Signs of a Struggle

by Tony Kaplan

  I lie back on my deckchair, breathing hard and let the heat of the sun dry me. I close my eyes. My mind goes clear for about ten seconds. Then I hear the click as the entitled Teutonic noble woman cuts me off. I hear, “Lucy Discombe is no longer my affair” in that clipped, mannered tone. The harshness of it. She will not have the last word. I compose a retort – what I should have said next, what I will write instead.

  “You want something to drink?” It is Agapi, come down to where I am lying. She has her tray and an amused smile. The sun flames her golden hair.

  “Oh, you will bring it?” I ask in my English for Greeks.

  “Yes, of course,” she says.

  I order a bottle of retsina and a plate of olives. She looks pleased. “How is Eleni?” I ask.

  “She is well. She is with my mother. But tonight maybe they come for the concert. You must come tonight, to the restaurant. Famoos zinger! Theodoros Chrysanthymos. From Kreta. His popular name “Psaroxilos” Chrysanthymos – is mean Lips of the Fish, because his lips go…” She pouts delightfully and giggles. “Every womans is love him!” She laughs, turning away in her embarrassment, at her daring. She goes off quickly to get my order.

  A bald man is swimming to the shore as if he is fighting the water at every stroke. Ripples roll out in a crenulated V around him. He gets to the shallows and strides out, proud of his strength, his belly hanging corpulently over the waist band of his flamboyant baggies. He high-steps over the searing hot sand, quickening his steps to get to the beach chair where his wife lies reading a magazine. It’s too hot for his pale feet. He shouts at his wife and runs back to the sea and flings himself in belly first in a gigantic indelicate splash. His wife puts down her magazine and releases herself from the comfort of the chair, collects his beach slippers and walks them down to the water’s edge where she places them. He waves to her. She does not acknowledge him. The fat guy emerges presently and this time carefully slides his feet into the slippers, steadies himself, then shuffles back up the sand to the chair next to his wife’s, his grimace now a smile. He grins at his wife who has resumed her place on her chair. She tightens one corner of her mouth in response. She goes back to reading her magazine. Undaunted, he grabs his towel and dries himself vigorously.

  I close my eyes. Lucy, where the fuck are you?

  ****

  I arrive early at the Seaview. A small bandstand has been set up at the far end of the balcony, the end nearest Yianni’s taverna. I see Yiannis examining it with baleful eyes. Then he waggles his head, sees potential advantage and goes off with what may have been a little dance move.

  Agapi has reserved a two-person table for me near the bandstand. She is excited and pleased I have come. She points out her mother, with Eleni on her lap, sitting against the wall on the side. They don’t need a table – they won’t be eating. Stavroula, the matriarch, shuffles onto the balcony leaning heavily on her stick. She sees Agapi’s mother and the two old women nod in greeting, but there is no warmth. Stavroula turns away quickly. It strikes me the old ladies probably knew each other as young girls, both poor, but Agapi’s mother was a local, while Stavroula would have been an outsider, an immigrant with affluent antecedents, come down in the world. Now Stavroula is rich, her son, a man of influence, Agapi’s boss.

  Antonis arrives a while later, with his cousin, Stelios, who has closed the kafenion for the duration of the performance – no one would have come anyway – everyone will be here. Antonis sees me and comes over and greets me joyfully. He too is excited that Fishlips will be singing here soon. Stelios moves another chair in. It is a squeeze and at a table for two, one of three will have their back to the performers. The singer is obviously of more importance to Antonis and his cousin, so I volunteer to take the backseat, so to speak. As I move my chair and sit myself down, Agapi comes over, frowning and barking at Stelios. The table is for me and for my comfort. There are tables at the back, Stelios has not reserved a table – he must go to the back. Stelios, shrugs and goes off. Antonis has been discomforted, but Agapi looks satisfied. She straightens the tablecloth and takes our drinks order, smiling at me, but not looking at Antonis.

  I notice Kat and two teenage girls giggling at the back. I wonder where Bobby is and look over to Yianni’s, and sure enough, Bobby is there, looking coolly envious of his sister, who has no responsibilities for maintaining the family business. He straightens up as Xanthe, radiant in a light strapless summer dress, emerges to take Stavroula to her seat at the table reserved for family and esteemed friends. Xanthe seats her tight-lipped grandmother solicitously. Her grandmother doesn’t thank her for her consideration.

  At the far end of the table and slightly back is Hektor Papademos, immaculately dressed in a pale blue suit and a silk scarf, his silvered hair slicked back. He sits upright, his chin lifted, shifting this way and that on his seat, checking his view of the stage, which is evidently impeded by the stiff hairdo of the woman in front of him, the wife of the mayor, I surmise. Hektor is not happy with his seat. I see Stavroula glancing at him with her dark, hooded eyes, but he looks everywhere other than at her. Is he strenuously avoiding her gaze her? With her black widow’s dress and hair in a tight bun, she is clearly not his type. He is sophisticated, she (at least in his eyes) is plebeian. The older Papademos is not at ease. He looks to where his son and Michalis are in jovial conversation. A look of pain crosses the old man’s face and then one of muted pride. He will not ask to be moved, but he does not appreciate being in the back seat so to speak, as if he was only an afterthought.

  Just then, there is a commotion at the entrance of the restaurant. The musicians have arrived. Michalis, with Christos and the Mayor in tow, goes to greet them. There is a lot of effusive salutation and back-slapping, then a parting of the group as the singer enters and the assembled audience gets their first sight of him. Psaroxilos Chrysanthymos is a towering figure of a man, slightly hunched to accentuate his world-weariness and humility, his lower lip down-turned in a cascade of pallid fleshiness, his upper lip as curly as an oyster, his full head of black hair slicked back like a Cretan Elvis. He surveys his audience who return his gaze with hushed respectful silence and nodding acknowledgements.

  Michalis is reverent, clutching the singer’s hand – this is a big deal for him – the famous singer has come all the way to tiny Agia Anna to grace his restaurant. No doubt the photo of the singer and Michalis, which Michalis will insist on later, will be framed and hang behind the bar of The Seaview for many years to come.

  After the singer has been shown to the table for VIPs, there is a second wave of activity as the band bustle through and begins setting up. Presently the band leader, who has the sober appearance of a bank manager, tells us (Antonis translates) that the band will play a few numbers with their two regular singers from the Agia Sofia hotel where they are contracted for the summer. Then Theodoros Chrysanthymos (he does not call him Psaroxilos to his face) will come on. They will back him – they know his songs. The audience cheer and heckle. Of course they know his songs – who doesn’t? Antonis finds this very funny. He confides to me in a reverent whisper that Psaroxilos is very famous in all of Greece.

  The band starts up. The leader stands to play his synthesiser. The guitarist next to the bouzouki player takes a puff of his cigarette and then places the still-lit cigarette upright between his ring and baby finger as he strikes up the first chord dramatically. The woman singer’s voice is light and quavers playfully. She moves seductively, practiced over the years in bars and hotels, not taking herself too seriously, her tight-fitting dress shimmering like a fish; her elaborate hairdo does not move. For the second number, she is joined by her partner, a portly man in his forties, in waistcoat and tight black trousers, who makes his entrance from the back for effect, stepping briskly, pressing his heels to the ground, the bulk of his inner thighs impeding his forward movement into a waddle. His determination quickens his pace. He holds a bottle of sparkling wine aloft, as he gets to the bandstand, he peels the foil off the top
and pops the cork with a gush and a flurry. His face is expressionlessness and his unblinking eyes the only clues to his fear that he will get something wrong, sing a note off colour and embarrass himself in front of his hero, the prodigiously-lipped singer from Crete. The duet between the two local singers is a saccharine, popular song evidently and the audience greets this with affectionate derision. The singers are not put out and accept this gracefully – they are professionals. They sing another song which is apparently quite risqué and the audience laugh and applaud. A ballad is delivered confidently and with feeling. The woman singer bows and goes off to her coterie of male admirers at a table, already festooned with bottles of wine and beer. Her portly partner accepts his applause with modesty and retires with relief to the order of backing singer in the band. He lights up a cigarette as a reward, well-deserved, in his humble opinion.

  Then Fishlips comes to the stage. There is wild applause. He takes the microphone and thanks everyone sincerely. Then he pauses and the audience goes quiet. He waits until the only sound is the sound of the sea and the clatter of dishes from the kitchen inside. Then he nods his head to the band’s leader and bows his head.

  Psaroxilos Chrysanthymos, the man with the lips of the fish, sings with eyes closed, his eyebrows lifted into an inverted V of exquisite sadness, his voice, deep and resonant, pleading, giving way delicately in the chorus to an angelic unwavering falsetto soaked in the love of a child for an elderly mother. Without understanding the words, I feel the depth of history the lyrics convey. O Greece, the birthplace of tragedy. My father’s land. I glance at the VIP’s table. The Mayor and Christos are beaming, proud that their island is hosting the great singer. Stavroula, although her face is set to grim, has tears coursing down her cheeks. I feel myself welling up. What has this woman been through in her life time?

  Then the great singer releases them from the depth of their despair into a song of survival, of resistance. All the people seem to know the chorus and sing it out with gusto, as if to repel their tears. They clap the off-beat. They are one. Antonis shouts to me out the corner of his mouth between choruses, “A song of the andantes, the partisans. Famous,” before hastily re-joining the singing. The audience is now in a joyful mood and with the next song, men are up and forming a circle for dancing, arms across shoulders, nimble feet side-skipping back and forth. Shouting, “Oppa!” at each change of direction. Michalis and helpers move tables to give more room for dancing. The bazouki is building to a pitch of quick-fingered exultation, the guitarist thrumming bass notes to underpin the rhythm. Now, finally, Fishlips looks up. He is smiling philosophically.

  I notice, among the men dancing, Kosta, the Police Chief's cop son, short sleeves rolled to show off his steroid biceps, throwing himself about and whooping. He is drunk. In a group of men gathered at the edge of the circling dancers, his father, Panagiotis, watches indulgently. Kosta sees Xanthe passing and makes a grab for her, to get her into the dancing circle. She shrugs him off irritably and glares at him. He grins, embarrassed and renews his whooping with greater vigour to hide this affront to what in his own mind is his irresistible sexual attractiveness. He grabs at one of the teenagers who is with Katerina and she obliges, thrilled to be chosen. Kat gives her a sceptical look, as in “Really?” and then laughs with her other friend, throwing her head back, scandalised.

  Xanthe makes her way over to our table and holds a hand out to Antonis. He is her chosen partner. With a quick glance at Agapi, he accepts and reaches out for Xanthe’s hand. He cannot do otherwise. Agapi, I am surprised to see, looks a little annoyed, but turns smiling and goes on clearing the table she is at, of the empty bottles and plates. When she is done, she comes over to me and says sadly, by way of apology, “I have to work. I cannot dance.” The emphasis also makes clear that this is also a reference to Xanthe’s advantage as the daughter of the boss. I wonder if she is jealous – of course she must be - and whether, actually, she is playing hard to get with Antonis. Am I the bait? I examine her face, but she is giving nothing away.

  Xanthe and Antonis dance to one side, hands linked in the air. Antonis is light on his feet and Xanthe is well-practiced. They make an attractive couple. As the circle comes around, Kosta barges Antonis, who stumbles into Xanthe and they sprawl into a family group at a table, who shout with alarm and protest. Kosta laughs and shouts over his shoulder, “Signomi!” (“Sorry”) He doesn’t mean it. Xanthe straightens herself up and makes a show of brushing off Antonis’s shirtfront, glares at Kosta and when she sees he is watching her, she pulls Antonis close and kisses him on the mouth. Antonis looks surprised, but he doesn’t resist.

  28

  The sun is coming through a chink in the curtain. My phone is buzzing. I close my eyes against the harsh light and reach for my phone on the floor next to the bed. Fuck, who is phoning me this early? Shit, I only got to bed at three a.m.

  “Yeah,” I growl into the phone. My throat feels like it’s lined with pigeon feathers.

  “Mr Pickering? Dhomas?”

  “Yes. Who is it?”

  “It’s Panagiotis Valoudsakis, Mr. Pickering… Dhomas. The Chief of Police.”

  I prop myself up on an elbow and rub my eyes with the back of my hand. What could be so urgent? “Hey, Panagiotis,” I say, “What’s up?”

  “Mr. Pickering… Dhomas, I think you should come to the Police Station,” he says gravely. A pause like the cold silence of a tomb. “I am sorry to tell to you this, my friend. Miss Discombe, her body has been found. She has kill-ed herself.”

  Am I dreaming this? Am I still asleep? I sit up straight. No, I am awake. But this is a nightmare. Lucy has been found. My worst fear, the fear I wouldn’t allow myself, is confirmed. Lucy is dead. Beautiful, clever, full-of-life Lucy is dead. Can that be? She is still so young.

  “What?” I exclaim. “When? How?”

  “She was found by an American tourist woman making snorkelling at the old harbour at Vassilaki. Is an old fishing village. No persons living there no more.” He hears my silence, my disbelief. “I am sorry.”

  “Okay, I am coming,” I say as I hastily get out of my crumpled bed. My legs feel weak under me. “I’m coming.”

  ****

  “I want to see her,” I tell the Chief of Police.

  Panagiotis looks me in the eye and then he looks down. “I don’t think you want this,” he says.

  “Yes, I do! She is my responsibility!” I shout at him. Who the fuck is he to tell me what I want and what I don’t?

  He looks at me calmly with a look in which I discern compassion. “Okay,” he says, after a pause. He shrugs almost imperceptibly. “I suppose someone who is not police should identify the body.” He gets up. “We must go to the hospital. The mortuary is there.” He collects his policeman’s cap and pockets his sunglasses. He puts a hand on my shoulder. “But, my friend, I must tell to you, she is now not look how she was look. If is not for the note and her clothes, I myself would not so easy know this is Miss Discombe. My friend, the crabs they have… they eat first the most soft parts – the lips, the tongue, the eyes.”

  Oh God, what is he telling me? Her beautiful face bursts bright into my mind – her, smiling with mischief, her eyes, their intelligence set in an iridescence of deepest blue, her lips... her delicate lips, lips I kissed, that kissed me, wanting more. How has she been transfigured in death? Can such beauty have been ravaged, disarticulated in such a cruel way? She couldn’t have intended to be found like that. Oh, God, how awful! What a fucking horrible thing. How she must have been suffering terribly to do something like that. Did the Police Chief say she left a note?

  “She left a note?” I ask.

  “Yes, it was with her shoes next to an old petrol drum,” he says. “The sea it is deep at the end of the jetty. Is where the fishermens was go to fish – but no more – no more fish there – so no more fishermens. If the American tourist not go to make snorkel there, we never find,” Panagiotis says.

  As we walk in the not-yet-hot sunshine, he tell
s me the American woman was swimming with her husband, looking for shells at the bottom of the sea, when she saw something shining. So she dived down and then what she first saw was Lucy’s red hair flowering out of her head, then the contours of her head, then her body beyond at unnatural angle, so that at first it was difficult to tell it was a human body. As the woman got closer, the holes of the eyes and the mouth showed up for what they were. The terrified woman had finned her way to the surface as fast as she could and screamed for her husband. When she gave her statement to the police, she was horrified that she had almost touched the body and that the flesh may have come away under her fingers. She was very preoccupied by that. By revulsion, not by compassion. I don't judge her. It sounds like your worst nightmare, even second-hand in the Police Chief'’s imperfect English. I steel myself.

  The air in the mortuary is cold and grey; the smell is sweet, pungent and chemical. The room is below ground and lit by dull neon lights. An attendant looks to the Chief for guidance, after the Chief checks with me, he nods and the attendant rolls the sheet off the corpse on the concrete bench.

  It is worse than I’d imagined. Lucy’s flesh is bloated shades of green and purple. I try not to look at the face, but I am drawn to it, to its grotesque caricature of a face, a badly painted Edvard Munch’s scream, impossible to relate to the beauty which had previously inhabited her features. What a travesty! I think, furious with Fate, that she should end up like this, furious with Lucy for doing this to herself. Then I see, around her neck, the Ethiopian necklace I’d bought her in the Amsterdam flea market. The shine from this is, I realise, what had attracted the American woman. If it hadn’t been for this gift I had given her as an apology almost a year ago, Lucy’s body may never have been found. I would never have had to see her like this. I feel the hot tears in my eyes. It would have been better if she’d just vanished.