The commotion had woken up a few flies and moths and they were gathering under the light wondering what was going on. A marvellous garden aroma had entered their dreams but there were no flowers in sight. Still it was a good excuse to dance with each other. Leo watched the insect antics with fascination. They were just like him, little creatures trying to make sense of it all. He watched two flies come together and dive-bomb down towards the floor before separating and meeting again to repeat the game. Weren’t all animals on a similar journey to him? Looking for a mate, seeking companionship? Perhaps Eleni was now a fly or an ant.
Leo thought about the doctorate that was waiting to be finished back home. After his biology degree he’d applied for a job that he saw advertised in the department to work as a lab technician at the Institute of Zoology under the eminent Professor Lionel Hodge, who was a world authority on ant behaviour. It was just a job, but it soon became an obsession, the ant world was so organized and intricate that he decided to do a PhD on it. Now he wondered if he could ever return to his studies, or indeed any kind of normality. The scientist in him was waning, and grief was opening him to a new way of relating to the world.
He drifted into sleep and woke up in the morning in his clothes with the light still on. Eleni had visited him again in the night and he had slept easy, convinced that she was still alive. He dreamt he had made an extraordinary mistake and that she had only died in a nightmare. But dreams are deceivers, and by morning she had left him.
He showered and changed clothes more out of habit than desire. He had nothing to do, nowhere to go so he spent the day reading Eleni’s journal. It helped him remember everything up to a few minutes before the crash. But he still did not know if he had been conscious just after the crash. He thought that maybe he had seen Eleni die and then passed out. Why else would he have known that she was dead when he came to in the hospital? He was terrified that, at some unsuspecting moment, his mind would throw up this last horror and that it would devastate him. He did not know what would be worse: the memory itself or the lingering dread of its anticipated arrival.
Monday came and Leo and Celeste duly made their way back to the morgue. Eleni was pulled out of the corpse-filled filing cabinet. The same purple man lay on his broken drawer in the middle of the room. He had won the battle of wills because the attendant didn’t bother to push him back.
She was wheeled to a side room where Leo began to dress her. He opened his bag and took out her long grey summer skirt and the blue cotton shirt he had sprayed with perfume. He felt her freezing skin against his for the last time. Her pallid flesh seemed to have gained a softness and elasticity from the embalming. For a long moment he just held her then, slowly, and with all the love left in his fractured heart, he manoeuvred her like a docile puppet into her clothes. When it was done he asked Celeste to put some make-up on her face. He would have done it himself but he had never applied make-up before and he thought he would do it badly. She powdered over the cut on Eleni’s cheek until it was hardly noticeable, then plastered on the blusher in order to give Eleni a flush of life. She applied a line of red lipstick to her lips and delicately took a black eyeliner to her closed eyes. There is vanity even in death: the need to hide the twisted body, the cuts and the contorted face frozen in pain under a mask of serenity. Eleni never wore make-up in life but in death it was mandatory. Leo wanted her to look as good as possible.
Eleni was transported to a nearby undertakers where she was placed in a special metal coffin which Leo had ensured would meet with airline regulations. There was nowhere in the shop that they could solder on the lid without causing mess and disturbance so Eleni suffered the further indignity of being carried out of the back door into a car park. Leo took the two tiny Inca heads from his pocket and placed the male one in her cold hand and wrapped her fingers around it. The other one he put in his breast pocket opposite his heart. He kissed her forehead, ‘Eleni, karthiamou, thank you for loving me.’
Their adventure had separated them, but she was still ploughing on, travelling through the hidden world, deeper than he could go, a forester into the unknown. Now they were like the sea and the moon, far apart but still in harmony. When his life was done their time would come again and when it did there would be no more hurdles between them, they would dance as one for ever. What is life but a holiday sandwiched by eternity?
He softened her face with his tears and then withdrew. The undertakers picked up the heavy lid of the coffin and clumsily slid it on top of her. They took a soldering iron to the rim and Eleni was unceremoniously sealed inside her casing like a sardine in a tin.
9
THERE WERE THREE OF THEM WAITING HUNCHED AND miserable at Athens airport on the Thursday morning. Leo had arrived the previous day and now he stood with his father and Alexandria at the cargo collection point. He wished his mother had been there but, to her fury, she hadn’t been given leave from the bank where she worked.
The three did not converse, each silenced by their own thundering heartbeat. The flight from Frankfurt had just flashed on to the arrivals display, ‘on time’ it said. Until that moment Alexandria had been grilling Leo on the details of the accident. It is impossible to grieve properly if mystery clouds the death of a loved one. A whole business of inquiries, investigations, post-mortems and court cases has been built around that one truth. The fact of death is not enough, there has to be certainty as to the cause. Leo patiently took Alexandria through what he had been told and what he remembered, omitting only the five words that had killed her: ‘Let’s sit at the front.’ That was his secret and the guilt was still as fresh as a gaping wound.
The plane landed and they waited quietly for the coffin to be brought out, their black mournful presence incongruous in the immense hangar. They watched as dusty lorries thundered in and out of huge portals, mailbags were loaded on to vans and various large boxes and crates were shunted around on forklift trolleys. The roar of engines, the crashing of metal doors, the dumping thuds of unloved cartons clogged the building. At last the coffin emerged on the back of an electric luggage cart driven by a man in a blue overall.
‘There she is,’ Frank shouted.
Alexandria let out a cry of dismay. It was unthinkable that her little brown-eyed girl could be inside the shiny metal casket that was trundling towards them. Her heart filled with all the Elenis that she had loved; the baby who had suckled at her breast and slept in her arms, the tottering infant who had delighted her with her first word, the skipping child whose hand she had held to school, the passionate and temperamental teenager who had been sent to England and the politically active woman with a taste for adventure. Not even in her nightmares had Alexandria imagined that her only daughter would be cut down so young and returned to her mother in a box, like a cruel gift from Hades. She began to shudder uncontrollably. Leo instinctively put his arm around her but she shrugged him off and walked away to be alone. She was utterly inconsolable.
Within the hour they were seated on the small propeller plane to Kithos, painfully aware that Eleni was directly beneath their feet in the freezing hold of the plane, no better off than their luggage.
The wind had risen steadily throughout the day and the normally bright but smoggy sky above Athens was heavy with storm cloud. The pilot had been advised not to fly, but as he was an islander and Alexandria had taught his children, he would not countenance any delay.
As soon as they took off, the plane was at the whim of the storm. It tipped from side to side giving them unnatural views of the sea beneath them. They were buffeted from all directions, great thunderclaps blasted the cabin and the lightning was so close that they recoiled in terror. Suddenly the plane hit an air pocket and plunged momentarily into freefall, lifting them weightless from their seats before catching them again with a painful thud. Frank feared for his life, Alexandria retched into her lap but Leo was content to flirt with death. The storm was Eleni’s doing, she was calling him, and the heavens exploded at her command. He could feel her anger a
t being separated from him. Now all of nature was a message with her signature on it. She was everywhere; more present in Leo’s heart than ever. Two weeks ago he would have dismissed such thoughts as ludicrous, he would have said that after death there is nothing but rotting flesh. His reversal was absolute.
Kithos fizzed with gossip and rumour. Many suspected there was more to Eleni’s death than met the eye; some were convinced that she must have been involved in drugs, for why else would anyone visit Colombia? One man even claimed she had been murdered by the cartels. The sense of anticipation on the island had reached such a climax that when Leo, Frank and Alexandria walked off the plane all they could see was a wall of black pressed up against the airport windows. They had barely set foot in the arrivals hall before they were mobbed by a rush of weeping well-wishers, hugging and patting them and offering their condolences. When the coffin eventually appeared there was a collective howl of grief. Then a fevered whispering spread through them, they parted and a diminutive grey-haired man in a tailored black suit was ushered forward. Leo wondered if this was some local dignitary. The crowd fell silent. Alexandria stared at him uncomprehendingly.
‘Georgios!’
‘I’m so sorry, I came as soon as I heard.’
‘Now you make an effort! It’s too late, Georgios, it’s too damn late.’
Georgios bit his lip and dropped his head. ‘Take me to her,’ he said quietly.
Alexandria didn’t move.
‘Please, Alexi.’
She led him through the crowd to the coffin where Frank was standing. Georgios brushed past him without a word and threw himself at the coffin.
‘I have to see her, I have to see my girl,’ he cried, trying to open the lid.
‘It’s been sealed, you can’t open it,’ Alexandria said. She put her hand gently on his shoulder and tried to pull him away, but Georgios didn’t seem to hear her and he tugged ferociously at the lid, to no avail.
‘Are you in there, karthiamou, are you really in there?’ His voice was barely audible. ‘My little girl, is that you?’ He ran his hand over the box as if he was trying somehow to contact her. When at length he got to his feet his eyes were bloodshot. ‘Oh, Alexandria. What have I done?’
When the cortège arrived in town people poured from their homes to walk behind the hearse, holding down their coats and hats in the squall. They processed slowly down the tiny streets of the old quarter and then up the hill until they arrived at the gates of the tiny chapel of Agia Sofia where Papa Nikos with his great white beard and flowing black robes was waiting for them. Eleni was placed on a long table in the central apse where, following tradition, she would spend the night whilst the family sat vigil over her.
The storm brought rain, a month’s worth in one night pummelling the rooftops and clattering the windows. The grave, which had lain open for two days, filled with water and collapsed. In the morning they found it silted and boggy. The gravedigger had to drain it and re-dig it while the service for Eleni took place in the chapel. It was overflowing with people and Leo did not understand a word of the Orthodox ceremony. He slipped out of the back and went to watch the gravedigger sweating over the grave.
The sky held no memory of the previous night’s storm, the air was crisp and light. Alexandria had picked a peaceful spot. Leo and Eleni had often walked up to the chapel on their visits to Kithos, then wound their way down along goat paths through olive groves to the empty beaches on the other side. They would pause at the top to sit on the wall of the small graveyard, enjoy the cooler air and admire the plunging view into the emerald sea. Once at the beach, if no one was there, they would strip naked and lie like lizards in the sand. Then when the sun was unbearable they would run into the sea and play like children, ducking, splashing and hugging.
Now Eleni could enjoy the cooler air and admire the view for ever. She could sing along with the goats’ bells.
The gravedigger had just put down his spade and wiped the sweat from his brow when Papa Nikos emerged from the chapel with the coffin and entourage in tow. Leo joined the back of the group. The coffin was lowered into the grave and a prayer was said. There was then a hesitation in the proceedings, there seemed to be some confusion, a man had made a comment and those around him had nodded their assent. Soon there was a full-scale discussion. There seemed to be something wrong. Then he heard a loud bang, and he pushed his way through the crowd to see that the gravedigger had jumped back into the grave and was trying to break the lid off the coffin with the handle of his spade.
‘What are you doing?’ Leo shouted. ‘Don’t open it. It’s been a week since she died.’ He tried to grab hold of the spade but his father caught hold of his arm.
‘Leo, they want to let nature do its work. It’s a metal coffin, they have to let the air in.’
He looked over at Alexandria, who nodded. This was what she wanted. The spade crashed down again on the lid and echoed off the walls.
‘Dad, don’t let them do it . . .’ Leo begged.
‘They need to see her, Leo, how can they grieve until they’ve seen her? She’ll haunt them on every street corner unless they do. They have to know for sure that she is in there,’ Frank said, as the gravedigger bashed the coffin with all his strength.
‘Of course she’s in there. I saw to it myself, for God’s sake,’ Leo protested.
‘It’s not enough, Leo, I should know,’ Frank insisted.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ll explain another time, just believe me,’ Frank said, closing the conversation. Leo relented but he could not watch.
The hammering was increasingly desperate. The lid would not budge. Someone went to fetch a crowbar and the poor gravedigger used it to lever into the coffin. Leo turned his back and walked away. He did not want to see Eleni’s rotting flesh crawling with maggots. He did not want that memory burned into his retina with all the other awful images he had seen in the last week. The brutal hacking at the coffin destroyed all sense of what a funeral should be. Hearts quickened, prayer was abandoned and solemnity replaced by fear and foreboding. The lid began to give way. There was a terrible scraping of metal and a gasp from the mourners. The crowbar was driven in again and the lid came free. For a second there was total silence as the grieving crowd stared open-mouthed into the coffin. Leo froze; what unrecognizable horror had stilled them? Then there was a screeching howl which tore right through his spine. Never in his life had Leo heard such a dreadful sound. Despite himself, he turned round and saw Georgios on all fours with his head bent to the grave, his spine arched like a cat. He opened his mouth wide and wailed again and again. This was a keening alien to Leo’s culture. A keening that expressed all the guilt and regret that a man’s soul could bear. Alexandria seemed to lose balance, her legs could not hold the weight and her sisters rushed in to prevent her falling. Leo took a step forward and looked into the open grave. There Eleni lay exactly as he’d left her, with her little fingers curled around the Inca head, her face flushed with make-up. She was sleeping sweetly. It was her youth and beauty that had silenced them. He felt himself being pulled into the grave. He was under her spell. He wanted to be buried with her. But something stopped him, some ancient instinct. Leo thought it was cowardice.
Then he heard her voice. ‘Live,’ she said, ‘and live beautifully.’
10
GOOD, GOOD, PUT THE WATER THERE . . . A LITTLE CLOSER where I can reach it . . . thank you. You know, maybe the doctor was right after all . . . maybe I should rest. I do feel like sleeping. No? You want me to go on? All right, Fischel. Enjoying it then, are you? Oh I see . . . still not talking. Just listening, are we? Well, that’s fine young man. You listen away but remember how much Mother worries about you. It’s been three weeks since Kristallnacht. And you know, son, I was already ill before they took me away – all right so I came back with a shaved head and a few bruises – maybe that’s why you’re not talking – but you mustn’t worry, they can’t kill us. Remember, above the clouds the sun is still shin
ing . . . you’re not so sure, eh? I understand. There’s a lot to think about. Talk when you’re ready. Shall I go on?
When we were eight, Jerzy Ingwer and I decided that it would be a good idea to pull up all the flowers in front of the school. Of course we were caught and sent to the headmaster. We were so terrified of what he might do to us that we sat outside his office crying like it was the end of the world. Now here we were again sitting side by side, waiting, terrified. When at last Neidlein gave the order for us to relieve the night shift and make our way to the front line a chill crawled down my spine and I felt like that little boy again. All I wanted was for my mummy to cradle me in her arms and tell me everything would be all right. I brought Lotte’s letter to my nose and breathed in her perfume one more time before putting it in my breast pocket next to the photograph that you have in your hands there.
‘Come, Daniecki,’ Király mocked in his clumsy German, ‘it’s rude to keep death waiting.’ I picked up my rifle and marched off with the others the short distance through the supply lines to the front.
Random Acts of Heroic Love Page 8