These feelings were a strange torment. Like his heart had been caught on a barbed hook and was getting tugged by a reel. Maybe it was an intuition. The boy had been blessed, a good luck charm. How else had he survived a shipwreck as he had said? He might bring some of that good luck to Christos.
Or maybe it was the tempting belief Christos’s prayers had been answered. How many times had he lain down to sleep, hoping he might wake the next day to some sign his life had purpose, some possibility of happiness? He had never been a devout man, only allowing Petrina to drag him to church four or five times in their forty-year marriage. Though lord knew, he had been through trials that were owed some form of redemption. Orphaned by the death of his parents, so young he couldn’t put to mind a picture of either of them. Cheated out of his inheritance by the scheming aunt who had taken him in. Never knowing the pride of raising a son. Exploited by the cruel boss of the fishing company where he had worked for fifty years. His one joy in life, Petrina, taken from him.
Accidents happened for a reason. This, Christos had always held to, from losing Petrina—a punishment for not being the good husband she deserved—to his treacherous aunt’s taverna burning down to cinders in an electrical fire—her comeuppance. And that meant good accidents happened for a reason too.
The boy could make for a companion in Christos’s gray years. He seemed a bit dainty and dim-witted, but maybe he could be taught to fish, like a son. Christos wasn’t long for the world, and a man needed to have something to leave behind, didn’t he? He hadn’t much, but the idea of his home and pension being turned over to the government was pitiable. He would rest much better knowing he had left his little bit of wealth and his modest trade to someone who could prosper from them.
It would make for a scandal around town—the handsome lad living with curmudgeonly, old Christos. He could say his guest was a relation, a nephew’s son. Otherwise, it would set people’s minds to wonder if Christos was keeping the boy for deviant relations, like the old, fancy vineyard owner, Theodorus Michelakakis, who was known to take a grope and a slurp of his young grape pickers from time to time. Christos hadn’t thought about that sort of recreation with anyone, woman or man, for quite some time. But glancing at the young man, who had introduced himself as Callisthenes, “vigor and beauty personified,” certainly brought back familiar aches and curiosities. He was grubby and drowning in his oversized trousers. Imagine what he would look like fresh from a bath! They could be discreet about their private business. Christos had never cared for the kind of men who poofed around, flaunting their bedroom preferences, and he knew that sort of thing was a sin in the eyes of God. But God had to grant an old man some dispensation, didn’t he? Hadn’t he earned a little taste of sin after seventy years of hardship and toil?
Christos shook free from those dirty thoughts and wound up the last of the boat lines. What he needed to do was cobble together some way to delay the boy until he could figure out how to present him with his proposal. He had asked repeatedly about radioing the authorities to report his rescue. Christos had pretended he didn’t understand what he was saying, but now that they were on land, the boy would be nipping at him to use a phone or to go into town to talk to the police.
He stepped off the boat, turned to Callisthenes, stretched his hand, and helped him climb up onto the jetty.
“Thank you,” Callisthenes said. He looked around at the house and its grounds with wonder, like he had never seen a spiti built up on a coastal ledge, one of many thousands across the Aegean. “Wow. Your house is…a catapult.”
Christos chuckled. He meant katapliktikos: amazing, not katapeltis: catapult. He thanked him for the compliment and shrugged his shoulder toward the house. “We go in. I make you coffee. Somewhat to eat.”
“Oh, I do not wish to prosecute you. Throwing me from the sea satisfies me tender. I will only abuse your telephone to telephone my family. If such abuse is pleasing to you.”
Christos sorted through the gibberish. He nodded his head and started toward the house. The boy followed. It was time to cobble. Christos tried to piece together some kind of story.
They climbed the steep steps to the house’s terrace, and he held the back door open for his companion. They went through the larder, which led into the kitchen. A single old man didn’t stir up much of a mess, but the girl who did his cleaning hadn’t been by since last Thursday. Christos frowned at the cups and plates stacked in the sink. His guest took it all in as though he had entered a palace—Christos’s ancient, humble abode with its peeling paint and warped wooden doors and shutters. Such a kind and generous creature. His poor, chapped lips. He had been exposed at sea for how long had he said?
Christos remembered the phone, which was in stark view, mounted on the far wall of the kitchen. He tramped over to it quickly and picked up the receiver. Holding the receiver close to his ear, he tapped repeatedly at the phone’s clapper and put on a woeful grimace.
“No ring,” he said. “This happens sometimes. The lines in Samos, they are very bad. Could be a strong wind and everything goes out.” He replaced the phone. “This will only be for small time. I am sure of it.”
The boy’s face deflated. It hurt Christos’s heart. He shuffled over to his coffee kettle. “I make you hot drink. And scones. I have very good scones.”
“That is nice to you. But I truly do not wish to plunge your hospital. How do you say you transfer me to the most near village, at such a place I make my own telephone? You cannot imagine how sickening my family is.”
Christos twitched. His Greek was terrible, but he could put together the gist of it. He needed to bide some time. “We go to town, yes,” he said. “First, let me make you comfortable. You take bath. I bring you dry clothes. This will be much better for you, no?”
His heart hovered, waiting for the response. A grin lit up on the Cherubim’s face.
“I conjecture I am incontinent to argue with that. Wow. A hot bath will be a tiny loaf of heaven.”
Christos exhaled in relief. The boy wrestled his short-sleeved shirt over his head and smiled at him like a Hollywood movie star. A half-clothed, fully grown Cherubim standing in his tiny loaf of a kitchen. With a piercing through his nipple. Christos’s blood pressure fluttered, and he reached out his hand to steady himself on the kitchen counter.
CAL SANK INTO the steaming bathtub. It made him feel like a little kid again, and he couldn’t help sliding down and dunking his head completely underwater to blow up bubbles. The day was really turning out well. Just hours ago, he’d thought he was going to be shark fodder, and now he had a bath and a kind old man making him coffee and scones and then they would be going into town to call his parents to let them know he was safe and sound. What a sweetheart the old fisherman was! Cal couldn’t imagine anyone in New York City treating a stranger so nicely. Not even people in Syracuse. That was the difference between Europeans and Americans. Europeans saw everyone as a potential friend, and Americans saw everyone as a potential enemy. Cal had to credit his command of Greek. That had to have helped some.
He found a cake of soap alongside the tub and lathered up his face, his arms, his legs, his feet, his torso, and all the nooks and crannies. Then he doused and splashed himself and used his hands like squeegees to wash the soap off.
He grabbed a bottle of Greek shampoo and got to work on washing his hair. The excitement of finally being able to speak to his parents made him want to rush through things a bit. After all, they’d been waiting to hear from him for three days. Did he ever have stories to tell everyone! He would see Brendan again. God, he longed for that. Cal was sure of it now—after everything that had happened, his fight with Brendan would be like a tiny blip in the past. He clopped his hands on the water in a tam-tam flourish. Everything would go back to normal. Everything would go back to perfect. He and Brendan were getting married!
“Callisthenes? Are you all right in there?”
It was the fisherman’s voice at the other side of the door. Cal laughed. “Yes. T
hank you. It’s just me. Sorry about that. I’m a sloppy bather.”
A moment’s silence.
“I go out to get the rods and tackle from the boat.”
“Okay.”
He heard the man’s footsteps creak away from the door. Cal ducked under the water to rinse his hair. Then he pulled out the stopper, grabbed a towel, and stepped out of the tub to sop up the water he’d splashed onto the floor. What a spaz he was, making such a mess. Cal made sure he cleaned up every drop of water from the nice man’s bathroom.
He toweled off and stepped into the clothes the fisherman had given him. Briefs that actually fit. Faded dungarees that were fine around his waist, but they ended a good two inches short of his ankles. A blue-and-white striped, long-sleeved, button-down shirt that similarly rode up his arms a bit. Cal giggled. He’d been doomed to dress up like a clown ever since he’d left Hydra.
He had no right to complain. The clothes smelled fresh from the laundry, and he was sparkling clean. The fisherman had even given him a comfy pair of sheepskin slippers. Cal went to the sink, found a tube of toothpaste, squirted a generous gob onto his finger and used it to brush his teeth. An actual toothbrush would have been heavenly, but he couldn’t trouble the fisherman for that. He‘d passed by a single bedroom in the cottage and gathered the man lived alone. Maybe he was a widower, and his grown children had long since left town. That would explain why he was so happy to have a guest. Cal cranked on the faucet, cupped water into his mouth and took a long gargle. After spitting it out, he cleaned up the sink so it was just as tidy as when he’d stepped into the bathroom.
Looking in the cabinet mirror above the sink, Cal picked through his damp mop of hair to see if anything could be done to make himself more presentable. His gaze wandered to the golden, red-flecked beard sprouting from his cheeks and chin. Cal hadn’t gone three days without a shave since college. He looked like he should be on that gay dating site, Scruff. He was a bear cub! Or was it an otter? Cal grinned. He didn’t mind the look. Maybe he’d give facial hair a try. He folded up his towel neatly on the rack and ventured out into the house.
It was a cozy, rustic cabin, like something right out of a travel guide for Greece. The kitchen was just down the hall, and he could smell the rich aroma of fresh-brewed coffee. He padded over to the room in his slippers. The dishes that had been in the sink were washed and dried and lined up on a rack on the counter. Such a courteous old man, cleaning up the room on his account. He must have still been down by his boat. Did he need a hand? Before Cal went to do that, his glance passed over the telephone on the wall. Maybe it was a little presumptuous, but he was dying to see if service had come back.
Cal picked up the receiver. The funny, two-ring European dial tone hummed in his ear. What luck! The phone was back in order. Now, how to make a call? Before their trip, he and Brendan had set up international service on their cell phones, but the instructions for making calls in Greece were fuzzy in Cal’s head. There was a number to punch in for an outgoing call and then a code to enter before dialing Brendan’s cell phone number. Cal tried a combination of numbers. He got a canned message in a Greek woman’s voice. He tried a second combination. The same mildly scolding voice came back to him.
Footsteps traveled up the stairs, and the door pushed open before Cal could react.
The fisherman, with his arms full with a rod and tackle case, froze up at the sight of him. Cal felt like a jerk for using the man’s phone without asking. He replaced the receiver. “The line came back. Like you said it would.” Caught in the man’s fearful stare, Cal felt like he’d done something terrible.
The fisherman propped his rod against the wall and dropped his tackle case on the kitchen table. Some of its paraphernalia tumbled out of its lid. He rushed at Cal. “No, no, no.” He flushed Cal away from the phone, badgering him in English. “I tell you— We go to town. I make you nice coffee. Give you something to eat.” He pulled Cal by the elbow toward the table.
A wave of vertigo hit Cal. Had the fisherman lied about the phone? Why would he do that? Only if he never intended to help Cal get back to Hydra.
“You sit,” the man told him, gesturing to a chair. “I bring you coffee, and we make breakfast.”
Cal didn’t budge. The old man wiped his face. He was shifty, troubled. Icy tentacles spread through Cal’s body.
“Did you lie to me about the phone?” he asked.
“No, no, no. This is not supposed to be like this.” The fisherman glanced at Cal piteously, a man caught red-handed, desperate for forgiveness. How desperate was he? Cal noticed a short, serrated fishing knife had dropped out of the tackle box. It was in arm’s reach from either of them.
“I save you,” the man said. “I bring you to my home. Make you a bath. Give you clothes to wear.”
“I need to call my family,” Cal said. “I was kidnapped. I need to get back to Hydra.”
The man’s eyes trembled. “Why can you not stay here with me? Just a little while. I make you nice home. I treat you well.”
Cal felt like he had plunged back into a nightmare. Though the man was small and unintimidating, Cal was suddenly terrified of him. What schemes had been brewing in his head? He’d been trying to gain Cal’s trust. Would he drug him and tie him up like the Romanian brutes?
Cal sprang down the hall, farther into the house. The fisherman called after him. He had to find a way out. The man could come after him with his knife. Cal stumbled into a living space. Dead, lacquered fish were mounted on one wall. He spotted a door. Cal ran to it and threw it open. He fled down a cobbled walkway, past a driveway and out to a single-lane country highway.
HE WAS ON the bluffs of a strange island. A highway wound along the coast, and the inland was a desolate expanse of grassy brush. Cal had seen a mini-truck in the driveway of the fisherman’s house. The demented man could come after him in that vehicle. Cal looked up and down the road. Wagering a guess, Cal took off in the direction where the highway sloped downward, hopefully leading to a seaside village where he could find a phone and people to protect him from the fisherman.
Staggering down the middle of the declining highway in his undersized, sheepskin slippers, Cal tripped and caught his fall with his hands, scraping them bloody on the asphalt. Up the hill behind him, a car engine coughed and revved. The fisherman had gotten into his truck. Cal righted himself, shook off the pain in his hands, and looked around for somewhere to hide.
He saw no cover anywhere. His only option was to duck down the steep escarpment along the road. If he slipped, he would tumble down the cliff and be crippled on the rocky shore.
He grabbed the slippers off his feet, threw them over the side of the highway, and climbed over the railing. It was a near vertical drop, forty, maybe fifty feet above the shore. Cal sorted out hand and footholds, climbing down the rocky ledge where he would be unseen from the road. Ocean surf echoed below him. He didn’t dare look down. Cal had never been crazy about heights, and his present debacle had him hanging from a cliff. He heard the fisherman’s truck rumble down the road at a slow, deliberate pace. Cal stifled a whimper. The deranged old man would look for him high and low. The world had gone batshit crazy. Was he safe anywhere?
Cal stayed put until he couldn’t hear the truck, and then he climbed back up to the road. He hobbled up the hill on his bare feet, praying the fisherman wouldn’t come back in his direction.
Past the cabin, he saw nothing but barren countryside. Cal broke into a run. What was he to do? Hope to find a house along the road and try his luck with another stranger? What if that person tried to bring him back to the fisherman? Cal was wearing the man’s clothes. He had no money and no identification. People might think he was a criminal. They might try to trick him like the fisherman had. In the terror state of Cal’s imagination, he wondered if he had landed on an island of maniacs, disguised as kind old men, who lured strangers to their homes and mounted them on their walls like fishing trophies.
He shuffled along to a bend in the h
ighway, after which the road descended to a cove with a minor harbor. A big gray navy vessel was anchored there, and men in military uniforms milled around the pier. They weren’t Greek or American. Cal saw a flag on the bow of the ship—red, black, white and green—nothing he recognized. Who knew what the foreigners would make of him?
A car droned through the countryside behind him. Cal picked up his pace to reach the harbor. He would take his chances blending in. It was the only place to hide from the fisherman. He kept to the shoulder of the road, searching the seaport ahead for cover. Storehouses and market stalls faced the pier. Could he risk asking someone for help? Cal decided against it. He didn’t trust anyone besides a policeman or, if he should be so lucky, an official from the American embassy. The hum of the fisherman’s truck gained on him. This was a situation where it would help if he could make himself invisible, like an X-Men superhero, or if some god from Mount Olympus took pity on him and turned him into a juniper tree, just temporarily.
Cal rushed down to the pier, locked his gaze on a wooden platform loaded with crates, and snuck into a tight space within the cargo. He heard the fisherman’s truck roll by and caught a glimpse of the vehicle. He sank down in his hiding spot. A few yards away, the truck stopped, the door opened, and the man climbed out. Jesus, this was a nightmare. Was the man going to search through the seaport for him?
He heard the bleep of an industrial vehicle, and then his platform lifted in the air. Cal put it all together too late. A forklift truck was carrying him down the pier to be loaded in the navy ship. Cal couldn’t poke out from the crates and jump down to the ground. The fisherman might see him. Not far away, the guy was toddling around, questioning passersby for information. Then, as the truck carted him farther down the pier, he was faced with the dilemma of leaping down amid foreign seamen, announcing his folly and creating a commotion that would draw the fisherman’s attention. Cal made himself small and buried his face in his hands, debrained again by the new predicament he’d created for himself. He was stowing away in a military vessel headed to who knew where?
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