by Tony Kaplan
My aunt, it turns out, was, before her retirement, a senior manager in the Department of Works and Pensions, an accountant by training and is helping the neighbour’s daughter to pass her bookkeeping entry exam. The girl pours our tea and loads our side plates with biscuits. “Xanakis, our family, was well-known in Greece before the war. Not so much now. Only the composer – you have heard of him? That family Xanakis, we do not know them. Must be different Xanakis.”
A breeze stirs the curtains and light spills onto the floor. My aunt tells me that she was my father’s only sibling. So it was hard on her parents when he left – their only son, on whom so much of their hopes for another glorious chapter in the history of the Xanakis family depended, gone. She had surpassed her parents’ expectations, in part to make up for my father’s absence, by working steadfastly, long hours, no respite – which is why she never married. “I had no time for men, for social activity,” she says pointedly.
“Why did he leave?” I ask.
She sips her tea, considering how to respond to my question and then she replaces the cup carefully. “He was at the university, a junior lecturer. Politics, that was his subject. He had long hair in those days. Nice looking. He had a girl. Anna Moustraki. She was one of his students. She came from a good family with many connections in the government. They should have married,” she says, eyeing me, lifting her chin. “They lived together. That was a new thing then, a man and a woman living together without being husband and wife. The old people did not like this – not her parents or ours. Your grandparents wanted him to marry her. But it was a time of revolution. The Sixties. The Colonels were in power. Your father led protests at the university – he was part of the Progressive Students’ Council. So the police came for him. He was taken for questioning. Her family, Moustraki, they could have helped. But they did nothing. They were on the Right. They did not like that their daughter was living with a communist. Eventually he was released. The ESA, the Military Police, had tortured him. He was thin and what they did to him made the grey come into his hair, into his beard. He did not sleep. He ate little. My parents wanted him to marry the girl so her family would protect him. But he refused. He wanted nothing to do with her family. Then, when he heard the police were coming for him again, he fled.” She sips her tea again. She looks to where the afternoon light is filtering through the half-open curtains. Fine dust floats on the beams. She turns to me and her eyes narrow. “Anna Moustraki was pregnant with his child.”
She waits to see my reaction. I give none. She goes on. “It was something of great shame for the families, ours and hers. He could have sent for her. I don’t know if she would have gone to England, if her family would have let her go. But nothing from him. My parents wrote to him, begging him to come back, to marry her, to take away the shame there was for them. But he was cold. He refused. So they cut him off.” She does the Greek thing of one hand wiping the other clean, each in turn - a gesture of ineluctable finality. “From him, no regret. He started a new life. He met your mother then I think.”
I think about my father’s first love, the baby he refused to acknowledge… My aunt intuits my apprehension. “The baby died. Well, by then he – it was a boy - was two or three I think. Meningitis. That is what we heard. I don’t know if Petros, your father, knew this or not. I think so. He still had friends here on the Left, but they too complained he never wrote to them. One of them saw him at a conference in London some years later. It was after you were born, so we knew he had a son. We did not hear this from him. Anna, we did not see her again, until the funeral we had for your father here in Athens. She was there. I don’t know how she knew he died. She was not beautiful anymore, but rich. She married an old man, a friend of her father. She was a woman who had a child out of marriage – she took what she could get. But at least he was rich.”
“Is she still alive?” I ask.
“She will not want to see you,” my aunt says, her eyes questioning my intentions.
“My… brother… half-brother… what was his name?”
“Angelos,” my aunt says sadly. “Angelos. It was prophetic.”
“Where is he buried?”
She hesitates. “The Proto Nekrotafeio. The First Cemetery. Behind the Temple of Olympian Zeus, behind the Panathiniakos Stadium. But I do not know where in the cemetery. We were not invited to the burial,” she says tersely.
“Is it where my father is buried?” I ask.
“You want to see his grave?” she says. I detect a note of hopefulness, as if this will expiate the family who did not allow his children to see him interred. “I understand this… inclination,” she says grandly. “I will come with you,” she says, already getting up unsteadily. “I will call the taxi.”
The taxi arrives promptly. On the way to the cemetery, I sit in air-conditioned silence, my thoughts filled with snatched memories of my father, like watching old DVDs. My aunt chats to the driver. She asks questions in an imperious voice which he diverts with laconic replies. He holds his cigarette out the driver’s window so as not to offend his passengers and blows his smoke out the corner of his mouth. The smoke may be preferable to his body odour which wafts into my range from time to time. When we get to the entrance to the cemetery, he gets out with alacrity and comes around to my aunt’s door to help her out. There is something about her manner which demands respect. I pay him and wave away my aunt’s feeble protest.
She leads the way, surprisingly nimble with her two sticks on the level ground. We pass impressive mausoleums and heroic statues, festooned with heraldic angels, tributes to the famous and wealthy dead people buried here. There are groups of tourists with their guides, cameras at the ready. We go down an avenue of ancient cypress trees and come to a part of the graveyard which is more mundane, the gravestones pressed closer together, the angels less flambouyant, until we come to rows of simple stones and carved crosses, with, on them, old black-and-white or, on the more recent ones, tinted photos of the deceased loved ones: tributes of plastic flowers and lamps to be lit on memorial occasions. We turn down a narrow path and go about fifty metres before she stops at a grave on which is a photo I recognise of my father as a young man. His family would not have had any photos of him as he’d looked in middle-age, when he died. The poignancy of this discrepancy catches me in the throat.
We stand in respectful silence. Then my aunt takes my hand. I glance at her. Her face is hard, but her clutch is gentle.
The writing on the tombstone is in Greek. “What does it say?” I ask.
“Petros Xanakis – his name. Under it 1933 – 1987. Then it says, ‘Never forgotten by God.’”
My father may have forgotten his God and may even have offended Him, but in the family’s eyes, He did not turn his back on His child – as if to appease themselves for casting him out, as if to say “Never forgotten by his family”. There I am, an atheist, son of an atheist, weeping with the comfort of God’s grace - my father’s family have not forgotten him and therefore they have not forgotten me. I am part of them – they are part of me. I feel an upwelling of… what is it? – pride? – identification? – belonging? I feel I have returned to this place I have never been.
We try to find my half-brother’s grave, but without anyone to help us, it is hopeless and we give up. My aunt is tiring, visibly wilting. We sit on a bench in the shade and watch pigeons feeding on scraps left by the bird-loving bereaved, who see these creatures as emissaries from the world beyond, who carry the souls of their loved ones back to Earth to visit.
My thoughts drift to my Lucy lying on a cold slab in a mortuary. I am mourning her, my father and the brother I never knew I had. It is a lot to bear, but having wept at my father’s grave, I feel less heavy, like something has lifted.
When I take leave of my aunt later, she kisses me on the cheek and gives me, to take with me, a bag of almond biscuits and the faded photo of my namesake and his brothers. Lost and found. Lost and found.
33
When I get back to the island,
I find, when I log on, that Marsha has been busy on my behalf. She’d like the piece I’d posted. “Sorry about Lucy, Tom, but you write well when you are angry,” she’d written. She’d offered my piece around and sure enough had got takers, including certain tabloids in Greece, which is how my article has found its way to the island while I was in Athens. Good for me, my career, my bank balance, but my in-your-face coverage has made me unpopular with the locals I bad-mouthed (understandably) and some that feel bad-mouthed by association. As I find out more-or-less straight away.
When I go over to the Seaview to get online, Michalis comes at me waving a newspaper. “This is you?” he jabs at an article on page three of the Greek tabloid in his hand. I don’t read Cyrillic, so I don’t know if it is me or not. “No, my friend,” he says, his head tilted in disappointment, “No, is not good. What you say. No, no. Tourist, they read this, they decide not Mythos. May they go Italy or Spain. You don’t know what you write; is just suspicion. But you make it that this is the way it is. That it is fact. Christos is…” he makes a circular movement with his hand over his stomach, “sick with his anger for this. For what you say, about him; for what you say about The Poseidon. Already he is expecting cancellations, for not people to book with him… And Nikos, our Mayor? Panagiotis? All these people, they have been kind, they have helped you.” He puts the newspaper down in front of me and walks off, disconsolately. I have let him down. I am no longer welcome.
Fuck off, this is my job, is my first reaction, although I don’t speak this aloud. But his hurt, his turned back, the sad shaking of his head as he goes back inside, temper my self-righteousness. I have to admit that my report was not grounded in well-corroborated evidence. I wrote it when I was deeply grieving. I was… I am angry, I want justice for Lucy. But perhaps I did over-step the mark. Did I? Maybe I should have posed questions rather than making assertions. Have I slandered people? It got by Marsha and I’m fairly sure she would have got legal advice. Could Christos sue? - what I've got on him is speculative. We haven’t yet heard from Radagast, from the sure-to-be litigious Baroness von Strondheim. They are not going to be happy with me either. And Jurgen Preissler is still on the island somewhere. The Enforcer.
I leave without going online. I jump my motorbike into life. The roar, as I wind the throttle, is satisfying. I am angry and righteous. I’m not going to back down. It hurts me that I will no longer be trusted, that I will lose the goodwill of some of the people I have met and grown to like. Some of them I don’t like - their goodwill, their patronage, I don’t need and I don’t want. It’s them I’m going after. I rev the engine into a higher register, feel the vibrations course through me. Take off, in search of the clean air up in the mountains to clear my head, to ground me.
I bend low at the corners, totally in control, as I snake my way up the hairpins on the way to the summit overlooking The Poseidon. The sea stretches out on my left all the way to the top, then it reverses around the cape and sweeps towards The Poseidon. I stop at the top, take off my helmet and breathe. I fill my lungs. I expand myself. I let myself free.
The variegation between the dark green conifers and the turquoise sea below is as delicious as ever. The vastness of the panorama is awesome (as in inspiring awe, not the 'awesome' which is followed by 'dude'). Even the dense blackness of the burned forest on the mountain opposite lends grandeur – drama – to the setting, a sculptural dimension. The unadorned mountain is shown in its true relief, angular, Herculean, the flat limestone cliffs near its peak, muscular, self-confident. They have been there forever… Well, actually that’s not true – they were thrown up by a tremendous seismic force millions of years ago, tumbling granite and sandstone upward, before they came to rest, lifting their heads to the sky. Now they look so nonchalant, like they have been there forever. Nothing has been here forever. Everything changes.
Was the forest burned to justify the rezoning? Or is that a conspiracy theory, dreamt up by a sensation-seeking rich bitch with too much time on her hands? The land is very dry – surely they have forest fires here regularly. Although I must admit the pattern of the burning is very precise, too neat. The Poseidon was never threatened. The water supply? – will the lagoon dry up? I notice the stain on the sea beyond the sandbar is still there. But Michalis' criticism still stings – he was right – I have proceeded with little evidence. I will have to be more diligent, read more stuff, do properly recorded interviews, be able to quote them. That’s what I’ll do.
In a clearing on the side of the road a hundred metres from me, I notice a gleaming 4x4 backed into the shade. A tourist’s car – no local’s car would be so clean. Someone going for a walk up the mountain no doubt. I should do that some time – get some real elevation. The higher I go, the more easily I breathe.
I kick my bike into gear and set off down the mountain back to Agia Anna. I have work to do.
I am rounding a bend about halfway down, when I realise the 4x4 (is it the same one?) is very close on my tail. Fucking tourists! – don’t know the rules of the road. Probably a German wanting the road to himself. A German - fuck! - The Enforcer! Fuck! Is it? I peer into my rear-view mirror, but I can’t make out the driver. The mirror is too dusty. He is getting even closer, at speed. He flashes his lights and begins to overtake me – on a bend – forcing me to the edge. But he doesn’t overtake – he slows to be next to me, leaning me onto the verge. The 4x4 is huge and so high above me, I can see only, even as I glance panicked sideways, a vague shape in the driver’s seat. The drop-off from the tar to the gravel is a good 6 inches. I can’t just drive onto it – my wheel will buckle. The next hair pin is coming up. The sea sparkles far below, a dizzying drop down and the road is uncurling and beginning to curl again, the cunt next to me is forcing me… I grip the handlebars with all my power and hit the brakes hard. The back of the SUV passes within inches of my head. The bike bucks and I go into a wild accelerating skid, to my right, towards the edge. I frantically twist the handlebar and the bike jack-knifes to the left and across the road, bucks onto the gravel and crashes into a bush beyond, into a ditch. The 4x4 swerves in front of me, horn blaring, emergency lights flashing disparagingly. He takes the bend at speed, his tyres protesting, then he guns the 4 litre engine and is gone around the next rise. Fuck! Fuck! Jesus! Shit, that was close! Fuck, I should have got the registration number.
My impulse is to go after him, I am that angry. But then I start to feel the dull throb in my left thigh and see the blood beginning to stain my jeans, then the burning, searing pain all down my leg. Shit! I examine my leg tentatively. I bend my knee with trepidation, expecting to feel the sudden agony of a broken bone. But I can bend my leg. Good. Next the hip. That seems okay too. I can try to get up. It hurts when I put pressure on my left leg. The ankle – I think I have sprained my ankle. The blood is already beginning to cake – good, it is not still bleeding. I must have taken the skin off the side of my thigh as I skidded across the tar. Anyway, better than falling 300 feet to my certain death on the rock below or into the sea. At least I am alive. “It’ll take more than that to kill me, you fuck!” I think, like I’m in Diehard 4 or something. Jesus, that was close!
Then I start shaking. The light gets intense. I pass out.
I come to with the sun in my eyes, a big moustached Greek guy with solid breath breathing all over me. I start and sit up. Alarmed. Then the pain in my leg hits the surface again. The Greek guy jumps back, his face terrified. I think he thought I was dead. I groan to reassure him I’m still alive. I see his delivery van in the road, the driver’s door open.
“Agia Anna…. you – take – me – Agia Anna? Please?” I say in my English for Greeks.
“You stay in Agia Anna?” he says in passable English.
“Yes,” I say weakly.
“You want me to take you to the hospital in Agia Sofia? Maybe is better,” he says.
“No, it’s fine. Just a graze and some bruising,” I say bravely, quite pleased with my fortitude. “I’ve got some stuff. I can m
anage. It’s alright. Endaxi,” I say.
He looks sceptical, but helps me up and around to the passenger door, which he opens for me and pours me into the passenger’s seat. His dog makes way for me, looking apologetic and disgruntled. There is a year’s worth of sweet wrappers and empty cans on the floor. The cab smells of nicotine and stale sweat. It is somehow reassuring.
The motorbike lies crumpled in the ditch, the front fender is hopelessly bent. The Zeus Motors guy will have to fetch it later. Shit, did the bike come with insurance? Another reason to find the driver of the 4x4 – and make him pay.
But then again, maybe the driver of the 4x4 will come looking for me.
34
I tell my saviour that I am staying at the taverna. He drives right past Yianni’s and stops outside The Seaview – clearly he assumes tourists will stay at The Seaview. He runs around to let me out, helping me stand somewhat unsteadily. Agapi sees us and rushes over. My bloodied trousers must be impressive – she gasps, hand to mouth, eyes wide in alarm. “What is happen?” she shouts accusingly at the man who has saved me. I put her right and tell her I am not badly hurt. “Look all the blood!” she says, as if I am a recalcitrant child. She puts an arm around my waist to support me. “Come, we take you inside.”
“No,” I say, “I want to go to my room. Next door.”
Agapi looks at me sceptically. Then she waggles her head and acquiesces. With my two helpers, I make it (gingerly) to Yianni’s. When he sees me, he calls out to Soulla and they both come running to me. I am touched by their solicitude. With Soulla going ahead to open my room, the other three manage me upstairs. “Give me your jeans – I wash,” Soulla instructs me. I sit on my chair and very carefully Agapi extricates me from my trousers. Soulla eyes Agapi suspiciously, then looks to me for my response to a young lady undressing me, sees my trust and relents. Agapi gives my bloodied jeans to Soulla, who holds them at arm’s length with a look of mild disgust. “Maybe you need new,” she says, turns and walks out.