by Cat Porter
My gaze darted down the steep cliff to a tiny cove of vivid, turquoise water.
“You see the strip of stone under the water?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“That’s the old harbor from before Alexander’s time. It’s sunk now, but it remains.”
“Incredible.” I craned my head once more to scan the steep mountainside dotted with ruins.
The wind whipped her hair around her face as she focused on the sudden sharp curve in the road, her mouth tensing for a moment, her hand on the stick shift. “Still amazes me every time I see it. There was a temple built there for Apollo the sun god, and they say there may have been one for Dionysus as well.”
“Really?” It was meant to be, my god idol was here.
The sharpness in my tone made her head turn. “You’re familiar with Greek mythology?”
“Standard part of my schooling. I’m certainly appreciating it now,” I replied. “Dionysus has always been a particular favorite of mine.”
We passed through several villages, each separated by miles of road and rock and dry brush. The routes through the small towns were narrow, twisting lanes probably only meant for donkeys and carts in previous eras. Whenever another car approached, one of us would slow down or stop altogether to let the other pass. We sped through groves of olive trees, their small silvery green leaves shimmering in the hard sun. How many centuries, millennia had these groves survived?
Adriana turned off the main road, and we entered the village of Menítes built up and over the side of a mountain.
“I thought we were headed for Chóra?” I asked.
A grin brightened her face. “There’s something special in this village that I’d like to show you. I thought you’d enjoy seeing it, since you like mythology. To give you a hint, the name Menítes is derived from the name “Maenads,” the female followers of Dionysus.”
“The groupies who’d be carried away by a religious ecstasy during those blow out parties of his?”
She laughed. “Yes, them.”
Trees with thick leaves, abundant green, green, green was everywhere here. The lushness of the area was astounding after all the stony dry and rocky terrain of the rest of the island.
She said, “Here, there are lots of natural springs and waterfalls which is why it’s so green. Very popular with hikers.”
We parked by a church and got out of the jeep. “They say this church may have been built on top of the ruins of a temple dedicated to Dionysus,” she said.
“Have archaeologists found the temple here?”
“No. But the legend is strong.”
We descended low steps to one side of the church which opened to an elegant cobblestoned square. A row of ancient stone lion heads was embedded in a great stone wall, their maws fountains of spring water.
Adri’s fingers played in the water running from a lion’s head. “Legend has it that Dionysus would turn these spring waters into wine.”
“Of course he did.”
“He was world famous in his day. There’s documentation of this ritual in ancient Roman history. Pliny, I think it was, wrote about it.”
“Dionysus was the son of the almighty Zeus and a mortal girlfriend, right?”
“Yes, he was half god, half man. Zeus’s jealous wife engineered a brutal attack on him by the Titans and they killed him. They tore him up and ate him, but his heart survived and he was resurrected somehow. I don’t remember the details.”
“Half god, half man,” I murmured, running my fingers across the smooth ancient stone, hot under the sun’s glare. “He experienced death and came back to party hard. Who doesn’t admire the god of wine and good times?” I cupped my hand under the cold water and drank.
“He was a vicious god as well, you know,” she said. “It wasn’t all wine and carnal delights. With such indulgences come the consequences.”
“Drunkenness.”
“Which leads to criminal behavior, atrocities.”
“True, but the pleasures and intense experiences his wine provided—that euphoria offers a momentary sense of rapture, power even. It’s freeing, inspiring.”
“Yes, a piece of the divine for us mere mortals,” she agreed. “A gift of fearlessness, confidence, joy. He wandered the world teaching the art of wine making. His ceremonies and celebrations were controversial even then. Wild celebrations in the mountains, the forests, reveling in the beauty of the world.”
The cold spring water poured over my palm like a tiny waterfall. “He’s the Liberator,” I said.
“He is the Benefactor and Destroyer. He offers ecstasy as well as madness.” Her gaze darted to me once more. “The ancient Greeks understood that duality very well, in all their gods.”
“Dangerous, if you don’t understand.”
“Absolutely,” she agreed.
I took her wet hand in mine. “Thank you for showing this to me.”
“You’re welcome.” She smiled, a sweet smile full of satisfaction in having given me pleasure. A small gift she’d given me, and I wanted to save the ribbon and the ripped wrapping paper. I squeezed her hand.
We got back into the jeep and headed for Chóra on the opposite shore of the island, not too far from where we were. After fifteen minutes, we entered the town, the capital of Andros, and we slowed down in the sudden stream of traffic.
“We’ll park here and walk,” Adri said, backing into a tight space. “The main road is closed off to vehicles, and that’s where the house is.”
I took our two small suitcases out of the back, and we followed the wide lane of smooth, curved cobblestones. Adri’s pace was quick, her body rigid, focused. She wanted to get to the house.
Adri explained that the town was built on a bluff of a long, thin peninsula with two coves on either side. From in between whitewashed buildings on either side of the commercial main street, pieces of bright blue sea flashed at me as we walked.
This was no ordinary island village. Some buildings were the traditional, simple whitewashed stucco with blue trim, others were neoclassical mansions of old with archways, terra-cotta roof tiles, massive coffered wooden doors with vintage brass knockers in the form of a hand or a lion’s head. We passed a museum library housed in one mansion. Small white balconies with curled wrought iron banisters peered over us as we walked farther down the main road. The blue painted shutters and doors on almost every building reflected that rich Aegean sapphire, but a good number had a more turquoise color or a pale grayish blue tone as well.
The color of Adri’s eyes.
Colorful potted flowers punctuated doorways on the whitened curbs. Old fashioned black iron street lamps, much like gas lamps of a bygone age were on every corner. Shop after shop with their old fashioned signage beckoned. Bakeries, pastry shops, cafés, souvenirs, jewelry, handmade ceramics. Outdoor cafés were everywhere.
Welcome to the Mediterranean.
She stopped at a tall, neoclassical mansion on a corner. Italian Renaissance style archways and columned terraces wrapped around the second floor. A carved marble lintel above the main entrance heralded another age. The wood shutters on all the windows were painted that beautiful pale ultramarine, and worn terra-cotta tiles shaped as great acanthus leaves dotted the eaves of the roof. The stucco covering the house was peeling in spots.
“This is my grandparents’ house,” she said. “The original house was farther down almost to the end of the town on the water by the castle.”
“Castle?”
“Yes. The Venetian Lord who came and conquered built himself a castle fort on the end of the peninsula, but the Germans blew it up during the war. The family salvaged whatever it could and bought this house and restored it.”
Adri put a key in the lock, turned several times and pushed open the double main doors which looked like they belonged to a medieval estate. We stepped inside and entered another age. A Victorian style ornate brass lamp hung from a high ceiling. A delicate hand-painted mural of acanthus leaves swirled over the walls of th
e foyer. Black and white patterned ceramic tile brought us into the house, and a tall, stately, wood credenza with white marble details towered before us in the foyer.
Adri dropped the keys to the jeep and the house on the credenza, and I brought in our bags, pulling the heavy door closed behind us. She pushed open two tall, wood paneled doors painted in that same pale blue revealing a living room with antique upholstered chairs, settees, and carved heavy wooden chairs. Draperies hung over floor to ceiling windows, a large terra-cotta and blue antique rug lay in the center of the tiled floor.
The shutters had been opened and the light poured through the room revealing faded painted leaf motifs on the walls and along the ceiling. Although worn by time, time had stopped here in this house, and we were the gentle intruders.
A wooden model of a clipper ship in a glass case took pride of place on a small pedestal table in the center of the room. A very old portrait painting of an eighteenth or nineteenth century mustachioed man with an attitude hung on the pale yellow walls.
Adri stood motionless in the room, held captive by memories, by sounds, a grandfather’s embrace, conversations. Meaningful and heartfelt words, castoff sentiments uttered years and years ago. Were they whispering to her now?
I came up behind her, a hairbreadth from her back. “Your home is beautiful,” I said, nudging at the spell that bound her, not wanting to break it.
She blinked. “It is.” She unlatched a vintage window pane. A flower-filled garden lay beyond. Stalks of lavender swayed in the hard breeze, sending us their fragrance.
Adri let out a breath. “I haven’t been here—spent the night here—in ages.”
A flare of heat sheared through me. We’d be spending the night here tonight and a few more. How would we be “spending the night,” I wanted to know? After last night, I’d be treading gently.
As gently as I possibly could.
“Let’s get changed and go for a swim at the castle. It will probably be quite chilly.” Those eyes of hers glimmered with more blue than gray now, casting their magic—a mixture of shy, excited, and passionate—on me.
“Whatever you want,” I said, my voice husky. “Let’s do it.” But I wasn’t only referring to swimming. I meant everything.
She smiled, a vulnerable, truly happy smile. And here in this house, in that smile, I knew that I didn’t care if she was hung up on Alessio. I didn’t care that I didn’t get the chance to confirm that Gennaro would talk to Mauro and play ball. I didn’t care that Mauro was waiting to hear back from me. I didn’t care that Luca and Alessio were probably furious. I didn’t care that I hadn’t decided on a return date for my airplane ticket.
For the first time in a long fucking time, I didn’t care about any of the things I had to be caring about. There was only now. There was only this beautiful island, this incredible house, this gorgeous girl.
Girl. Yes, she was a girl, but also a wildly alluring woman. A woman whom I did not, could not, would not resist. She had resisted me last night, but something was troubling her, and I would find out what that was and exorcise it.
I drew her chin close to mine and planted a soft kiss on that remarkable mouth. She kissed me back, gently. My tongue slid against hers and she let out a small moan, her body relaxing into mine, mouth opening fully.
Yes, just where I want you. Wanting more, ready and waiting for me.
“Tell me,” I breathed against her lips, lips that were damp, swollen, lips that wanted more of mine.
“Hmm?” Her eyelids fluttered, her tongue licking the seam of my mouth.
“The model ship. Tell me about it.”
Her head pulled back, face reddening, and she let out that rich, rolling laugh. I loved surprising her. Did she think that I’d try to get down her panties again so quickly? No, baby, not just yet.
“My great-great-grandfather—well, I suppose four or five times back really—made this model with his father. That’s him in the painting, by the way. Stefanos.” She gestured at the portrait hanging on the wall. “He fought in the Greek War of Independence which started in 1821. And this is a model of a cutlass that one of his brothers commandeered in a naval battle in 1825 during the revolution. He fought alongside him on this ship.”
“These facts must be seared in your brain.”
“They are, and in my heart.” She touched the edge of the model’s glass case. “The Greeks were greatly outnumbered, but they triumphed, and what was left of the Ottoman fleet scattered south. There was another battle here earlier, in 1790, and another ancestor, an uncle of Stefanos’s, was a captain in that battle for a famous Greek privateer who had a fleet of small ships.”
“Privateer as in pirate?”
She shrugged in that nonchalant way of hers. “Merchant, pirate…”
“Entrepreneurs all. My kind of men.”
“Yes.” She smiled, her shoulders dropping, our eyes meeting. “Mine too.”
I cleared my throat. “What happened in the 1790 battle?”
“The Greeks were outnumbered almost two to one, but still managed to defeat the Pasha’s ships.” She tapped the edge of the glass case. “Andros has a colorful history. The island went from Venetian rule, to Ottoman Turk, to Russian. The islanders were able to manage treaties that gave them naval privileges. They exploited what little freedoms they had and created a small merchant fleet.”
“So Andros did well on its own before the revolution was even over?”
“It did, even before the revolution. Greece endured almost five hundred years of Ottoman rule until they finally fought for their independence, and the island persevered, always producing and exporting a lot of goods—olives and olive oil, honey, even silk.”
“Silk? Really?”
“Yes. But then the silk worms were hit by a disease that wiped them out in the late eighteen hundreds. After that it was all about the boats. Bigger ships were built, more routes opened up when other nations were busy fighting wars. The Andriots got organized and built a shipyard on another island nearby, whereas in other Greek islands the sailing industry died a slow death. After the Revolution, ships from Andros were traveling across the Mediterranean, the Black Sea, even reaching India, and later on, Latin America. That’s when they began registering the majority of their fleets in England, to benefit from the global maritime market.”
“And thus a dynasty was born.”
“Many dynasties.” She let out a breath, her teeth scraping over her lip. “Sorry.”
“For what?”
“I must be boring you.”
“I like your tales of history and adventure.”
One would have assumed she only told tales of fashion shows in Paris and night clubs in Cape d’Antibes and Mykonos. Not this heiress. Not Adriana Lavrentiou.
A small smile curved her lips. “Some children get read fairy tales about princesses and knights, but I got told naval legends of sailors and captains and cannon fire and sword fights.” Her eyes were bright, alive, consuming, her voice soft, low as if she were sharing a deep secret. “My grandfather would tell me all sorts of stories about the glory days of sailors in our family and all their brutal sacrifices along the way.”
“I’d like to hear those stories.”
Her gaze returned to the model ship. “It was my great-great-grandfather Stefanos and his brothers who realized that the future of shipping was in steam. They were one of the first to build large steam passenger and commercial cargo ships when sailing came to an end by the turn of the century. They did very well. And so did Andros.”
“They had vision and stuck to it, and created a huge economic boom for one small island.”
“Yes, for generations. Charities were created, hospitals, a nursing home, and schools. Of course there were major losses too, but the shipowners kept on and became what they are today. My grandfather was the first to have carriers and tankers built in Japan.”
“Ah yes, oil.” The easy distribution of oil was the backbone of modern shipping and a huge global business.<
br />
“Always oil,” she said, letting out a breath, her face tightening.
I didn’t like that coldness and anxiety seeping into her beautiful eyes, stiffening her voice. I took her hand. “Let’s go for that swim. Show me the castle.”
The niggling question of why Adri would be the target of a gangsta style assassination in public burrowed deeper in my brain. Had her father and his company pissed off a criminal organization or a corporate rival? Such a vulgar and cruel act, yet maybe not beneath someone who wanted to make a very clear and very public point.
Alessio’s remark came back to me. That Adri had been through a violent attack with her boyfriend. Maybe this shooting was connected to him? Maybe this boyfriend was the one she was hung up on?
One thing I was sure of, I wanted to know who the hell this guy was.
29
Turo
Two minutes down the cobblestone road, we were at the end of the peninsula that was Chóra. Her mother’s family name was everywhere—in the tiny church a few steps from the house where she’d lit several thin tapers and kissed an icon, doing the sign of the cross, and in the small Naval Museum, another neoclassical mansion that was the very last building in town right on the water.
We wandered around the small, crowded galleries of the museum. Models of the family’s first carriers and tankers, sailors’ diaries, old compasses and knotted ropes, certificates and maps all documenting the rise of shipping in Andros. The views of the blue sea through each of the paneled windows on the second floor of the museum were nothing short of magnificent. A huge stone terrace spread out below with a large bronze statue at its center, a memorial honoring lost sailors.
“Our original house used to be just behind this one, but both were ruined by the Nazi bombings. This one was rebuilt and donated for the museum by another shipping family.”
“And that’s what’s left of the Venetian castle?” I pointed towards the stone ruins set on a high rock which jutted out into the churning sea. The only way to reach it was over a single high and very round-arched stone bridge that remained.