‘The volcano has been dormant all my life, but the history of the island tells of angry gods turning our beautiful blue sky charcoalgrey for months,’ Yorgos told Oriel, who stared back at it, transfixed.
‘People have always created myths to explain acts of nature,’ she answered.
‘Myths are the food and drink of Helios.’ He pulled the steering wheel left and right as the Jeep lurched over uneven ridges in the road. ‘The people of our island have lived in near seclusion for many years. Few outsiders visit.’
Soon the aspect of the island began to change. The road had meandered towards a tiny natural port where the light was indescribably keen, yet soft. Here, Oriel could see that the volcanic soil of the island was highly pigmented: the rich brown earth was streaked with the emerald and jade of olivine, the dark pink of quartz, the silver-grey of chrome and the warm yellow of gold. On the right, the Ionian Sea sparkled invitingly, gentle waves ruffling its surface. Another road led down to a small marina, where a handful of brightly coloured boats bobbed imperceptibly, as if quite content to remain at their moorings instead of braving the open sea. Houses were set among tumbling cascades of jasmine that scented the air, their gardens leading down to the beach where the iridescent waters lapped softly against the sand. In the distance Oriel could distinguish gently rolling hills and dizzying mountain ranges: sheer needles of rock shot with veins of mineral pigmentation, shimmering in a halo of late afternoon haze. They passed a small chapel that lay dozing in the still heat. There was no movement anywhere, of man or beast, except for a few butterflies fluttering lazily among the cypress trees.
Everywhere Oriel looked conjured sharp pangs of memory, taking her back to her last visit to a Greek island. Not for the first time since that far-off night in Aegina, she wondered what had happened to the Greek god who had ravished her in the moonlight and then vanished like a dream. Who was he and where had he come from?
Her thoughts were interrupted by the estate manager’s voice. ‘Though the Kyrios won’t have returned yet, I’ve been told to take you straight to Heliades, the Lekkas residence, so you can wait for him there,’ he said.
‘I would prefer to use the time to book into a hotel for a couple of days while I look for an apartment to rent,’ she replied.
‘You won’t find any on the island, I’m afraid. And the only hotel is a two-star hovel,’ he said, casting her a sideways look, ‘which a sophisticated lady like yourself would not appreciate. This is a private island and the Kyrios doesn’t encourage tourists.’
‘Where do the other members of the team live, then?’
‘At the staff house.’
‘Then that’s where I would like you to take me, so I can tidy myself up before meeting Kyrios Lekkas.’
A mocking twist appeared on Yorgos’s mouth as his dark, unsettling eyes flicked over her. ‘Kyrios Damian wouldn’t allow that. The staff house is too primitive for a young lady like yourself.’
Oriel was becoming increasingly annoyed. It felt like the estate manager was dreaming up obstacles at every turn. Perhaps he simply didn’t like women. Or, at least, not when they were taking on a ‘man’s’ job. ‘For heaven’s sake,’ she said, exasperated. ‘I’ve lived under canvas before now, on a job! I know how to rough it, if that’s what you’re worried about.’
He smiled unpleasantly. ‘I still need to take you to Heliades. What you do after that is none of my business.’
Oriel set her chin defiantly. The sooner she had her meeting with Damian Lekkas the better; then, at least, she would know where she stood. After all, he was her employer and she suspected that the insecurity of her position was merely a fabrication on the part of Yorgos Christodoulou to put her off the job for some reason of his own. Still, if anyone reneged on the contract, it wouldn’t be her …
‘Very well then, I’ll wait for him and take it from there.’
Again, he looked amused. ‘Persistence overcomes resistance, we say in Greece. You think that you will convince the Kyrios, eh?’
‘Isn’t he the one in authority here?’
At this the manager looked pensive. ‘Indeed he is,’ he said in a low voice and Oriel felt that she had at least won the first round.
Within another twenty minutes the Jeep was heading north along the eastern coastline, which offered magnificent views of the sea below and terraces of silver-green olive groves that led like a giant staircase down to the water’s edge. Oriel’s impression was of a fabled land. Yorgos slowed to point out Heliades – the name meant ‘children of the sun’ – and the Lekkas kahstro.
The mansion looked like a shimmering white temple in the crystallized light, standing proudly on the crest of the rocky cliffs that towered above the island, surrounded by clusters of cypresses, Judas trees, twisted olives and wild lemon. Oriel drew a sharp breath. A pagan prayer to Zeus. One would have to be a painter to capture the primitive appeal of everything she saw. Appearing to have been built in ancient times, it was a striking edifice; a sort of dazzling, arrogant challenge to all the untamed beauty of the island, she thought.
She turned to Yorgos. ‘How far back does it date?’
‘It was built in the nineteenth century, but over the years parts have been added to the original house.’
Oriel could hardly contain her excitement – how could she resist the chance of working in such fabulously archaic surroundings? The building was a perfect study in neo-classicism and the whole island breathed mystery and historical secrets. She could just imagine the archaeological wonders she would be discovering here. Yet there was a warning voice at the back of her mind that counselled her to think carefully before she made an irrevocable decision. First impressions are often the truest, as we often find to our cost, went the saying, and on arrival here, her initial reaction had hardly been favourable, she reminded herself.
The Jeep picked up speed again as they drove past fields of vines and barley. Some women were reaping barley with sickles, while others with baskets on their hips were bent over picking hortas, leafy greens, or plucking tomatoes from vines. Oriel stared, fascinated, at this rural scene which looked as though it could have existed over a hundred years ago. The women wore white Turkish breeches tucked into long boots, their skirts looped up while they toiled, and each worker covered her head with a black handkerchief decorated with coloured flowers. One woman had a baby slung in a bundle on her back, where it was gently rocked by the movement of her body.
A different world. Oriel’s eyes lingered on the infant as the Jeep sped on and she wondered what it must be like to have been born in such a remote place. Perhaps that child would spend his or her entire life on Helios and never see what lay beyond its shores.
Soon the road followed a high brick wall that enclosed the lemon orchards and olive groves leading up to the great house. Oriel’s thoughts moved to the lord and master of this intriguing place.
‘Does the Kyrios live on his own?’ she asked.
‘No, his cousin Helena lives there, too. She has a whole section of the house to herself,’ said Yorgos. ‘Pericles’s wing was closed for a long time after the murder, but the Kyrios has had it totally refurbished. It has a fabulous view over the sea and the island and has its own private beach.’
Oriel looked round sharply at this mention of the tragedy again. Curiosity and unease plucked at her in equal measure. She was on the verge of asking the estate manager more when they came upon a pair of tall bronze gates that interrupted the line of the boundary wall. They were of the imposing, curved kind with wonderful spiral and leaf detailing, topped by an arch with scrolled corners. Yorgos got out and pushed them open, pulling them shut again once the Jeep was inside the grounds, and the vehicle began its ascent up the long driveway to the house, which was still hiding behind a curtain of tamarisks and eucalyptus trees.
As the residence came into view closer up, Oriel nearly gasped. It was a house befitting a great dynasty; no one setting eyes on Heliades would deny that. It appeared to have been built originally i
n honey-coloured stone, which over the years the sun had mellowed to a soft yellow. A mantle of climbing plants reached up the walls to the roof. Across the façade a pink-stemmed spreading pellitory with bright green leaves unfurled its delicate flowers, the petals of which had the rosy tint and fineness of a baby’s skin, and these entwined with the more vivid fuchsia of bougainvillea. The grand edifice had two rows of tall windows with beautifully carved shutters and wrought-iron balconies gracing the top floor. Its front was pillared in a neo-classical style, topped with a pediment decorated with a sculpture of Helios, the glowing sun god, represented here in its Greek interpretation by a gigantic eye surrounded by a halo, observing everything his light could touch. The magnificent home of the Lekkas family was a spectacular monument that looked as if it had been there from the beginning of time and would survive as long again.
The Jeep passed through the gates into an inner paved area that ran the whole width of the building, with a fountain warbling at its centre, while lines of tall cypress trees stood like willowy sentries on the outer edges. The marble steps and balustrades that led to the front door were massive but well kept, gleaming white in the brilliant sunshine. Oriel’s wide-eyed gaze swept up to the top of the steps, where a broad paved terrace stretched with carved statuary standing in niches, dividing rooms at the front of the house, and huge urns spilled over with fuchsias and geraniums. Towards the rear of the main property huge wings had been added, each of them big enough in themselves to accommodate a man of substantial means.
As Yorgos brought the Jeep to a stop, the arched front door to the house opened and a servant came out to meet them. Short and dark, with a clipped beard following the line of his jaw, he was dressed in green and gold with a golden sun embroidered on the front of his coat. At a nod from Yorgos, he took Oriel’s hand luggage from the back seat. ‘Show the lady into the salóni and serve her some refreshments,’ the estate manager commanded brusquely. Then, turning to Oriel, he said more gently: ‘Would you prefer tea or coffee? Have you had any lunch?’
‘Thank you, but I’m not hungry. A cold glass of water would be greatly appreciated though.’
‘Are you sure? You might be in for a long wait.’
‘Thank you, but water will do.’ Oriel stood at the foot of the marble steps and looked up at the outside of the vast mansion. It felt as if she’d stepped back in time, and the awed child in her that had dreamed of visiting worlds gone by felt a thrill of excitement as well as trepidation.
At that moment, she caught sight of a shadow at one of the tall windows on the ground floor. Was it a person moving or a trick of the light? Then it was gone. She was conscious again of that uneasy prickling down her spine. ‘Is there anywhere I can wash my hands and tidy myself up a little?’ she asked quickly.
‘Yes, of course. Kyrillos here will show you to the downstairs guest room. It has a bathroom and everything you’ll need. Irini will bring some towels.’
Oriel thanked him and made to follow the wordless servant. Yorgos excused himself then with the same unctuousness he’d shown throughout, but it seemed he couldn’t resist a small gibe before he went: ‘I’m afraid I must leave you now, I have some work to attend to. No doubt the Kyrios will call me when he has decided whether or not to give you the job.’
Oriel answered him tightly, prickling with irritation. ‘He has already agreed to give me the job. We have signed the contract. I thought I made that clear.’
‘Maybe,’ Yorgos said with an unpleasant fox-like grin, ‘but that was before yesterday’s incident. Didn’t I tell you? It seems another one left us last night. The Kyrios has had enough of unreliable females. They unsettle the men and then run off, leaving the team short.’
Oriel bristled. ‘Who has left the team? Which women are you referring to?’ Was there yet more gossip that he was delighting in dangling before her?
He seemed about to answer her question but then paused, his eyes narrowing. ‘I’m sure you’ll find out all you need to know from the Kyrios,’ he said with a brisk arm gesture of farewell, his back to her now as he climbed into the Jeep.
With a frustrated exclamation under her breath, Oriel turned on her heel and followed Kyrillos into the great tiled entrance hall. As she went in, her attention was immediately diverted. The sheer size of the room with its high, ornate domed ceiling, supported by delicately veined marble pillars, gave the impression she was entering a cathedral. Her eyes then took in the floor, which was paved with fabulous marble tiles arranged in a huge mythological picture: Pegasus the winged white horse surrounded by the Muses – the nine daughters of Mnemosyne and Zeus, each depicted in a dress of a different hue and presiding over an art or science.
The imposing grandfather clock that stood at the far end of the hall struck five o’clock, making Oriel jump. Kyrillos glanced at her covertly as he showed her into the guest dressing room and gave her the bag.
‘Irini will bring the towels. When you have finished, ring the bell. I’ll take you to the salóni.’
Entirely wordless in his dealings with Yorgos, the manservant now revealed a rich, well enunciated voice. His eyes, however, remained guarded. Oriel thanked him and Kyrillos closed the door gently behind her.
The circular room was luxurious to say the least, painted blue with tiled panels of fantastic murals all over the walls, interspersed with floor-to-ceiling mirrors and tall windows. In the middle of the room stood an elaborately carved wooden dressing table, painted in antique gold, with a matching stool. There was also an original klinai, a couch used by dinner guests in ancient Greece to recline upon during a symposium or a meal, with two matching bijou armchairs and a sofa, covered in a royal blue and gold silk brocade. The place was strongly redolent of expensive scents and body lotions, presumably used by other guests of Heliades. If the guest dressing room was this sumptuous, and decorated with such antiquated elegance, Oriel could only wonder what the rest of the house looked like.
There was a jug of water on a marble washstand, next to the basins, and Oriel poured herself a glass. It felt cool on her parched lips and she downed it in one go. Opening her bag, she was just rummaging around for her hairbrush when she heard murmurings in the hall outside the door.
‘It’s happening all over again, I tell you, Kyrillos,’ whispered a woman’s voice. ‘One minute she was there, the next she was gone. Without a goodbye or anything. Just like that Dutch girl last year. The Kyrios was so angry. But she looked more afraid than anything, when I saw her outside his study.’
Oriel stilled, in reluctant fascination. Much as she didn’t like eavesdropping, she could not help herself. Then she heard Kyrillos’s voice. ‘What do you expect, with these loose foreign women carrying on the way they do? It’s not good that they stay here.’
‘Yes, they must have excited the anger of Hades, To Aórato, the Unseen One.’
Kyrillos grunted. ‘More like the anger of the Kyrios. I’d rather face Hades any day.’
‘Even the Kyrios is under the power of the lord of torment. After all, look at the Kyrios’s wife and how she carried on … And then the poor Kyrios, having to deal with that terrible business.’
‘Hush, Irini, it’s not good to speak of the dead that way.’
Oriel put her hairbrush down carefully on the dressing table, listening intently. Since all of Yorgos’s cryptic remarks, her curiosity had been aroused and now what she was hearing seemed to be another tiny piece of the puzzle.
So Lekkas had a wife. Where was she now? Yorgos hadn’t mentioned her at all. How did she fit in to the accursed ruling family that the estate manager had described so melodramatically?
‘It’s all the doing of To Aórato,’ the woman went on. ‘He is displeased, you mark my words. And today, this new lady is here and …’
‘Enough, Irini,’ Kyrillos hissed. ‘That tongue of yours is so loose, one day it’ll fall out of your head. Go, go! She’s waiting.’
There was the sound of the manservant’s hastily departing footsteps and then a pause. Kn
uckles rapped at the door.
Oriel composed herself. ‘Erchontai se, come in.’
Irini came in with a set of blue towels, which she put down on a small table. She was young, probably in her late twenties, brown-skinned with great jet-black eyes that blinked cautiously at Oriel but were warm and kindly. Her hair was also black, rich and shiny, cut in a short bob with a fringe. She wore an attractive navy uniform with a frilled and embroidered collar, an apron and a small cap.
‘Kalispera, Despinis, I am Irini, the kamariera, the maid. I have brought you clean towels.’
‘Kalispera, Irini. Efharisto, thank you.’
The Greek woman went to one of the stone cabinets recessed into the wall. ‘Here you will find shampoo and all sorts of creams and perfumes for your use.’ She moved to another cabinet, ‘Here there is a hairdryer.’
Despite her earlier unease, Oriel couldn’t help but smile at the kamariera’s fastidious and caring manner. ‘Thank you very much, Irini, but I only need a quick shower to refresh myself. It’s much hotter in Greece than in England.’
‘Yes, today has been particularly hot. We’ve never had a May like it. Maybe there will be a storm. Do you need me to press anything for you?’
‘No thanks. I have a change of clothes in my overnight bag which won’t need ironing.’
‘As you wish, Despinis. I will leave you now. When you have finished, ring the bell and Kyrillos will take you to the salóni. You will need something to eat.’
‘I’m really not hungry at all, but thank you.’
Irini went to the door and then hesitated before turning round. ‘The Kyrios might be very late. He had to go to Athens urgently.’ She glanced at Oriel nervously. ‘Did Kyrios Christodoulou mention it?’
Oriel guessed that Irini probably knew a great deal about what went on in this house and, if the maid were as indiscreet as Kyrillos had intimated, perhaps she might find some more answers by speaking to her.
Aphrodite's Tears Page 4