‘He was asking the same questions as you were.’
That took her aback. ‘Asking about Julian Adie and my mother?’ She was incredulous. ‘Why on earth—?’
‘Not exactly about your mother. But, like you, he was looking for information about all the people who had known Julian Adie in the nineteen sixties. He was also very interested in the stories about the woman who drowned.’
Far too late she seemed to hear something that Christos had said, and that she had let go at the time. He had asked her whether she was another one looking for information about the drowning.
‘Why did he want to know?’
‘He wouldn’t say at first. Then he said he was writing a biography. There was . . . a rather unsympathetic quality about him. He seemed to have some, ah, rather unpleasant theories about Julian and his connections with people here. We didn’t give him much help. That is, some people spoke to him but they were trying to make something of it for themselves. Most of us just didn’t believe him. He wasn’t talking about the Julian we knew.’
Alexandros gave an acid smile and then seemed to loosen up. His shoulders released and there was a glint of amusement as he said, ‘He, er, went around the village every morning saying “Kalamari! Kalamari!” to everyone. We called him the Squid-Greeter . . .!’
Melissa managed a smile. The news made her feel uneasy. ‘You must get all sorts of people turning up here asking questions about Julian Adie, surely.’
‘Some, yes. Normally you can tell that it’s simple interest or curiosity. In any case, it really is not that many people who come for that now . . . his work has rather fallen from fashion.’
‘So when I turned up out of the blue . . .’
He inclined his head. ‘It seemed . . . a strange coincidence. So I’m sorry if you found me . . . suspicious.’
‘Are you saying that you do believe me then, about my mother? What’s made you change your mind?’
Alexandros looked down and reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. He extracted a postcard, looked at it for what seemed too long, and then, almost reluctantly, held it out. ‘This.’
It was not a card but a photograph.
It was so similar to the photographs Elizabeth had unearthed that it might have been from the same film. Melissa brought her hand to her mouth.
‘You recognise it?’
She nodded.
There was a crucial difference, though. In this picture a group of people was posed on the rocks.
‘There’s a date on the back,’ he said. ‘July 1968.’
Melissa held it and peered carefully at the row of faces. Surely . . . ‘Is that Julian Adie . . .? And—’ her heart started pounding. ‘That’s my mother,’ she said, pointing at the image of a young woman with long blonde hair.
‘That’s what I thought,’ said Alexandros.
‘How could you know?’
‘You look so alike. Look at the shape of the chin and the set of her eyes.’
He was right.
‘Where did you get it from?’
‘I found it in a drawer. It must have belonged to my parents.’
So there it was. Proof positive that Elizabeth had once been in Kalami with Julian Adie. She felt weak, suddenly. She had so nearly gone home without seeing it. But then she was overwhelmed by more questions.
‘Why did you wait until now to show it to me?’ Her mouth was so dry the words felt sticky.
‘I found it only yesterday.’
Her cheeks flushed tight and hot. ‘Oh.’
How could he know the extent of her doubts, the awful suspicion that she was chasing air by coming here?
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean it to come out like that.’
‘Would you like to have it?’
‘Are you sure?’
He nodded.
‘Do you know who else is in the picture?’
‘That’s Ekaterina . . .’
So it was. Melissa had not recognised the slim, willowy woman.
‘That looks like Manos,’ she pointed at a man in his sixties, ‘but it can’t be.’
‘It’s his father, the older Manos. That’s Clive Stilwell. He and his wife Mary were friends of Julian’s. They lived over by Kouloura. He was a historian, and became friends with my father Nikolaos, who is on the end there.’
Melissa made a note on a scrap of paper.
‘Your father – is he—?’
Alexandros shook his head. ‘He died five years ago – and my mother last year.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘I think it must have been given to my father – it doesn’t look like one of ours.’
‘You’ve no idea who gave it to him?’
‘My guess would be Clive Stilwell, but I can’t be sure.’
He was right. There was no means of knowing.
‘You don’t need to keep apologising,’ said Melissa.
He handed over the wine, and she suggested they drink it together.
Alexandros sat down and seemed to unwind a little.
Melissa was relieved too. She understood what had been going on. There had been a reason for the tension in their exchanges, and now it was gone. They could talk properly now.
She fetched a corkscrew and two glasses. She could not help thinking about what Christos had told her, what they had in common, after all. He had married a woman who then left him and went to live in Athens. While his wife may or may not have fallen in love with someone else, what she did know was that he was hurt in the same way she was. How was he coping with what had happened to his marriage, and was it any different for men?
It might be a while before that subject could be broached.
She poured the wine. ‘Eleni called you the history man. Are you an archaeologist?’
He took a glass. ‘No. I design museums, mainly.’
‘Mainly –?’
‘And – and I write books.’
‘What are you working on now?’
‘A book about Cavafy.’
‘I’m sorry, but I don’t think I know . . .?’
‘Constantine Cavafy. He was a Greek poet who lived in Alexandria.’
‘I see . . .’
‘So . . . Egypt.’
No wonder he had been so sceptical about her supposed project. He was the real deal himself.
To avoid showing the blush that she could feel rising, Melissa went to the kitchen counter to fetch some crackers and olives. ‘What exactly are you going to do there?’ she called over her shoulder.
‘A bit like you,’ he said. ‘Travelling, trying to make sense of—’ He hesitated. ‘Trying to find some traces, seeing the places that the writer could have known. So . . . that is my research project. A friend has been commissioned to produce a guidebook. I’m going to write some of the historical parts. It’s not really my area, but . . .’ He was defensive again, as though she had asked him to justify himself.
‘That . . . fits in well then,’ she said brightly.
From that moment on the conversation flowed surprisingly easily.
Melissa relaxed. He was not boring, nor difficult, as Christos implied. Yes, he was serious, nervous, a little stilted in manner. But the deep laughter lines, the cheeky look when he smiled in confidence, the bitten fingernails pointed to a man who compartmentalised his life, keeping his feelings hidden from all but those closest to him.
He told her how he had designed city museums in Greece and Italy, and exhibitions in London and Tokyo, and his long angular face lit up when he explained how nothing compared to the first time he had remodelled the museum in Corfu Town, the thrill of being able to order the exhibits, to touch carefully what he had only known from a distance, the sense of being face to face with the past.
In turn she tried to convey how she loved the ordering of the past in words and documents, the overwhelming mass of information in a huge national archive that she put into logical sequences, storing it so that generations to come would be able to access it, perhaps find th
eir answers there.
They finished the bottle, and she opened another.
Neither mentioned any personal circumstances, but there was a connection between them. She had known it from the start. The weaknesses and wounds were obvious to both of them, too big to be glossed over, the empathy between them unspoken.
But now that he was relaxed, she saw for the first time how good-looking he was. As he talked he looked straight into her eyes, and she could study the sculpted cheekbones and straight brows and tanned skin. Always before, his face seemed to have been lost behind constant activity, the intensity of his speech and the rapid hand movements which accompanied the torrent of information.
There was something else unexpected too. He genuinely seemed to be enjoying her company.
‘Clair de Lune’ was playing softly again in the background.
‘I’m glad I’ve, ah, had a chance to talk to you again,’ he said, hours later.
She waited for him to go on, but he said nothing more. He looked serious.
‘What is it?’
‘You must know . . .’
He reached out tentatively and touched her arm. His hands were different from Richard’s: larger and browner and more damaged. There was a sense that they were working hands that sailed a boat and dug the land and used tools with skill.
He put his other hand up to her face, barely letting it rest on her cheek. His deep brown eyes were soft as melted chocolate as he watched her reaction. She held her breath. Neither moved. Up close she studied his strong jaw, his tanned and lightly stubbled chin, the appealing shape of his mouth. He looked so intense, and so sad.
It was years since she had kissed a man for the first time. She had an overwhelming urge to put her lips on his.
Seconds passed.
Then, infinitely slowly, he leaned in.
His mouth was full and soft, then urgent. Under her hands his shoulders were muscled. She wanted him to hold her. There was no doubt that she wanted this to happen.
Her thoughts strayed to Richard and she tried to block them by moving closer to Alexandros. She wanted to live in this moment, her body and his. She breathed the scent of his skin. It was different. There was no city fragrance of traffic and aftershave. Alexandros wore the tang of ozone and fresh grass. Richard and Sarah. Remember that. She was doing nothing wrong. Perhaps this would even make it right.
Was Alexandros thinking about his wife?
She closed her eyes and allowed him to pull her closer.
Perhaps it was the wine, or the desperate need for comfort and validation. It was certainly the feeling that they were isolated together, sharing a single cell of experience. Nothing beyond that mattered. They were both eager, and taking the risk was something that felt good, for the first time in a long time.
Soon she was not thinking of Richard at all.
IV
THE NEXT DAY was her last in Kalami.
In a pensive mood, Melissa packed up. Then, suitcase left open on the floor, she went out for a final swim at Yaliscary. It seemed far longer than ten days ago that she had first climbed through the olive groves and found the flat velvety rock which let her down into the water.
Her mobile was switched on, but no one had called. There was no message from Alexandros.
As she walked along the village road, she wondered whether she might go up to the farm, leave a note perhaps, but shyness stopped her. The trouble was she did not trust her own judgement. She had trusted Richard, and she had been played for a fool. And this was by someone she thought she understood, someone who shared her cultural references. By contrast Alexandros was a much more puzzling figure.
He had seemed so sincere, but how did she know that he wasn’t just as adept at the seduction of tourists as Christos? His murmured endearments could easily be part of a well-worn package. Perhaps that was even why she had been attracted to him, had actively wanted the lack of loyalty, the lack of commitment. None given, none expected. No disappointment or hurt.
In any case, what did she really know about Alexandros? Only what her flawed and damaged senses made of the disparate clues to his personality. That he was as different from Richard as it was possible to be. He seemed so transparently earnest and faithful to what he believed. True, she hardly knew him, but she had reacted to some deep-seated goodness in him. She had wanted him as her friend.
Then she stopped herself. She shouldn’t think like this.
But she lay on the rock until long shadows crept over the beach.
On the way back she dropped into the boat hire office. She needed to arrange a time with Manolis to return the apartment keys.
Eleni was there pouring coffee. ‘Stay! Drink with us!’ she insisted.
Accepting gratefully, Melissa sat down at the desk. A framed photograph of old Manos had appeared, all bulbous nose and deep frown lines and decked in his Sunday best (homburg hat, a grey suit and a black-and-white striped sports shirt). She was sure it had not been there before.
Conversation was of the harvest, the new hotel developments down the coast at Barbati, their elderly neighbours.
‘She plays the same music over and over again, like she wears the same clothes for a week, then it’s all change – of record and apron,’ said Eleni.
‘The husband has sacks under his eyes, like a bloodhound,’ elaborated Manolis. ‘He judges her mood by what is blaring out of the speakers. There’s a band from Macedonia that play very sad music. That’s always a bad sign.’
‘That and the red apron . . .’
‘Ah, yes . . . the red apron. The warning signal.’
‘In fact, they are very happy,’ said Eleni. ‘He’s quite deaf – so the music doesn’t bother him that much.’
‘He’s not so deaf in the bar when someone asks if he wants ouzo . . .’
Melissa let her thoughts wander. Afterwards, when she’d said her farewells, she swallowed her pride and walked up the track to the farmhouse, but he was not there. It seemed pretty clear after all that it had only been a fleeting illusion of comfort they had both been looking for.
Anxiety put a fist to her throat the next day. Her spirit was as fragile as the early mist and the air left a chill on her nose and bare forearms.
The escape was over. She was already dreading the decisions that had to be made; the loneliness and the coming winter; the wind howling down the chimneys and the ice to be chipped from the car windscreen in the morning; hardness and brittleness to be dealt with. And always the question: Will I be able to ride this out, or am I more vulnerable than I imagine?
The night with Alexandros might simply never have happened.
In feather-grey morning light Melissa walked up to the White House for the last time. It was shuttered, lifeless. There was no sign of activity at the boat hire office either.
She waited a while, then wandered up into the olive grove.
Petals of wild honeysuckle flew on the sea wind, some catching on the black nets beneath the trees. She reached the top of the hill.
As she stood resting, a figure detached from the wooded path opposite and emerged on the beach, skirting the rock where she had sat for so many hours. Melissa stayed where she was, watching the scene. The dark-clad figure bent down, picked a few leaves then carried on in her direction, revealing his height and ranginess as he began the winding path up to where she had stopped. Alexandros.
For the first time she felt nervous about seeing him.
Rooted to the spot, confidence truanting, she listened to his footsteps coming closer around the bend.
‘Hello . . . I haven’t been following you, I promise!’ Melissa forced herself to sound bright when he looked up and saw her.
He managed a shy smile. ‘You couldn’t have done – I’ve been on my boat all night.’
‘What . . . night fishing?’
‘No . . . just thinking. And then I slept.’
He was just as awkward as she was. He put his hands through his unkempt hair in the way she now knew well. His clothes we
re wrinkled and sea-stained. It looked as though he might even have slept in them.
‘Sounds . . . lovely, actually. Do you often do that?’
‘Sometimes. When I have something important to think about.’
For a few minutes the sun glinted through a knife slash in the grey and indigo sky. His pupils shrank suddenly in the brightness.
Then all was sombre again.
‘Have you had breakfast? Do you want some coffee?’ he asked.
‘Well, I—’
‘Please?’
They walked in silence back down the slope to Kalami, then turned off the road and took the track up to the farmhouse.
‘Sorry about the state of . . .’ He waved a hand round the kitchen, the dark wood dresser laden with both plates and books. Papers were strewn over the table, along with a book, in English, of sea myths and maps, and several editions of Greek poetry. A laptop was open, the keyboard a dalmation’s pelt of smudgy dark fingerprints.
Producing mugs of instant coffee and soft sweet rolls from the supermarket, he was apologetic for the quality of what he was offering. She assured him she would have been having the same on her own.
‘I’m leaving this morning.’
He said nothing.
‘I hope you find what it is you are looking for,’ he said quietly.
Melissa nodded. You too, she thought, but did not say. She was reluctant to presume anything.
He put down his mug and scribbled on a piece of paper. ‘Here’s my email address, and telephone number. If you want some more help, then you can always ask me.’ Was it only his help that was available to her?
There was still a knot in her chest. ‘Thank you. I think you already have my mobile number.’
He let that go without comment.
‘Well, you know how to contact me.’
‘Yes.’
He opened his mouth to continue, but did not.
The sea was stained a rich cobalt by the time she left. ‘Be happy,’ he replied as she said goodbye. ‘That’s what they say in Greek.’
They exchanged a platonic kiss. But then he gathered her to him in a clumsy, bone-bumping hug. It was a scorpion end, a sting of fear as she walked away from the comforting split seams of his old clothes, his books and the warmth of his presence, and the one night she had felt alive again, back past the wind-lashed cyclamens and towards all the broken promises a thousand miles north.
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