Secrets Under the Sun

by Nadia Marks

  ‘It is true, we have much to be grateful for,’ Katerina agreed.

  ‘I know I’ve had my share of misfortunes,’ Anita leaned forward to break off a bunch of grapes, ‘and maybe I have been unusually unlucky …’ her voice trailed off, ‘… but of all the things that have happened to me, Katerina mou, my one great sorrow is that I will never be a mother.’

  Katerina reached for her friend’s hand and both women’s eyes filled with tears. Anita held Katerina’s hand tightly and neither spoke for a long while.

  ‘I had her in my arms,’ she whispered eventually, ‘so still, so peaceful, so perfect, she was still warm … I shall never forget that tiny, tiny body against mine.’

  Moving closer, Katerina pulled Anita into her arms and held her there for the longest time. She let her cry silently and mournfully until there were no more tears to be shed. At long last all the pain and sorrow she had felt for so many months that had been buried deep down in the silent reaches of her soul, poured out little by little, rising up to the surface until all was spent.

  Then, gradually in the soft mountain air, they dried their eyes, poured coffee for themselves, kicked off their shoes, stretched out on the warm earth and looked up through the trees at the clear blue sky. They reached for each other’s hands and for a while they lay lost in their own silent thoughts.

  Katerina tried unsuccessfully to banish his face imprinted on the blackness of her closed eyes, flooding her with a bittersweet joy.

  She had arrived with the intention of staying for two or three weeks and since she had arranged for Kyria Maria to feed Oscar and water the garden she had no compelling reason to return.

  ‘Must you go?’ Anita pleaded. ‘Please stay longer, stay and go back with us, we only have a few weeks left.’ But thoughts of the priest got the better of her, she needed to be near him.

  The padre spent the entire time she was away in the church attending to duties he didn’t even have. He filled his hours with work till late into the evening and then took himself to his rooms trying to banish thoughts of Katerina. Books, and prayer late every night often kept him awake till dawn. When he reached for the Bible he repeatedly found his fingers leading him to the pages of The Song Of Solomon.

  ‘Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine.’ He read the verses compulsively. ‘A bundle of myrrh is my well-beloved unto me; he shall lie all night betwixt my breasts.’ Should he take comfort or discomfort in reading these passages? Had Katerina ever read them? She was a pious woman and they often read the Bible together but could he ever read those words to her? He could not. She was his rose and his lily of the valley, a lily among thorns, but express his love for her? He could not.

  The morning bus brought her back to Larnaka. She hardly gave herself time to drop her suitcase in the hall, unlatch the kitchen shutters and open a window to air the room, before going straight to his church to look for him. She wanted to let him know she had returned, she wasn’t in the habit of telephoning, and besides she longed to see him. It was early afternoon and the sun was beating down with a ferocity that surprised her. The few days she’d spent in the freshness of the mountains lulled her into the assumption that the summer was in decline and cooler days were ahead.

  The interior of the church was fresh and welcoming, flowers in the vases on the altar and under the statute of San Sebastiano exuded a delicate scent, but he was not there. She took a moment to get her breath back and regulate her heartbeat. She sat on a pew and breathed in the delicate fragrance of the lilies, gathering her courage before venturing into the churchyard in search of him.

  Finally she found him in his garden watering his pots of basil. He had the watering can in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He was dressed in a pair of navy-blue trousers and a white short-sleeved shirt. She’d never seen him without his priestly robes. He looked thinner and paler than when they’d last met; yet his arms looked strong and muscular. At that moment she wasn’t looking at a priest. This was a man standing before her. She stood silently watching him from a little distance, savouring the moment, a flutter of joy in her heart.

  At last, sensing her gaze, he looked up.

  ‘Katerina mou!’ he exclaimed, a startled smile brightening up his face. ‘When did you arrive home?’

  ‘Just today,’ she replied and took a few paces towards him. ‘I wanted to let you know …’

  ‘Is everything all right?’ Concern was etched on his brow. ‘Did you come back early?’

  ‘I did,’ she said and stopped, in case she said too much.

  ‘The others?’ he asked again, holding his breath in anticipation.

  ‘They are still there. For a few weeks more.’

  He exhaled, and smiled with relief.

  ‘Would you like to come in?’ He gestured towards his rooms. ‘Have a glass of water, lemonade?’ he continued, remembering his manners.

  ‘No, no, thank you,’ she said, rather flustered, ‘I must go and see to the house, I came directly here.’

  He put down the watering can, stubbed out his cigarette and walked towards her. ‘Good to see you again, Katerina, welcome back.’

  ‘Why don’t you come by this evening if you are free?’ she asked and felt herself blush with longing for him and fear of being considered too forward.

  ‘Try to keep me away,’ he replied cheerfully and picking up her hand he brought it to his lips.

  All the way home she felt light as a rose petal and the back of her hand pulsated with the memory of his lips on her skin. She made a stop at old Michalis’s grocery shop to buy fruit, haloumi, village bread and olives.

  ‘Kalosorises – welcome, Katerina!’ the grocer greeted her when she walked through the door. ‘Are the ladies back too?’ he asked, not letting her forget that everyone knew everyone’s business in this provincial community.

  ‘Not yet, Michalis,’ she said non-committally, looking around in case she forgot something and spotting some bottles of goumandaria on the shelf. She had developed quite a taste for the drink up in the mountains. Each evening after dinner they had all enjoyed a glass while sitting talking on the veranda.

  ‘Good for medicinal purposes,’ Ernestina had told them. ‘Helps with the circulation and full of vitamins.’

  ‘It’s especially good for enhancing one’s mood,’ Olga had said, laughing, as she handed them all a glass.

  Katerina couldn’t remember if there was a bottle at home so she bought one just in case. She and the padre would have a celebratory drink on the veranda later on, she thought. She was about to walk out of the shop when another thought struck her; she turned around and began scanning the shelves again.

  ‘Anything else you want, Katerina?’ Michalis enquired.

  ‘Did your wife make any glygo gydoni last year?’ she asked hopefully.

  ‘She did indeed and very tasty it is too!’ he replied, reaching into a cupboard behind him and handing her a jar of quince pieces in syrup.

  The house was as clean and tidy as she’d left it, her spring cleaning still very apparent. Nervously she prepared their modest meze. She cut and sliced the watermelon and left it in the fridge to ensure it was chilled and refreshing. She placed the jar of the quince glygo on the table ready to be served at the end of the evening with their coffee. The chunks of fruit plunged in syrup were not like the quince jelly or the quince paste they had talked about previously; this quince was not to be eaten with cheese but taken with their coffee as a dessert and she wanted to surprise him with it. She wanted to know how it compared with his own Spanish version, which he had described so eloquently to her. She arranged slices of haloumi and cucumber on a pretty platter and the bread in a colourful basket; everything was ready on a tray long before he came. She couldn’t wait to be sitting on the veranda with him once again.

  She bathed and put on her blue cotton dress with the white rose motif: a Linser print and one of Olga’s signature designs. The rose had always attracted Olga as a pattern on fabric. She
not only used the entire flower in all its colour variations, but also lone petals to create an abstract pattern. Katerina loved this short-sleeved summer dress and would only wear it on special occasions. She hung her gold chain and cross round her neck, a gift from her mistress on the first birthday she’d celebrated after coming to live with them. She washed and brushed her hair, and sprayed a little Soir de Paris from Olga’s dressing table behind her ears. Then, picking up her embroidery, she made her way to the veranda. It was good to be back. This house, this town, were her home. She loved it, she cherished it, she couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. She was glad to be back but she was also pleased she had made the journey to Troodos; not for herself – being away had made her suffer – but for Anita. She knew her presence had done her good. She loved her like a sister, far more than she loved any of her own siblings; she loved all the women deeply and would do anything for them. But she also knew that they would do the same for her, and they had already done plenty.

  She heard him walk up the front steps before she saw him. She half expected to see him dressed as he had been earlier, but in his long clerical robe he was transformed once again into the man of God that he was.

  ‘Kalispera, Katerina,’ he greeted her cheerfully and handed her a little posy made of jasmine flowers. ‘From my garden,’ he told her. ‘I have at last managed to salvage the bush.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she replied and brought the flowers to her lips. The heady aroma filled her senses and the satin feel of the petals on her lips added to the sensation. He knew how much Katerina loved these little posies, or garlands, which she gathered like most girls and women did in the summer months. Anita, Sonia and Katerina enjoyed indulging in this summertime pastime. They would pick the jasmine flowers in the early afternoon when they were still tightly closed buds. Once they had collected enough, they’d laboriously thread each bud, one at a time, using a needle and a length of cotton thread; when the thread was full they would tie the ends together in a knot to create a tiny garland. By evening the buds would burst open into their delicate white blooms and the garland could then be worn round the wrist, pinned to the hair or just held in the hand to relish the aroma emanating from it.

  ‘You made it for me?’ she asked wide-eyed as she slipped it over her hand onto her wrist, an exquisite scented floral bracelet.

  ‘I remember you told me you had to pick the flowers when they are closed buds so I did it this afternoon … did I do it right?’

  ‘Perfectly,’ she said and brought her wrist to her lips again.

  ‘It’s good to be here, Katerina,’ he said as he sat down, ‘but mostly it’s good to see you again.’

  There was no awkwardness in their behaviour this time. The relief of being together again overcame all other considerations. All the guilt and agony about their feelings seemed to melt away once they were in each other’s company. They sat on the veranda like old times, they talked and laughed, she told him about her stay in the mountains and about Anita’s recovery. They ate with enjoyment the dishes she had prepared for them and when Katerina fetched the bottle of goumandaria and two glasses he was more than happy to participate in a celebratory drink.

  ‘I always think it tastes like Holy Communion,’ she said as she poured them another glass. ‘It feels blessed …’

  She made coffee and served up the quince glygo, allowing him to savour it and comment without the knowledge of what he was tasting. She waited for his reaction. His delighted surprise at the first taste was all that Katerina had hoped for.

  ‘It brings back so many memories …’ he said, taking another bite.

  ‘Does it taste the same?’ she was curious to know.

  ‘Oh yes – perhaps a little sweeter but just as delicious.’

  The cicadas obliged with their usual serenade, and the moon, almost full, lit the veranda like a lantern, so no candle or electric light was needed that evening.

  The hour was getting late. They drank more goumandaria – more than necessary, she thought – but Olga’s words kept coming to mind about it being ‘good for enhancing one’s mood’. She felt light-headed and happy.

  ‘I’ll fetch some water,’ she said at some point and reached for the jug. He reached for it too and their hands collided; he pulled away as if he had touched a flame. Their eyes locked for a second. She sprang out of her chair and ran into the house. He followed. As she walked into the darkness of the room she stumbled and he caught her before she fell. She was weightless, no substance, no bones, he held her tight against him. She thought she was a feather, a petal, a jasmine flower floating in the air. In the darkness he searched for her mouth and found it ready, waiting. Nothing existed, no past, no future, no present, no God. Time had stopped. Was it the flesh that seized them both, or was it the mind that led to this madness? No matter. Mind and body had mingled into one. They became one. How did she know what to do? How did she know how to give herself to him so completely, so unreservedly, so absolutely? It was as if she had been born for that moment of surrender. Was it just a moment? Or was it hours, days, months, an eternity?

  The soft flesh, the dark mysterious velvet folds that engulfed him, touching his very soul, evoking a memory so dear, so deeply buried, his ecstasy flowed like the blood in his veins, giving him life.

  Dawn found them naked, limbs entwined in Katerina’s bed. She woke first. The faint light escaping through the slightly open wooden shutters betrayed the infant new day. Shadows still danced on the walls. She knew the sun must just be making its appearance over the horizon and soon its rays would be flooding the room. The room faced east and she often watched the sun rise from the sea. It was one of her pleasures to observe the amber globe appear as if by magic from the horizon, a vision that never ceased to delight her, a novelty after her early years in the mountains. Normally finding herself awake at such an early hour she would watch at the window, but now she could not leave him. She looked around the room. Their clothes were discarded on the floor and on the chair by the window. She had no memory of undressing. His robe in a pile by the bed looked incongruous, irreverent. He was fast asleep, one arm draped around her torso pinning her to the bed; the other, bent at the elbow, lay on his pillow, palm upturned, cupping his face as if in contemplation. She watched him sleep, hardly daring to breathe lest she woke him. She was sure that in that sleep of his he was fighting some kind of spiritual battle, the vertical line between his brows seeming to confirm her suspicions. She watched him, trying to guess. When he finally opened his eyes she didn’t see torment or a stormy sea in them. She saw calm waters and love.

  ‘Kalimera, Katerina,’ he said and cupped her face with his hands and kissed her lips. The relief she felt at his gesture manifested itself in silent tears. She had feared he might wake up regretful, tormented and ashamed.

  Her feelings were of intense happiness and sadness. He kissed her tears away and took her in his arms. He stroked her hair, and kissed her some more. She couldn’t remember a time she had felt more complete. She wanted to speak but found no words. She wanted to sing but found no voice.

  He held her tenderly like a precious gift. To sleep and wake up with another by his side was one more distant memory, the joy and intimacy of which he had pledged to forsake. It felt natural, it felt human and he wondered how he had ever lived without it.

  For her, the amazement of lying next to him filled her with a primitive pleasure. How many times had she slept with another human being out of necessity? How many nights had she been kept awake by a sick or fretful younger sibling? Oh, to lie in his arms to feel cherished, to feel love. She looked into his eyes again: this time in their blue depth she believed she saw the flicker of regret.

  He gave a sigh and folded his hands behind his head. For so many years his faith, his God and the Church was all the solace and comfort he’d needed. But how did any of that compare with the intensity of emotions that consumed him at that very moment? Was he now doubting the validity of his faith? Did his love for Him diminish because of h
is love for Katerina? No! The love for Him would never diminish, he was sure of that – he had known it since he was a boy. He turned to look at her, the room still bathed in the light of dawn. She lay still by his side, her face turned towards him, her eyes searching for clues.

  ‘Good morning …’ she whispered, wishing to speak yet not daring to speak his name. As if guessing her dilemma he pulled her to him again.

  ‘Call me simply Bernardino, Katerina mou,’ he said, eyes brightening with amusement. ‘That is my name after all!’

  They lay in each other’s arms until light seeping through the wooden shutters flooded the room as if the sun himself was rebuking them for their happiness.

  In the days and weeks that followed before the women returned from the mountains the lovers found ways to be together. They were watchful and careful, making sure to visit at times deemed acceptable, or if Bernardino stayed the night he would leave before dawn. They lied to themselves, and to each other, that what they were doing was acceptable. In the hours he was alone he tormented himself with the knowledge of his sinful actions but the pull of his love, his passion, was too powerful to resist.

  ‘I will leave the Church and marry you if you want me to,’ he told her as they lay in bed one night.

  ‘Your faith is everything to you, I could never ask you to do that.’

  ‘You are everything to me now; I thought I would only ever love one woman and my God.’ He pulled her close and kissed her eyes.

  ‘I thought I would never know love at all,’ she replied.

  ‘I love you as a man, Katerina, with my soul and my body. I love Him as a priest, as his servant. The two loves are so different, yet so powerful.’