Those Summer Nights (Corfu, Greek Island Romance)

by Mandy Baggot

  ‘I don’t think it’s as simple as that,’ she said. ‘Emotion doesn’t have to be put into a box and marked with a label.’ She sat up in her seat. ‘I really think you have to decide who you want in your life and why and start there.’

  ‘And if some of the people you remove from your life are family?’ Panos offered.

  ‘I never said family are easy.’

  ‘But you need them and want them.’

  ‘Not everyone feels the same. Not everyone is lucky. I don’t have a father any more, remember?’ she said.

  ‘And I wish I never had mine.’

  He had answered quickly and she knew, from the sparse information he’d given her over the time they had known each other, speaking about his family didn’t come easy. She seized on the opportunity.

  ‘What exactly did he do, Pano?’

  She watched the grills go up on the windows of his soul, his expression cloud and that firm jawline harden further. Was he still not ready to let anyone in? She maintained a silence, half-hoping he would start to talk, half-afraid she wouldn’t know what to do if he did.

  ‘He destroyed us,’ he whispered, his voice strained with vehemence.

  She kept quiet, her fingers winding around the arms of the wooden chair as she tried to remain still.

  ‘He destroyed us and then… then he destroyed himself. And by then, I didn’t care.’ He picked up his coffee cup. ‘Because he had gone from being my everything to being the man that tore us all apart.’

  54

  The outskirts of Acharavi

  Panos hadn’t said a word on the drive back across the island. After they finished their drinks by the sea they had walked back to the car and he had made uneasy small talk about the patchwork plaster on the buildings they passed, the old and new forts that rose up like brick-built guardians and Vido, the wildlife sanctuary and previous island hospital for Serbian war soldiers, sitting in the mouth of the port of Corfu Town. He had been keen to give her a brief history lesson rather than talk about what was in the box of memories he had opened up.

  Imogen settled back into her seat as the roads flattened out, recognising some of the signs and landmarks from her previous trip and knowing they were nearing Acharavi. She had the business permit. That’s what she had gone to the capital for. Halloumi was her priority. If Panos couldn’t open up it wasn’t her concern.

  But then he was pulling off the main road, up a dirt track that quickly turned into a steep incline. Imogen reached for the handle by the top of the door frame and clung on.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked. ‘If this is a short cut I’d really rather stick to the main road.’

  When Panos didn’t answer she turned her head. He was focussed on the road and navigating the difficult terrain in the saloon. With the size of the rocks and rubble on the trail even a monster truck would have had difficulty.

  Jerks and jumps had Imogen hanging on, until a building came into view and Panos swung the car left, pulling to a stop outside the site.

  ‘What is this place?’ Imogen asked, looking through the passenger window. It was a tall structure that looked completely out of place in the middle of an olive grove. Gnarly trunks with slender silvery-green branches swayed in the breeze around the concrete.

  ‘It is nothing,’ Panos snapped. ‘Look at it.’ He wrenched open his door, his shoes crunching the gravel beneath their soles.

  Imogen hastened out of the vehicle too, closing the door after her and checking out the towering four-storey construction ahead of them.

  The exterior of it was finished. Thick breeze-block walls with red brick over half of it; some of that work was even plastered. Inside, however, was a different story. It was dark, completely empty, no doors, no windows, just the basic shell like a few properties she’d seen around the area. But it wasn’t just bereft of paintwork, fixtures and fittings, it was lacking any warmth. It was raw, hollowed out, a cave. It was as if someone had started the project with energy and enthusiasm and then run out of steam… or money.

  ‘What was it going to be?’ Imogen asked, watching Panos as he walked up to the entrance and placed a hand on the wall.

  ‘A hotel,’ he stated. ‘It would have been one of the biggest hotels in this area.’ He drew in a breath. ‘And he wanted it to be the best, too.’ He shook his head. ‘Nothing but the best for Christos Dimitriou.’

  Then she understood. ‘This was one of your father’s hotels.’

  ‘Yes,’ he breathed. ‘This was the final property he built. This was what he had always wanted. This was going to be the icing on his cake. His flagship. His way of saying to all the doubters, “Here I am. The son of a farmer. Rich. Successful. So much better than everyone I grew up with.”.’ He kicked a foot at the rocky ground. ‘My mother owns this now. I tell her years ago she should sell this or just knock it down but she won’t. It is like she wants this ugly reminder to stay here forever.’

  Imogen swallowed as every ounce of his agony coiled in her chest. She needed to say the right thing now if she wanted him to carry on opening up. ‘Tell me what happened?’ she asked softly.

  He shook his head. ‘I really do not know where to start.’

  She watched him hang his head, leaning his entire weight on that one hand flat against the wall of the building. He looked utterly deflated. The confident, self-assured businessman completely missing.

  Taking tentative steps forward, Imogen moved closer to him. ‘Just tell me what he did to you,’ she whispered.

  He threw his hands up to the sky then, as if someone or something was up there. ‘He made me who I am. He has dictated my entire life. And I am starting to realise… I hate that.’

  The words were spat out, angry and coated in hatred. He snapped his hands back down then shot them out again. ‘Look at this place!’ he exclaimed. ‘Look at what it could have been!’

  Imogen took in the structure again, then shifted her vision to the surrounding area. The gorse, olive and cypress trees, wild flowers, the mountain in the background. ‘It’s a little out of place.’

  ‘Yes!’ he agreed. ‘Yes it is. And that is one of the things he got wrong.’ He shook his head. ‘But, by the time this place was built, he was already finished.’

  She picked a long straw of grass and began to strip it slowly with her fingers, hoping he would continue. She saw so much pain in him it was possible he had been holding onto this burden for years. Carrying the weight of all that rage and hurt had to do something to a person.

  ‘He dreamed too big, Imogen,’ he said in quieter tones, the words drifting out of him on the mountain breeze. ‘He set his sights on the top of Mount Pantokrator when really he should have started out trying to conquer the foothills.’ He sunk down onto the ground, his back resting against the front wall of the hotel, shoes and trousers getting coated in dust. ‘He had success with his very first deal, a hotel in Kavos, in the south of the island, and he built a very good business – buying up hotels, renovating them, running them for a few years then selling them on for a profit. But he got greedy. What he had was not enough. He wanted the moon. He wanted to be a business king.’

  She stepped up until she was alongside Panos, then sunk down next to him, stones slipping into her sandals as she stretched out her bare legs. ‘Is that what you want too?’

  He cranked his head left, his eyes full of fire. ‘I have done it already. I succeeded where he failed. He made that my destiny.’

  * * *

  Saying the words out loud had Panos sounding like a fool. But he knew. He had always known. He had followed his father’s path, not out of some blood-tied loyalty but because he wanted to be the man his father had failed at being. He wanted to have the million-Euro business, the string of successful enterprises, be the king. Win for Dimitriou, be better than John.

  ‘He was an alcoholic near the end,’ Panos whispered. ‘He used to come home hardly able to walk.’ He shook his head, his dark hair moving with the motion. ‘The last time… I heard him come in,
there was the sound of smashing glasses or plates… I do not know… and then my mother, she is screaming.’

  He pressed his finger and thumb to the bridge of his nose as the memories flooded his consciousness. ‘He died right there. On the floor. In a pool of his own vomit. Forty-five years old.’

  Tears welled in his eyes and he tried to temper his feelings. He felt Imogen’s arm go around his shoulders and his instinct was to shrug it off, shift away. Showing that this had affected him was weak. You couldn’t be weak in life. Weak people were losers and losers, well, they lost.

  ‘Pano—’

  ‘There is nothing you can say,’ he interrupted.

  ‘There is,’ she answered.

  ‘What? That I should not let his mistakes be a shadow over me?’

  ‘Well… yes.’

  ‘And I should grieve, let all this pain out?’

  ‘Maybe that too, yes.’

  He shook his head. She didn’t understand. How could she? He focussed on her then, her beautiful elfin face, that determined expression set as default, the soft shape of her pink lips. ‘You did not have a father like mine,’ he whispered.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I loved my father very much but he wasn’t there either. He spent half his life in a plane, working to support us, when all I really wanted was him at home.’ She kicked a toe at a stone. ‘Everything he ever brought back for me I cherished but I would have gladly swapped it for more time with him.’

  He exhaled. ‘And now it is too late for everyone. Things cannot be changed.’

  ‘Wait,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean with you.’ Her tone was insistent. ‘Following your business dream… your father’s business dream… hasn’t made you as fulfilled as you thought it would, but there’s still time to do something else.’ She paused. ‘You’re doing something else… with the community market.’

  ‘I want to, yes,’ he agreed.

  ‘Then that’s a new start,’ she said. ‘A change.’

  He shook his head. ‘There are parts of me I cannot change.’

  ‘Like what?’

  How could he tell her that he didn’t think he was capable of love because of all he had seen and experienced? How could he tell her he didn’t think he was brave enough to even try? He had already fallen for her and she was leaving soon.

  He swallowed, his eyes picking out the undulating hills leading down to the coast, the sea a whisper of blueish silver in the distance. ‘I do not know if either of the new projects here will be enough.’

  He felt her body move against him and her hand sought his, her fingers lengthening as they closed every space between them.

  ‘It will be a beginning,’ she whispered. ‘Once you have that, the rest is up to you.’

  55

  Main Street, Acharavi

  The afternoon of the festival had gone well. When Imogen and Panos returned to Halloumi it was to find Elpida in mid scurry with Cooky taking trays of garlic and herb mussels in pots with thick slabs of fresh bread to the beach stall just outside the restaurant where Harry, Janie, Rhea and the children were handing out food to the celebrating villagers.

  The sound of lute, bouzouki and guitar filled the air, along with toots and drum beats from a marching brass band, all accompanying a team of Greek dancers leading sirtaki along the promenade.

  Risto had handed out coupons for discounted meals on Halloumi’s opening night and all of them were now gone. If even half the people made use of them and booked a table, the restaurant was going to be busy on its first evening.

  Now, as the sun began to go down, the entertainment had moved to the very centre of the town, the main street, where another stage had been erected just in front of the pump ‘roundabout’. Spiros the shopkeeper had told Imogen the old water pump was where the villagers all used to collect their water from in days gone by and, in honour of this, the restaurant directly opposite was called The Pumphouse.

  Tonight the owners of all the restaurants on the main street were preparing a feast for the entire village. Goats, pigs and lambs were all turning on spits outside the various eateries and the fragrance of rosemary, bay leaves and other assorted spices filled the air.

  For the duration of the night there would be no traffic down the road. Barricades had been placed at both ends, virtually cutting Acharavi off from the rest of the island, long trestle tables lined the street, all decorated simply with paper tablecloths and glowing tea lights in jam jars.

  Imogen accepted a plastic glass of clear liquid from a passing man, a tray of drinks hanging around his neck. She took a sip and the harsh alcohol almost sizzled her tongue. She hung it out into the air and Risto touched her arm.

  ‘You are OK?’ he asked.

  ‘What is this?’ Imogen coughed.

  Risto laughed. ‘That is tsipouroi. It is made by the Lasko family.’ He drank some from his plastic glass. ‘Every year no one is quite sure they get the mixture right. But…’ He finished the liquid in his cup. ‘We drink this anyway.’

  Imogen smiled as the team of dancers bobbed and swayed on the road in front of them. It was a real carnival atmosphere with nothing but happy, smiling faces and the noisy chatter and laughter almost as loud as the Greek music. Through the dancers she picked out a familiar face. Sitting with a group of other Greek women all dressed in black was Mrs Pelekas, bouncing her knee up and down in time to the beat of the drum.

  Her eyes went to Harry, who was being persuaded into the line of Greek dancing, Olivia on one side of him, Tristan on the other and Janie clapping along as she watched. Her sister-in-law was smiling, her face glowing as she looked at Harry. Was Corfu working its magic on them?

  And then there was Panos, standing with Alejandro Kalas, Vasilis and his daughters, Rhea next to him. Her stomach turned and she moved her eyes away, fixing on Elpida and Cooky, the two women standing on chairs, swaying in time to the music, singing at the top of their voices.

  * * *

  From across the road Panos watched Imogen. The last light was beginning to fade and the strings of bulbs like miniature fireflies flickered from the boughs of every tree. Under the glow, her blonde hair, for once not tied up, cascaded over her bare shoulders, a treacle-like contrast to the plain black bandeau dress she wore. Her sun-kissed skin was radiant and she had never looked more beautiful to him.

  He shifted on his feet. What was he going to do about that? He had opened up to her today, shown her his fears, told her his story, but instead of feeling unburdened, he felt more tied up than ever. Because how he felt still hung there, swaying in the breeze like figs on a tree, cautious as to whether to fall or be picked.

  ‘So, Panos…’ Alejandro boomed, grease from a pitta gyros around his mouth. ‘We are agreed about the community market, yes?’

  He nodded, raising his plastic glass of tsipouroi. ‘It is a sound idea.’

  ‘Poli kaló!’ Alejandro answered. ‘You will help me show this to the council at the next meeting.’

  ‘Wait… what?’ This wasn’t what he had planned. He had made the decision to help, but his ultimate priority was going to be the bars on the beachfront. He didn’t want to be the figurehead of this campaign.

  ‘We need to fix costs, show them how this will make money for the community, fuel solidarity between us and bring in even more tourism.’

  ‘Alejandro, I will help all that I can but, as you no doubt know, I have bought Tomas’ Taverna. We need to finalise my plans for the beachfront complex.’

  ‘Rhea, you must come to dance with us!’ Margot said, tugging at the woman’s arm. ‘Vasilis, you too!’

  Panos was grateful for the interruption and took a swig of the highly intoxicating drink while the two Kalas women, Vasilis and Rhea departed for the circle that had formed around the pump roundabout.

  ‘Ochi, Panos,’ the man said, shaking his head. ‘I tell you, the council will not pass plans like this anymore. Since the crisis they have concern about all new buildings like this.’

  Panos’ mouth dried up, his
tongue hard and unmalleable. ‘Alejandro, I am willing to work with you on the community market but I need the go-ahead on the plans for a Dimitriou Enterprises development.’

  ‘That is a condition of your help, is it?’ Alejandro asked, his eyes darkening. ‘You wish for me to push this through the council?’

  Panos swallowed, ducking into the older man’s space and lowering his voice a little. ‘I will make sure you are rewarded.’

  Alejandro snorted. ‘What would your father think?’

  ‘My father was a failure. I am never going to be that.’ He stood firm, keeping his head held high.

  Alejandro shook his head. ‘Your father got in over his head but he would never have tried to do what you want to.’ He took a slug of his drink. ‘Your father loved Acharavi just the way it is,’ Alejandro continued. ‘Why do you think he wanted to build the last Dimitriou Hotel outside of the village?’

  ‘Because permission was turned down for that size of building in the centre,’ Panos stated confidently.

  ‘No,’ Alejandro stated gruffly. ‘Because he wanted to give tourists the five-star contemporary stays they were looking for and the real Greece too. The Greece he grew up in, the Greece he raised you in, the tradition that should still run deep inside you.’ He paused. ‘I saw his plans. He did not want to build something that would ruin the look of the village. That’s why he chose the site a few kilometres away. He was going to run a minibus to the town several times a day to ensure his guests spent money in the village, at the local tavernas and bars. The heart of the community was always at the forefront of his mind when it came to home.’

  His cheeks flushed at the councillor’s words. He felt like he had been kicked in the stomach. Was this true? Had his father felt that way?

  ‘But, he simply ran out of money. Took on too much,’ Alejandro said. ‘Panos, your father, he was a good man with a true heart.’