The Honey Is Bitter

by Violet Winspear

  She rose quickly to her feet. "I must go and comb my hair and put on some lipstick," she said, and she turned away from the table and went into her room, where the Venetian blinds cast tiger stripes as she ran a comb through her glossy hair and avoided her own eyes in the toilet-table mirror. Her hand shook as she applied lipstick and she had to wipe away a smear with a tissue and fill in anew with rose colour the shapely curves of her mouth.

  Domini stared at her own mouth, with its sensitive upper lip and generous lower one. She felt it crushed, silenced and possessed beneath his mouth that had said, coldly: "Keep your love. Have I ever asked for it?"

  Her face coolly composed, she stepped into a pair of walking sandals and latched them, then she took up her handbag, her sun-specs and a headsquare, and flicked a final glance over her reflection. She was slender and outwardly poised to her fingertips in tapering blue slacks and a cream overblouse. She wore no ornamenta­tion but her rings, the plain gold band and the sap­phire that was as blue as her eyes.

  Domini Stephanos, she thought, and gave a little shiver at the strangeness of the name. The Domini Dane of only a few days ago was gone for ever, leaving only the shape and the face that had moved a man to ruthless lengths in order to gain possession of them. She swung away from the mirror, fingers curled round the strap of her shoulder-bag as she joined her husband for their sightseeing tour of the Plaka and the Acropolis.

  The streets of the Plaka were shelving and narrow, filled with open-fronted, bazaar-like shops, Byzantine faces, and houses with jutting wooden balconies and small secretive patios.

  She felt the guiding warmth of Paul's fingers at her elbow as he pointed out the garlic and peppers festooning a grocer's doorway, the strings of plimsolls, outside a shoeshop, the panniers and baskets of weird and wonderful fruits. There was a sponge-seller carrying a motley of sponges like vari-coloured balloons, and a melon boy trundling a cart loaded with the blue-green kaboussia. Paul bought slices of watermelon and after Domini had eaten her portion all her lipstick was gone with the juice and she looked like a teenager on holiday as she gazed round at the many people crowding this muddle of pungent, noisy, colourful streets.

  "It's like Petticoat Lane," she laughed over her shoulder at Paul. "That sponge-seller will float away if the wind catches him."

  "You are having fun?" He smiled and drew a little closer to her.

  She nodded, for the Plaka held a gay and earthy magic that there was no withstanding, and now Paul caught at her melon-sticky fingers and held them as they mounted the uneven steps and passed tavernas where dignified old men sat over their wine and their Turkish coffee and bit out the Greek words that made them sound as though they were arguing.

  Greek matriarchs passed by with their slim daughters, and many of the young men were handsome and sporting black moustaches. Quite a few of them wore green-khaki uniforms; military service was compulsory, Paul told her, and when she glanced up at him she saw a shadow move across his face. It seemed to leave his scar etched sharp for a moment, then he glanced sideways into a shop and she couldn't see his eyes. His sunglasses were folded in the breast pocket of his shirt, for they were not necessary here where the fierce sun was shut out by the crowding roofs of houses and shops.

  He paused outside the dim little shop, where there a pile of embroidered slippers, handwoven straw handbags, and long strings of Greek 'worry' beads above trays of brooches and earrings. "Let me buy you a memento of our visit to the Plaka," Paul said, and he bent over the trinket trays. A man wearing a turban came out from the interior of the shop and stood watching as Paul selected a pair of lapis lazuli eardrops, heart-shaped and irresistibly pretty. He asked the Turk how much they were and after paying for them, he drew Domini into a nearby doorway and, looking earnest, he attached the tiny blue hearts to the lobes of her ears.

  She gave her head a shake so she could feel them, “They're cute, Paul. They make me feel like your harem slave," she added.

  But Paul didn't smile in return, he suddenly gripped her around the waist and tipped back her chin with his free hand. His mouth looked as hard as his arm felt, and his eyes blazed down into hers, tiger-gold. "Is that how you feel," he spoke in a low, savage voice, "like a harem slave whose favours are being bought with trinkets?"

  She gazed up at him helplessly. "I never meant any­thing—I was joking," she faltered.

  "The subconscious often speaks for us in words we think we don't mean," he said curtly. Then he let her go and in silence they continued their walk to the Acropolis. Domini felt tearful. His harem slave! The words had slipped out, destroying his moment of plea­sure in giving her a small gift.

  Still feeling rather small in her heart,, Domini stood between the towering columns of the gateway of the Greek gods, looking up and up, taking in the rugged grace and grandeur of the columns that were like fingers pointing towards heaven.

  Here on these giant steps a splendid scene was laid out, taking her breath, while a vagrant breeze teased her blouse and the wings of her hair.

  "Come," Paul said, and he showed her the Portico of Maidens, where tourists aimed their cameras and touched the carving of tunics that seemed almost to move against the stone limbs of the Grecian maidens. Paul then showed her the ancient olive tree that still grew here—symbol of hope, he said, and her gaze was drawn to him as he stood on the great steps. The sun meshed him in gold, and there on his face was that look again, as though a savage memory was gripping him as he gazed down over the ancient capital of Greece.

  He had his small Leica with him, and he took pictures of her seated on the ledge of the Parthenon, leaning against a truncated column, turning in profile to follow the winged quiver of a cicada. "Kara will expect us to bring home plenty of honeymoon pictures," he said, a caustic edge to his smile.

  "Then we should have some taken together — to please Kara," Domini felt moved to say.

  And with the friendly co-operation of an American tourist they stood side by side under a massive portico and he prepared to take several shots of them. "Say, fella," the American lowered the Leica, and broke into a coaxing grin, "I know you Greeks aren't demonstrative in public, but an arm about the little lady would look kinda nice."

  Paul cast a sardonic look over Domini's face, then his arm encircled her slim waist and he drew her against the hard, male warmth of him. Her smile towards the camera was taut as her body within the circle of Paul's arm. She felt his fingers bite into her waist for a painful second, then the pictures were taken and he was walking away “Mighty nice camera," said the tourist. "You can't beat a Leica for detail. Your wife should come out fine – just like one of those Grecian maidens in that frieze."

  "Efharisto." Paul gave the man his grave smile as he took his camera. "It was good of you to take the photographs."

  “Parakalo." The American looked pleased with himself for being able to say 'you're welcome' in Greek, then he grinned goodbye at them and sauntered away.

  Paul shot a look at his wristwatch. "You must be hungry," he said. "Shall we eat at a taverna, or would you prefer to go back to the hotel?"

  Not the hotel, not yet! A taverna would be noisy, lively, full of colourful strangers among whom she could lose herself for at least another hour. "I'd like to eat at a taverna and have a real Greek lunch," she said quickly.

  "Come, then."

  And as they went down the grass-grown steps, past a clump of wild blue flowers, she was aware of people looking at them. At the tall, handsome Greek and his British bride. So had it been in Cornwall, the day they had gone into Looe to collect those cheques. But that day Domini had felt the bubbles of a wild, sweet wine in her veins; now the bubbles were still and the wine had turned bitter.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THΕΥ were making for a psistaria, where grilled meats were served apart from fish, when someone called Paul's me and they found themselves surrounded by several animated people. They turned out to be a couple of business associates of Paul's accompanied by their wives, alarmingly well-groomed w
omen wearing flowered hats, silk suits, and carrying very expensive handbags in gloved hands. They flicked dark eyes over Domini's casual attire and seemed rather shocked that the wife en important businessman should go around dressed like a tourist.

  Their husbands, on the other hand, smiled at her with frank delight and insisted that she and Paul join their party for lunch.

  You plan to lunch here, Kostes?" Paul gestured at eating-house directly behind his friend, and he spoke in English because Domini did not understand much Greek as yet. Kostes, in accented English, replied at once that the place was celebrated for its Greek cooking and they were lunching there . . . yes, he nodded masterfully at his wife, despite her wish to go somewhere smarter where the food would be dressed up but tasteless.

  “It took Kostes a long time to become a man of means," Angelica confided to Domini as they followed the men into the eating-house. "For years I wear patiently the shabby and unfashionable clothes, now when I have smart clothes to show off, he brings me to eat in a rough taverna. A Greek must be the master, you understand!"

  Domini smiled and understood one thing only too well. In front of his friends Paul would expect her to put on a 'radiant bride' act, and it was hard to have to admit to herself that she didn't dare oppose his wishes.

  He had his pride. What was hers in comparison?

  Her eyes followed him, head and shoulders above the other two men, as a waiter led them to a table for six.

  The taverna was a place that would have charmed Domini at any other time, in company less curious and unnerving. The chairs at the rustic tables were cane-seated, the rough walls were whitewashed and hung with strange gourds, instruments of folklore music, and a large flag-draped portrait of the handsome Greek king and his lovely young wife.

  All around there was the bite of Greek conversation, overhung by a haze from the spits where chunks of lamb, veal and poultry were roasting over the pungent, glowing coals. Pots simmered on a large stove, and Domini was taken by Paul to choose her own soup, vegetables and meat. The other two women were having grilled larks, and she was secretly horrified. She could not have eaten those tiny birds if Paul had ordered her to. He didn't of course, and she saw a smile twitch on his lips as she said firmly that she would have grilled chops. She also fancied chips, and Paul at once ordered that they be freshly cooked. He gestured significantly at the dish of half-cold chips under a glass dome.

  "The English do not like a warmed-up dish, no?" he said, and she was thinking that one over as they returned to their table, where Kostes was ordering retsina, the pine-flavoured white wine of Greece.

  "You will not like it." Paul shook his head at Domini and ordered a St. Helena for her to drink with their lakerda, tender slivers of smoked fish they had decided on instead of soup.

  Angelica and Myrrha were tucking into fish-roe paté, spreading it thickly on breadsticks and throwing ques­tions at Domini as they ate with appetite. "Chairete!" Kostes smiled across the table at her and raised his wine glass.

  It was a word Domini understood, meaning 'be happy.’ She smiled back at the amiable Greek and hoped it didn't show in her eyes that happiness had become just a word to her; a memory of freedom to enjoy life in peace at her beloved ·Fairdane, in the keeping of her gentle guardian. '

  Then her heart gave a wild beat as Angelica asked her—loud enough for all at the table to hear — how many children she hoped to have. Domini stared at a dish of brown olives with violet fights in them. Children – with Paul—

  See caught a tawny sideways glance from him as she summoned a smile for Angelica and murmured a non-committal answer. The two Greek women exchanged knowing smiles. They thought her shy because she was British, and they kind-heartedly went on to talk about plays to be seen at Epidaurus in the play season “You must coax Paul to take you," Myrrha waved a lark’s wing in her enthusiasm. "The seats of the amphitheatre are of stone, I warn you, but I always take along an air cushion which Spiros inflates for me. Last season we saw Elektra. What an experience that was, kyria.”

  This was better. Domini was able now to relax over her grilled chops, crisp, piping hot chips and tight little green sprouts as she listened to Myrrha's vivid descriptions of the play.

  For dessert, Domini chose pistachio ice-cream and as she spooned the delicious mouthfuls she was noticing the smile edging Paul's lips as he sat back expansively to enjoy a thin cigar and his kaffés tourkikos. She had evidently played her part to his satisfaction; her small confusions had been taken as evidence of bridal shyness, and no doubt it also pleased him that she had remained indifferent to the admiring glances her fair hair and complexion had attracted from men at nearby tables.

  When she and Paul departed for their hotel, they took with them an invitation to Myrrha's house on Friday, and Angelica's on Sunday evening.

  "They liked you," Paul said as the self-service lift at the Hellenic swooped them to their floor. "Kostes said in an aside that never had he seen eyes as blue as the Greek sea."

  Domini lifted those deep blue eyes to her husband's dark face, and politely replied that she had liked his friends.

  "Don't be on the defensive with me!" With a sudden frown he took her by the shoulders, his hands warm and hard through the thin material of her blouse. "Call me a Greek pirate, slap my face, but don't be always so—polite." -

  "I'll learn," she said stiffly. "Give me time, Paul."

  "Time has a way of running away," he rejoined, and his profile had a set look as they walked to the door of their suite and he pushed the key into the lock with a hard thrust. Her heart gave a jolt. She knew in that moment that he would not remain aloof with her for much longer; he had the needs of a strong, emotional man, and she had already learned that he could be ruthless.

  The following day their suite looked like a flower shop. The word had got around that Paul Stephanos was in Athens and that he had brought a British bride with him. Baskets of flowers kept arriving at the door, boxes of fruit and candy, and wedding gifts for young Madame Stephanos. Domini was but human and she couldn't help loving the flowers, and nibbling at the Turkish delight, the pistachio nuts and golden Corinth grapes.

  Domini was intrigued by the gifts of liqueur glasses, silver jam spoons and decorative little dishes, and Paul explained the Greek custom of guests being greeted by their hostess with a sweet preserve or a cordial. "Honey in the mouth," Domini smiled.

  "Quite so." Paul's eyes dwelt on her mouth, and she turned at once to bury her nose in the dewy petals and furry heart-shaped leaves of a mass of violets. "I love violets," she said.

  There was silence from Paul, who had gone to the balcony doors to light a cheroot. She shot a glance over the violets at his broad shoulders and his dark pagan head, and she sensed from something rather tense about him that the violets had come from him.

  She felt she ought to thank him, but the words wouldn't come. How had he known that these were her favourite flower? She had never talked to him about such things, and he had never seen her in the woods at Fairdane, curled in the fork of a beech tree above a bank of wild violets that burst into colour in the spring. That Domini would not have interested him—would she?

  In the next few weeks she and Paul received lots of invitations to go out dining, dancing and driving. It was a gay whirl which she rather welcomed, for it saved her from thinking too much about the island of Andelos, where she would be alone with Paul in his house on the eagle's crag. The time to depart drew nearer each day, and there they would not arrive home late from a party or a drive. There Paul would not wish her a polite kalé nichta and turn from her to the loneliness of his own room.

  The evening before they set out for Andelos, they attended a dance on a yacht in the harbour of Athens. The big craft was to be festooned with fairy lights, and dancing was on the main deck under the stars, with a small orchestra providing the music.

  Domini wore that evening a Grecian-draped dress of sea-lavender chiffon over silk. Her hair was swirled up in a Grecian style, with tiny violets secur
ed in the honey-soft chignon. Before she and Paul departed for the dance, he latched about her arm a silver bracelet with an amethyst clasp. She fingered it. It was like a slave bracelet and she knew he was having a tilt at her for what she had said in the market-place of Plaka when he had pinned the little blue hearts to her ear-lobes.

  "Here in Greece you have grown even lovelier," he said. "Our pagan sunshine has warmed your skin to honey—tell me, do I not get a kiss for my gift?"

  She lifted her face like an obedient little girl, and he laughed softly against her cheek as he warmed it with his lips. "You fear the Greek when bringing gifts, don't you?" he said mockingly. "What have I to hide?"

  She looked into his tawny eyes—the eyes were said to be the windows of the heart, but all Domini saw in Paul's was an enigmatic smile and her own minuscule reflections in the brilliant pupils. He had arresting eyes. Like the rest of him they were handsome and untamed. She could, had he not been the husband she feared, have admired him in his crisp white dinner-jacket over a white silk shirt, dark cummerbund and tapering trousers.

  Apollo carved in teak, she thought, as he adjusted her peplos-like cloak and they stepped out of their suite like any normally happy couple setting out for an evening's fun.

  Domini liked to dance. She had learned how to at boarding-school, which had been a progressive one, and Barry had taken her dancing several times. Barry came into her mind as on the fairy-lit deck of the Silver Witch felt the guiding pressure of Paul's hand in the small of her back as they danced without words. There had been words and whispers with Barry all the time, under the prisms of the big witchball whirling in the ceiling of the seaside club where they used to meet. She had to creep out of school after dark with the help of a dormitory friend, so that her meetings with Barry had a romantic secretiveness about them from the very start,