happy she wanted to blow me right here in this office! Said she it would pay the deposit on a house in the country in Holland she was keen on. She stayed here for four days – couldn’t get enough of me and the lifestyle I guess. A bit more luxurious than she was used to. But she got stick from her NGO when they found out she had switched sides.”
“What NGO was it?” I ask.
He looks at me and frowns. “You know, I don’t think she ever said. If she did, I don’t remember. Just the woman she was working for had a grand-sounding German name – von Something – that’s like royalty, right?”
I shrug. No aristos in the German Green movement as far as I know. Must be a small self-financed operation, probably some rich kid’s plaything.
“They didn’t like it one bit. I think they threatened legal action of some kind. Breach of contract or something. I heard Lucy on the phone, telling the woman to go and get fucked. But she wasn’t sleeping and getting a bit… I don’t know… wired, shouting crazy shit, broke some crockery. I took her into town to see a friend of mine, Phil Trepanis, one of the local medics. No shrinks on the island. He gave her some meds, she said she was going to fetch some stuff in Agia Anna and I haven’t seen her since. It surprised me – I thought she was keen on the job I offered. I tried to phone, but I got nothing. So I thought she’d changed her mind and had left the island. But you think not?” he asks me, his forehead crinkling. “Maybe you should speak to Dr. Trepanis. Maybe he knows more. Let me give him a call,” he says and reaches for his phone.
I’m struggling with two things. One, could it be that Lucy would have written a favourable report for money? Was she that desperate? She seemed so principled. And two, Christos Papademos is suggesting she was having some sort of breakdown. Could this be true? It’s not the first I’ve heard of Lucy being referred to as “crazy”, but I didn’t think this meant actually mentally ill. But was she?