Aphrodite's Tears

by Hannah Fielding

  ‘You’re quite entrepreneurial, aren’t you?’

  He threw her a sideways glance. ‘I have only my work in this life to light my fires and keep them burning,’ he told her as they entered a gated domain.

  Was this the key to what drove him? Like so many times before, Oriel’s eyes fell on the hard, scarred profile of the man next to her and recognized in him such strength and lonely determination that it made her heart swell with emotion.

  Damian stopped the car. ‘We’re here.’

  Oriel gazed up at him. For a brief moment the atmosphere between them was alive with vibrations, swift arrows of thought and feeling that darted from his eyes into hers, delivering little shafts of awareness throughout her body. And then Damian smiled.

  ‘Éla, let me show you around.’

  Oriel slid out of the Jeep and looked around her. They had driven up to a building that looked like an old Roman monastery, its domed tower presiding over thick stone walls of pale pinkish ochre, different sections covered with tiled, pitched roofs. It was a strange and beautiful place. Surrounding the building, row after row of noble olive trees surged up from a parched, rocky, calcareous soil, gnarled in the calm stillness, their silvery-green leaves shimmering against the bright Greek sky in the sun-drenched afternoon.

  ‘My olive heaven,’ he murmured.

  ‘It’s so quiet here, so peaceful, as though we’re in another world,’ Oriel remarked.

  ‘It’s a couple of miles out of town. Maybe that’s why the monks chose to build their monastery here.’

  Orderly lines of trees marched up and down the great expanse as far as the eye could see. Damian and Oriel walked in venerable silence under the cover of their branches, basking in the serenity of the place. The light flashed silver in some spots; in others it tinted the grove in shades of pink, peach and cobalt blue.

  ‘There are sixty-four varieties of olive. Some are as big as walnuts, others as small as berries, and believe it or not the small ones yield proportionately more oil. We only grow twelve varieties on Helios,’ Damian explained

  ‘The bees must be happy when the trees are in flower.’

  ‘The bees don’t pollinate them, the wind does: the ponenta, west wind. I love the olive. I love trees in general, but I think this is my favourite.’

  ‘It’s not exactly beautiful though, is it?’ She brushed a hand over a gnarled trunk. ‘With this bark it could appear rather sinister, don’t you think?’

  ‘On the contrary, it’s their tortured body I find most beautiful, as though they have grown in pain, like human souls looking for delivery.’

  Oriel laughed. ‘That’s a rather grim image.’

  Damian shrugged and twisted his lips wryly, ‘I don’t think so. It’s rather poignant …’

  She nodded. ‘Grim …’ and they both laughed. They had left the olive grove and were now in a clearing next to the cloisters of the old monastery, which seemed to be a larger replica of Damian’s garden, where Oriel had walked on the night of her arrival. There were birds flitting among the trees and sunshine caressed the sweet, fragranced petals of honeysuckle and climbing roses. Marble statues gleamed white in the golden rays and fountains made a rainbow of colour before cascading down into their different-shaped bowls.

  ‘How do you keep all your gardens so green?’

  ‘It rains in winter over the Ionian, it even snows on the mountains of Kefalonia. I’m thinking of adding units of desalination for some parts of the island, where it’s still quite barren. The water would come straight from the sea, or we’d dig wells. It’s an expensive procedure, but we would be able to plant more, vines especially. It would almost double the produce of Helios, affording a better life for the islanders.’

  Oriel nodded, impressed. ‘A wonderful project that would be.’

  Among other statues, she spotted a striking one of Apollo in all his naked beauty.

  Damian followed her eyes. ‘A reproduction, of course. If it hadn’t been, I wouldn’t have been allowed to keep it.’

  ‘It’s still a work of art.’

  ‘It was actually sculpted by a blind man. Kostis lost his sight when a jealous woman threw sulphuric acid in his face.’

  Oriel shivered. ‘How dreadful!’

  ‘Jealousy, agápi mou … Passions can make the human heart monstrous.’ Damian had spoken in a low, cavernous voice without looking at her, but she could see his eyes had a harrowed and faraway expression.

  What was he thinking? Her gaze wandered over the scarring of his beautiful face. There was so much about him that she didn’t know.

  Close by, Oriel noticed the tallest bay tree she had ever seen. ‘Oh, what a magnificent bay,’ she said, trying to bring back Damian’s former cheerful mood.

  It worked, and his expression brightened. ‘We call it a laurel in Greece. It’s been here ever since I can remember, I think it was my grandfather who planted it. We revere the laurel because it’s associated with Daphne and Apollo, and Daphne taking its form to avoid her own human feminine one being so attractive to the male sex.’ He smiled mischievously. ‘You might say we Greeks are unhealthily obsessed by stories of gods chasing virgins.’

  He was being provocative again, Oriel knew, and she turned away and walked around the tree to the fountain. ‘Yes, I know the myth.’

  ‘Daphne didn’t escape Apollo, you know, even as a laurel tree. She stabbed him with her leaves when he tried to embrace her.’ Damian sauntered over to the laurel and reached up to rub a leaf between his fingertips. ‘But he didn’t give up, you see. He tended her as his own tree and made her evergreen.’ He came to stand next to her. ‘Don’t run from me, agápi mou.’

  ‘Then stop messing with me, Damian.’

  His silver gaze clashed with hers. ‘Would you stab me with your leaves?’

  How could she, when every cell in her body cried out for him – every sigh, every breath secretly exhaled his name? Her senses were tingling with the scent of him so close, a heady fusion of soap, clean skin and pure masculinity. Oriel attempted to scowl at him.

  ‘Yes, I probably would, if you don’t leave me alone.’ The lie almost stuck in her throat.

  ‘And so both our souls would be damned forever. What a waste.’

  Oriel stepped away from him again. The wide oval archways of the cloisters were each punctuated by other trees that stood against the stone pillars, their thick, twisted branches laden with spiky violet flowers. She was now closer to them and, in sharp contrast to the alluring scent of Damian, they gave off a pungent fragrance that tickled Oriel’s nose, making her almost sneeze.

  ‘What’s that?’ she asked, moving back quickly. ‘The smell is really strong.’

  Damian gave a brief laugh, deep in his throat, almost a chuckle. ‘What is it with you and trees today? It’s called Monk’s Pepper, also known as the Chastity Tree. In ancient times it was believed to be an anti-aphrodisiac.’ He folded his arms and leaned back against stone edge of the fountain, regarding Oriel in a way that unsteadied her. ‘Women used part of the plant on their bedding, in Pliny’s words “to cool the heat of lust” during the religious festival of the Thesmophoria, when Athenian women left their husbands’ beds to remain ritually chaste. Monks also sat under it to quieten their libidos.’

  ‘Then maybe you should sit beneath it yourself.’ The words had flown out of Oriel’s mouth impulsively and she blushed, not quite sure how Damian would take her snappy retort.

  ‘No amount of Monk’s Pepper would succeed in calming the turmoil I feel whenever you’re near me. I just have to look at you, agápi mou, for my senses to riot out of control. I know that it’s the same for you, even if you keep denying it.’

  Oriel swallowed. He was right, she couldn’t deny it. The intensity of his gaze told her that he might move closer to her again, and she didn’t know if she would be able to stop herself from letting him press that powerful, hard body against her. Please don’t come any closer, she silently willed him. Damian gazed at her with eyes that seemed veil
ed in a hundred secret thoughts. He pushed a hand through his hair.

  ‘Come, let’s walk on before I break my promise and lose control of myself.’

  Oriel let out a quiet breath and followed him as he strode off, her eyes on his broad back. Now that he had moved away she was relieved, although part of her was disappointed that he hadn’t simply pulled her into his arms and made them both lose control.

  They crossed the front gardens of the enclosed courtyard, heading towards a large wooden door at the far end. The stone walls of the monastery rose high above them and Oriel could see where the centuries had rounded every edge of the crenulations and the belfry. The roofs were dark ochre, as were the turrets and chimneys. A long, arched gallery extended around the upper floor, above the arched cloisters that surrounded the building. Pines and beech trees had been planted around the building, separating it from the rest of the grounds, so that it appeared almost secluded.

  ‘How old is the monastery?’ she asked, happy to talk about anything other than this unbearable tension between them.

  Damian barely turned his head as they walked together. ‘It dates from the sixteenth century. It survived the earthquake and volcanic eruption that destroyed most of the island. Ever since the press was set up, I’ve had a bishop come up from Athens twice a year to hold a service in our family chapel, and he blesses our olive press. In return, he receives twelve gallons of olive oil. A great tradition, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes, that makes sense given the press is housed in an old monastery. It is a most beautiful building. The lines are rather austere, but that lends a certain grandeur.’

  As they approached the front door, Yorgos Christodoulou appeared on the threshold.

  ‘Ah, Yorgos, kalispera. I didn’t know that you’d be here today.’

  The estate manager fiddled with the heavy watch on his wrist, regarding them both with his impenetrable black eyes. ‘I was told you were coming to visit so I decided to stay in case you needed me for anything. Some of the men are working overtime today because we had a large harvest of olives last week and, if we don’t turn them into oil quickly, they’ll rot.’

  Damian nodded. ‘Good, well done. You’ve obviously met Despinis Anderson.’

  Yorgos flashed Oriel a smile. ‘Né, yes, of course. Kalispera, Despinis.’

  Oriel nodded politely, but there was still something about this man she didn’t like.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like me to give Despinis Anderson a tour of the press?’

  ‘Thank you, Yorgos, but I’m happy to show her around.’

  ‘As you like, Kyrios, but I’ll be in my office if you change your mind.’ He nodded lightly and was just about to disappear into one of the dark corridors of the building when Damian called him back.

  ‘Actually, there is one thing you can do for me. Bring the Jeep round and park it outside the monastery. I left it at the entrance. It’ll save us walking back. Here …’ He threw him the keys.

  ‘Of course, I’ll do that immediately.’

  Oriel looked after the estate manager as he left the courtyard. She didn’t like his subservient manner towards Damian, which, she felt, jarred with the rather underhanded way he had described his boss on the day she had arrived. Plus, she hadn’t forgotten how he had tried to put her off the excavation job in the first place.

  Damian turned to Oriel. ‘From the look on your face, I can see that you don’t care much for Yorgos,’ he remarked.

  ‘I find him rather creepy, to be honest.’

  ‘He’s an odd character, I must admit. He was the best friend of my younger brother. They’d always hung around together, since childhood.’ Damian’s face went blank. ‘Pericles died a few years ago, as you probably know, and although Yorgos wasn’t someone I even liked much as a boy, I wanted to honour the connection my brother had with him.’

  Oriel looked up at Damian, trying to read his expression, but it was closed. ‘I’m sorry about your brother,’ she said softly. ‘Yorgos did tell me that he’d died.’

  Damian nodded brusquely, obviously unwilling to be drawn further into conversation about Pericles, the only hint of emotion a slight furrow in his brow. ‘I do sometimes wonder about Yorgos. He’s certainly not an open book, it’s hard to tell what his honest opinion is sometimes.’

  ‘If you’re not sure about him, why do you entrust him with your estate?’

  ‘It’s not that I distrust him, as such. Besides, he runs a tight ship and is very efficient so I’ve no real reason to get rid of him. I just don’t have the easy, open relationship with him as I do with, say, Stavros. But you can’t have it all, I suppose.’

  He smiled at Oriel and took her arm. ‘Come, let’s forget about him. First, I’ll show you the traditional stone mill that my grandfather used. It requires real craftsmanship and expertise to run it properly.’

  They entered a big room where machines were thundering away noisily. At the entrance there was a queue of men carrying baskets loaded to the brim with green olives. Each placed the fruits of his harvest on a conveyor belt, which took the olives through a stream of running water before tipping them into the grinding mill. They greeted Damian with obvious respect; he, in turn, thanked them for working overtime to safeguard the crop, slapping them on the shoulder with encouraging approval.

  Oriel moved over to a large trough, where three pairs of great revolving millstones were rotating laboriously, grinding whole olives into a brown, gluey pulp.

  ‘This traditional way of producing olive oil has many advantages over the modern mill. The good thing about this open vat is that the paste is visible. That way, the miller can watch what’s going on and assess the pulp.’

  Oriel watched, fascinated, as bright beads of extra virgin oil began to appear along the edges of the palm-fibre bags of pulp, now in the presses. As the pressure increased, it became a rich, bright golden stream. ‘It glitters like liquid gold.’

  ‘It is the gold of this island. Presses like these may not have changed for millennia but they’re still perfectly efficient. Nothing is wasted,’ he told her as they left the room. ‘The final dregs of liquid, after several pressings, are stored in large cans and we sell that lower-grade oil cheaply on the island. As for the desiccated brown pulp, it’s used to make soap.’

  They moved to the next room, where stood a modern version of the stone mill and six huge containers. ‘This is the second process we use. Much slower, as we simply let the oil, mixed with water, drip down from the crushed paste. Then the liquid remains in those containers, where they’re left to separate naturally.’

  ‘The oil is lighter than water, so floats to the top.’

  ‘Exactly. When I first travelled around the world to learn how other olive oil producers worked, I came upon this process in Italy. The Italians call it affioramento, afloat. They refer to it as olio fiore, the flower of oil. It yields a much more delicate oil but takes almost twice the time and needs a lot of patience and supervision. It’s sold at a premium, of course.’

  ‘So why do you use two methods?’

  Damian smiled broadly. ‘Both require a great amount of labour, and that suits me because it provides jobs for the islanders. Some of these artisans have had their craft handed down from their fathers and grandfathers.’ He put his hands in his pockets and surveyed the room with satisfaction.

  Oriel looked up at him, her eyes smiling. ‘You have a beautiful island, and you’re clearly the king of it, Damian.’

  He gave a small, self-derisive laugh before adding: ‘With no queen to share it.’ The gently mocking note in his voice held an edge of something else; it sounded almost like pain. When he turned to look at her, his eyes stabbed hers with such scorching intensity it seared through Oriel, making her wince.

  They went upstairs and walked through the office area, a light and airy space with white painted walls and arched windows, where an accountant and various administrators worked. Oriel was ushered into Damian’s private office, where he spent most of his time when he was n
ot working on the archaeological sites, he told her. It was a simple but very large, rectangular room with six narrow windows and had a classically elegant feel to it, the colour scheme all honey brown and cream. It was totally devoid of decoration or clutter. A large oak desk and captain’s chair covered in tan leather had pride of place in the centre of the stone floor, an island of industry in this sober room. The view from the narrow windows was spectacular, too, on one side stretching over the garden to the olive grove and, on the opposite, framing the intense blue of the bay.

  In front of one of the windows stood a beautiful walnut lacquered ball-and-claw chess table with dovetailed solid hardwood drawers, flanked by a couple of upright chairs. It was an imposing piece of furniture that had already lasted for centuries and would see out many more generations, Oriel supposed.

  ‘Do you play?’ Damian asked, coming to stand beside her as she leaned forward to look at the ivory and ebony chessmen.

  ‘Unfortunately not.’ She shot him a smile. ‘I’ve never really been interested in board games.’

  ‘I would have thought you’d like chess. A game in which knights storm castles and challenge queens ought to have natural appeal for someone like you.’ He picked up a piece, turning it idly in his hand.

  ‘You make me sound rather foolish,’ Oriel protested, ‘as though I still believed in fairy tales and flying carpets.’

  ‘Don’t you?’ His keen silver gaze was on her, intent but pensive, quizzing her face.

  ‘If what you mean is that I have unrealistic principles, then you’re wrong, it’s just that life hasn’t jaded me yet.’

  ‘Yes, indeed, I think deep down, you’re a romantic, Calypso, through and through.’

  ‘Why would you say that? Because I believe in love?’ The words tumbled almost furiously from her lips and she glared at him, appalled at the depth of her yearning.

  He put the chess piece down, his eyes darkening. ‘Love?’