Sea of Many Returns

by Arnold Zable

  ‘He once said, “These winds were strangers when I arrived. I am still getting to know them. Unlike our Ionian winds, they do not have personal names. They are known by the points of the compass, as westerlies and northerlies, and so on. A wind without a name cannot be trusted. It takes a long time to befriend.”’

  Panos journeyed back to Ithaca to nurse his sick father. When his father died six months later, he made plans to return. ‘I would wake up with great intentions but whenever I set out, I lost my resolve,’ he tells me. ‘The island slowed me down and robbed me of ambition. Ithaca is an island of lotus-eaters,’ he laughs, and glances up at the mountains. On his face I register an air of bemusement. Life has passed me by, it seems to imply, and has left me stranded.

  ‘I was a shepherd when I was young,’ Panos remarks, as if reminded by the mountains. ‘I spent my days following my flock in search of pasture.’ He lowers his voice further as if his love of nature would cast him in a negative light. ‘I love the scent of mountain herbs, and the first blossoms of the almond tree. I collected volvous, a purple flower delicious to eat, and warmed myself by the fire while they boiled. I slept in shepherds’ huts at night, content with my own company.’

  He had spent the war years up there, he says, and nods at the heights. When the Germans came in search of partisans, they took to the mountains. The soldiers stayed in the village and threatened the children and the elderly. ‘Even up there,’ says Panos, pointing upwards, ‘there was no way out. I herded my sheep to the most remote pastures. The island was being eaten bare. Shepherds fought over the diminishing feed. German planes flew low overhead, and the flocks panicked and scattered.’

  Andreas materialises from the distance in his perennial grey flannel suit. Stick in hand, he moves with brisk steps in a crab-like crouch. He pauses in coffee shops to talk with friends. A van crammed with carpets comes to a halt in the square. A gypsy steps out, rubs his eyes, and looks about. ‘Where am I?’ he asks.

  Dionyssios the priest hurries from the church, and stops to converse with all who come his way. When he is finally done, he enters the kafeneion and orders brandies for the men playing cards and drinks with them. He approaches my table, grips my right hands in his massive palms, and shakes it vigorously. His breath smells of spirits. The morning is drifting towards siesta. Shops are closing, cafes emptying.

  The priest invites me home for lunch. Evriklia, his wife, is in mourning, he tells me, as we approach. A black ribbon is tied to the front door. Her sister had died, days ago, in Zimbabwe. The shutters are closed, the rooms dark. Dressed in widow’s black, her face veiled, Evriklia sits in the gloom. ‘It is hot,’ she says. ‘Very hot.’ She lifts herself out of the chair, switches on the fan, and serves lunch.

  She has one memory of her father, she tells me, as vivid today as it was five decades ago. He is stepping out of a shop in Stavros with a box of chocolates. She sits on his knees while she eats them. Then he is gone, vanished from the face of the earth.

  The Second World War breaks out. He sends packages of food and clothing, and for the first time in her life, she eats pineapple jam. The Italians occupy the island. ‘They thought only about food,’ chuckles Evriklia, ‘and when their stomachs were full, they took out their mandolins and sang songs about their mothers.’

  Her veil is slipping, dislodged by her laughter, but her tone changes when she resumes her tale. ‘The Germans were different. They wiped the smiles from our faces. They appeared suddenly as if rising from the underworld. Boats pulled up on our shores and disgorged hundreds of soldiers. I heard the tramp of their boots advancing closer.

  ‘They came looking for the guerrillas. Women, children, and the elderly were herded against a wall. For many hours we stood there, with a mounted machine gun aimed at us. The soldiers fanned out into the mountains. Motorcycles sped in and out of the square. The schoolmaster pleaded with the commandant to spare our lives.’

  As she talks Evriklia moves about the kitchen. She makes coffee, and settles back at the living room table. ‘The storm passed and we were released from our terror,’ she says. ‘We returned to our gardens and grew tomatoes, potatoes, cauliflower and onions, garlic and lentils, white beans, green beans, grains and almonds. But it was not enough. The Italian soldiers grabbed more than their fill. I loaded a donkey with grain and set out for your uncle’s mill on the Marmakas. I have known your uncle Andreas since I was a child,’ she says. ‘Mother did not want to send my older sister because she was too attractive and tempting for the soldiers.

  ‘The mill appeared by the crest of the mountain. Its white sails were dormant. When I arrived the wind had not yet risen. Andreas said, “Do not worry my child. I will take your grain and give you some flour I have already ground.”

  ‘I saw Andreas recently and asked him, “Why do you think mother sent me, and not my sister? She was far more beautiful, wasn’t she?” “I don’t think so. You were beautiful too,” he replied.

  ‘Now it pains me to see how frail he looks. He was a handsome man, and I am becoming old. Life is a miracle, but I don’t understand it. God has given us so much beauty. He throws it all down, but then, takes it away. When I was young, I never thought about such things. I climbed the mountains as if walking on level ground. I ran as swift as a deer and swam with the abandon of dolphins. Now it is all behind me. Why did my sister die? Why do we grow old? Why does God do such things?’

  Evriklia’s veil slips and uncovers a face lined with mourning, but her eyes burn with youth. ‘I knew my father by his letters,’ she says. ‘The letters swirled from alpha to omega and assumed many guises. Sometimes they were stern and admonishing, and at others, warm and close. “With this money I am sending you, buy a new dress, a thick coat,” he wrote. We were raised under the wing of our mother. She worked day and night, and we loved the days and nights, even though he was not here.

  ‘One day there arrived a wonderful letter. It was twelve years since he had left the island. The war was over. I was about to get married. In Brisbane, father was going to cafes and clubs, wherever Ithacans gathered. “I am going home to give away my daughter,” he announced, and ordered drinks for his compatriots. Days before he was to depart, he sat with friends, closed his eyes, and his heart gave out.’

  Evriklia adjusts the veil and fastens it back in place. ‘I do not understand why God does this,’ she says. ‘I do not understand why he creates so much beauty, but mixes it with terror. I do not know why he gives so much, only to snatch it away.’

  ‘What did you see today, my child?’ Andreas asks.

  ‘Octopus and the priest’s wife,’ I hear myself say.

  We sit on the balcony, and gaze at the mountain as we talk; it is becoming a companion, a familiar presence.

  ‘Evriklia often came to the mill,’ my uncle responds, pointing up to where it still stands, sail-less and abandoned. ‘Whenever I saw someone coming,’ he adds, ‘I would warn Paolo, a deserter from the Italian army. He begged me to hide him. He said he could not push around people who reminded him of his own. I hid him in the mill by day and the katoi at night.’

  Andreas lights the first cigarette. There is little need for questions. I would gladly listen to him for hours, here, on the balcony, his staccato voice softened by the sky and its constellations.

  ‘We allowed Paolo into the house when the village slept,’ Andreas continues. ‘We played cards and drank wine late into the night. Stratis sat with us. He came to regard Paolo as a son. I still have the cards in a drawer of the dresser. They are black with the stains of our fingers. Paolo did not stop talking about his fiancée. He was insane with longing. He saw the sea that surrounds the island as a hangman’s noose.

  ‘The Italian soldiers ate everything,’ Andreas laughs. ‘Cats, turtles, snakes, old mules: anything they could lay their hands on. When they were done, they returned to their garrison above Afales. They allowed us to take out our boats a certain distance, as long as we supplied them with a good proportion of our catch. In turn they ha
nded out rations of rancid corn meal. They would often come up to the mill and ask for food.

  ‘“We’ll trade our pope for flour,” they once joked.

  ‘“You can keep your miserable pope,” I told them.

  ‘The regiment’s captain wore a crucifix around his neck and crossed himself as he spoke. I told him that Jesus was a socialist. He replied that these were an apostate’s words. I said if he wanted to meet me in the next life and ask for food, he would have to detour to hell.

  ‘After the Italians satisfied their stomachs, they would eye off the village girls. It softened the boredom of their days. Our Delilahs robbed them of their strength and in return they received coffee, tea and sugar. It is an old story my Xanthe.’

  Andreas’ voice drifts into the night, and my thoughts drift back to the veranda in Carrum, the rare evenings that it was alive with Ithacan compatriots; and to the snatches of tales that Manoli could not tell me. Of what was taking place in the years of his absence. I am beginning to understand my father’s agony, and the agony of all who are cut off from their homelands in times of war and famine: their sense of impotence and disloyalty.

  ‘The mill saved us from hunger,’ I hear Andreas say. ‘It had been idle for some time. Fortunately there were older villagers who knew how to get it started. When the wind blew I worked the mill day and night. When the wind is with you a miller must stay at his post.

  ‘On calm nights we stole out in three-metre barques. We avoided the patrols of enemy gunboats, and sailed to neighbouring islands in search of supplies. We crawled over the hills and gathered mushrooms and figs. When food became scarce we sailed to the mainland. We kept a close lookout for mines. A fisherman in Frikes collected them to blow up fish. One night he miscalculated and blew himself up.’

  ‘We transported our oil in goatskin flasks,’ Andreas says, after pausing to draw on his cigarette. ‘The skins were noiseless compared to tin containers. We moved slowly through the night to Zaverda and other mainland hamlets, where we bartered oil and soap for wheat. One kilo of our oil could be exchanged for up to six kilos of wheat. Villagers were waiting when we returned. They tied sacks of grain to their donkeys and disappeared into the dark.

  ‘One night, one of the barques was intercepted. It was searched and found to contain potatoes and tobacco. The commander of the patrol boat, an Italian, looked at the smuggler and said, “You are a black marketeer and I am a bastard. So give me half the tobacco and we’ll be square.”

  ‘I sometimes smuggled partisans from island to island. We kept our boats hidden, and slipped into the water after dark. I once ferried the guerrilla leader, Captain Fortunas, the Tidal Wave, so called because he was a powerful force against the occupiers. He was a determined man with a strong presence. He hid in the mill overnight and stayed in the house. He moved about the mainland and Ionian Islands at will.

  ‘There were Ithacans who were inspired to join him. They moved to Lefkada and Patras, and camped in mountain hideouts on the mainland from which they descended to ambush German convoys. Some fought in Kefallonia, within sight of their childhood villages. The mountains were their protectors. They attacked the enemy, stole their weapons, and retreated to their lairs. They also fought gangs of brigands who raided the villages.

  ‘Ithaca was saved by its size. Our island is small and not suited to partisans. The enemy was concentrated in Kefallonia. Terrible atrocities were committed there my child. The Germans came here from Kefallonia in search of resistance members. Stratis hid in an orchard. An apple fell and hit him on the head, and he was certain he had been shot. He did not know if he was in this world or the next,’ Andreas chuckles.

  ‘When the coast was clear Paolo sat beside me inside the mill,’ he says, retrieving the key thread of his tale. ‘The tiny window by the grinding stone was our lookout. He was a socialist and ridiculed Mussolini, the Macaroni King. He once said, “Signor Andreas, your home has become my home, and after the war, my home will be yours.” He told me he had a brother serving in Albania, a second in Tobruk. The third brother was a prisoner in Germany. He was crying as he talked.’

  Andreas is still for several minutes, his face obscured by the dark; but his silence conveys a deep sense of regret. ‘As soon as the war was over, Paolo left,’ he says. ‘He could not wait a single day. He sailed for Patras in search of a boat to Italy. He promised he would write to me when he arrived home, but I did not hear from him.

  ‘One evening, not so long ago, in a cafe in Patras, I struck up a conversation with some Italian seamen. Among them was a sailor who came from the same town as Paolo. He told me that Paolo had never made it back. While sailing to Italy the ship hit a mine. He did not live to see his sweetheart. I had lost a second brother. Neither lived to see his homeland, and Manoli was not here when the dark times descended. I almost forgot he existed. We had enough to deal with.’

  Andreas falls silent. The outside world is receding. Darkness inflates the distance between Ithaca and the neighbouring islands; and in the katoi Ourania has resumed her seat at the loom. All that exists is a balcony adrift in space. And beneath us, a relentless beat, back and forth.

  The sea ripples with the crimson skin of dawn. Andonis veers from the cliff, and comes to a halt by the groves. He unloads drums of petrol and leaves me to tend the fires. I pour the fuel into smaller tins, and return to the pruned olive branches. I light the kindling, pour petrol on the flames, and circle the blaze to evade gusts of smoke and embers.

  I run to a well nearby, draw water, and douse the windward flames, herding the blaze from the groves. When one pyre is reduced to cinders I light another. Patches of slope are fissured and blackened. It is the time of the burning, and there are fires scattered throughout the mountains. And when mine die down, I walk. I am coming to know the skin of the island, the movement between wind and flame, earth and water. And wherever I walk, doors open, tales unfold.

  ‘Come in. Have a brandy. A person who does not take time to sit with friends falls prey to the devil.’ He is known as the Professor and his secluded house overlooks Polis Bay. ‘Nature is my stage,’ he says, ushering me to the terrace. ‘Earth, wind and sea are the lead actors, and the windows and balconies are seats in an amphitheatre with a ringside view of the drama.’

  ‘The drama changes every day,’ I say.

  ‘Every ten minutes,’ he replies. ‘I have been up since six o’clock,’ the Professor continues. ‘To live here alone is wonderful, as long as you are a friend of your own thoughts. Like all who are well into middle age, I have made many bad decisions. But one decision I do not regret: returning to live on Ithaca. That has cancelled out all my bad decisions.’

  He fills his pipe, tamps down the tobacco, and refills our glasses. The sky is streaked with slivers of nimbus, the sea with swathes of turquoise. ‘I was born in a village that no longer exists,’ he says, jabbing his finger towards a clump of cypress on the mountain opposite. ‘The earthquake of 1953 claimed it. I was on Ithaca at the time, on leave from my university studies in Athens.’

  We lean on the balustrade, drinks in hand, and take in the vista. ‘Sea and sky have exchanged costumes!’ he exclaims. ‘You see! Every ten minutes, something is added, something subtracted. Nature is a world of chaos seeking an equilibrium that can never last. There are times when the earth rages and entire settlements are felled. And perhaps that is how it should be. Otherwise our lives would be boring, and boredom is a subtle version of hell.’

  He relights his pipe, performing the task with unhurried movements. ‘There were three quakes in all that year,’ the Professor says. ‘The first, on August 9, a Sunday, at ten in the morning, shook Ithaca. I was swimming in Polis Bay. Birds ceased singing. The dogs that barked through the night were silent. The air was still, the water placid. As I swam, I saw dust rising over the village. Rocks were hurtling down the mountain. The water was churning. I saw houses leaning over like lovers about to touch each other. “Run to the sea,” people were screaming. “The hand of fate is dest
roying our island.”

  ‘The second quake, on the Tuesday morning, destroyed many towns and villages on Kefallonia, and the third, the following morning, destroyed the town of Zakynthos. The entire township was burning. Corpses lay in the charred ruins. The streets were bent like cardboard. The opera house was in ashes. The earth trembled for twelve days; there were seven hundred and fifty aftershocks. Headlines at the time claimed that Ithaca, Zakynthos and Kefallonia were no more. They had fallen into the Ionian.’

  ‘Yet the quakes had unexpected benefits,’ the Professor observes. ‘For a time, brother stopped hunting brother, tracking down communists as if they were vermin, forcing them to sign declarations renouncing their beliefs. For a time we were united against a common foe, but after years of war and famine, the quake was the final blow. We no longer trusted the earth beneath us. Many Ithacans who had held out finally succumbed, and left.’

  The Professor steps inside and returns to top up our glasses. The vista of sea, mountain and sky, are spinning me towards elation. ‘I resumed my science course in Athens,’ the professor says, drawing me out of my reverie. ‘On graduation I worked in universities far removed from my native land. I relinquished my ticket to the amphitheatre and spent years backstage.

  ‘One day, I looked into the mirror and saw my pallid reflection. I surveyed the small room that was my office, stepped out and ran my eyes along the corridor that housed the identical rooms of my colleagues. I had spent the prime years of my life in a prison.

  ‘I handed in my resignation and packed my belongings. When I stepped off the ferry in Vathy, I felt weightless. I acquired this property, camped in a tent and directed the builders. You have to keep an eye on them, otherwise the job will never be completed. Now I live out my years in an amphitheatre, and each day heralds the premiere of yet another drama.’

  It is night when I leave the Professor’s house. The air is scented with the lingering smell of the burnings. The seas are studded with the lights of ferries making their way on mysterious journeys. At this moment Ithaca is an eternity, a limestone rock rising from the Ionian, bearing witness to an endless drama of returns and departures. And I am elated.