The wealthy businessman had a natural presence. He was always well dressed. His good looks and unbending confidence were disarming. A single gold front tooth had become this man’s trademark. Along with his silver hair, it was a symbol of his wealth.
He thrived financially when the junta was in power. After their demise, when democracy had been returned, his wily manner had allowed him to escape the wrath of the people. He had a photograph taken with Henry Kissinger, but never with the generals. He loved money but loved power and powerful friends infinitely more. He embraced the authority of the press and cultivated it to his advantage.
Of Aristides, no one ever quite knew the exact truth. Above him billowed clouds of ceaseless gossip. It was thought his first fortune was made from waste disposal, first in Crete, and then later in Athens, Albania and Bulgaria. Stories of his ruthlessness were fed by rumour. His connections with the lowlife made many fear him. The odoriferous reputation of dumping foul waste into the sea followed him. Even his generous philanthropy could not keep his past submerged. But was any of it true? Was he not the man who proclaimed, in jest, that all Cretans were liars?
The church was empty, but for a sprinkle of kneeling women whispering their personal prayers. As he kissed the icon, Semele, the austere church attendant, appeared in the distance near the altar. She flicked her hands furiously, beckoning Aristides to the priest’s humble quarters at the rear.
Aristides walked a few metres, then returned, placing a pocketful of loose change in the tin tray, the brash sound echoing in God’s presence. He took three freshly lit candles and placed each in a perfect line in the sand tray. “I light candles for the living, not the dead,” he whispered to himself. “One for my wife and two for my beautiful daughters whom the devil would love to tarnish.”
Aristides followed Semele who led him to the priest’s bed-sitting room. She crossed herself with the traditional stavro during the entire journey to the back of the church. Aristides entered with confidence as he twirled a bright gold set of worry beads. Father Dimitrios, dressed in his robes, was staring at the corner of the wall where the room’s only window, a narrow slit, was placed, allowing a meagre ray of light to fall on him.
“Father, forgive me for saying so, but each time I visit, you are looking at that silly window which must provide you no pleasure. Why don’t we cut a big hole here and give you a view of our harbour and the boats. I’ll pay for it myself, if need be.”
“Thank you, but my window is quite large enough for me. It lets me know when the morning sun comes up and reminds me when it leaves. How was your trip?”
“Good. I was in London and Frankfurt. My wife tells me that EEC business takes me away from my beloved island too much.”
“With God’s blessing, I hope your trip was successful.”
“Yes, it was, but it is not for my business or God’s blessing that I have come. I hear another crazy man has climbed Oaxsa and died.”
“It’s true. Steffanakis found him up there beneath his Minoan excavation. We think he fell from the rocks above.”
“He fell? This is the second death up there this year. Do we know him? Is he one of ours?”
“No. He is not from any of our villages. He had no papers. Nothing. We just don’t know. It took ten strong men to bring him down Oaxsa.”
“And the police? What do they think?”
“They’re not involved as yet,” said the priest.
“Well, it’s time they were. As President of Crete’s Chamber of Commerce, I have a responsibility to protect our interests here, and the interests of our families. I am sure you feel the same. I need your support on this. I want to close that mountain down.”
“Close it down?”
“Close it down, yes. I want to stop the archaeologist and his team of gravediggers up there. Another has died and you say he fell – or maybe he was pushed, or maybe he jumped of his own free will. That excavation is making our villagers talk about ancient gods and tanks of hidden gold. Ridculous! They tell me people are going up there in the night hoping to find riches or some ancient sign. It does not serve either of us, our causes, or the safety of our villagers. They are weak to temptation.”
The priest nodded in agreement, sighing in dismay. “As a man of God, I accept the ancient world for what it is. I am familiar with Steffanakis’ work throughout Crete. He commands great respect all over the world, even from me.”
“Respect? Ah, yes, of course, as one ought to respect the devil.”
The priest shrugged. “In the eyes of the church, the devil arrives in many forms. In the case of Mimis Steffanakis, I do not see evil. I admit, I am not at ease with this Minoan cult temple he has uncovered or the significance he gives to it.”
“Amen! That is my exact point. They say he found this place by discovering signs. One such sign was the nesting of the perthekes on that precise spot. They say their song attracted him like Odysseus to the Sirens. Is this a man of science or a man of pagan signs?”
“I spoke with him,” said the priest. “He never mentioned the perthekes. I did ask him how he knew to choose the exact place amongst the millions of places he might sink his spade.”
“And?”
“He said it was, in part, good luck.”
“Good luck? And you believe him. A man of such notoriety can probably afford humility or even self-deprecation by saying he was lucky, but he was drawn there by voices. Yes, voices that came to him. This I know, because the fishermen have told me. They heard it from Demetra, the fisherwoman. She is the one who shares his confidences. She, too, has luck with her fishing nets. The fish are attracted to her. I know why. That old woman has always been a devil worshipper, howling at the moon, yelling at the wind. They say her home, a cave somewhere up there, is alight with a thousand candles.”
“Demetra is a Christian.”
“Only in the daytime. You know of the powers they say she has. They say that her nets are full when all the others are empty. The fishermen say she has made a pact with the devil and now he rewards her.”
“Please! Don’t insult her. She gives her fish to the poor.”
“As you said, the devil arrives in many forms.”
“I know the gossip. You are not the first to come to me. I have already spoken to Mimis about this. We shared a pleasant dinner with old Mihilis from Dacktilo. During the dinner he told us of his discovery. He said it might be the first evidence ever of human sacrifice made to a Minoan god at a time of great turmoil. The temple was felled by the mightiest of earthquakes, crushing everyone. That was one thousand six hundred and twenty-eight years before Christ. He knew the year exactly. They have been resting there for almost four thousand years.”
Aristides looked down with concealed anger. “Do you not fear in your heart that he has disturbed God’s order by digging up the dead? Does fear not touch you in your chest? You speak to God every day. Does he not jab you with concern in regard to this matter?”
“Indeed, Aristides, he does.”
“Then we must act. I am not without powerful friends here or in Athens, but I must have your support and the blessing of the Church. Do I have it?”
“I am not without friends in high places either,” the priest said with a smile, “but I am also an educated man who is not easily forced into making emotional decisions like this. No, for the moment I do not lend my support to closing down Oaxsa or removing Steffanakis from his charter, or whatever you might have in your mind.”
“Father Dimitrios, you are one of the most educated priests in all of Crete. Surely you can see where all this leads? First we have an archaeologist who sees no end to his realm and who, I might add, sees himself as a man of the common people. He identifies with the shepherds, the lowly artists, and the very old who embellish backward notions. Sycophants, the lot of them. They treat him like God – which he silently allows. He barely speaks a word. He maintains that aloof look as though the rest of us are beneath him, as though we are stupid and incapable of understanding. Until
now he has always excavated far from here and always kept his work cloaked in secrecy. Every place Steffanakis has dug, he has caused concern for the town fathers. In Anoigia the people bow to him in the street. They don’t even do that to Father Vlakas. Who does he think he is, Jesus Christ? I’d fire anyone like that in my organization, just like that,” he barked, snapping his fingers.
“He says he has found the first ever site where, in order to save others, someone was sacrificed. Is this to say he has found the tomb of Christ? You see why I have come to you? This is a bad thing. His stature will only grow as he aligns himself to all of this. It’s as though only he has the wisdom to uncover truth and meaning. And where might that leave you and your Church? People will look up to him more than they already do. And you, well, you’re just the old-time priest. I say this without meaning you any disrespect. Your business is like mine. It’s hard enough keeping our existing clients, without phony competition. On top of this, two people have died climbing that mountain trying to reach the pagan temple. Remember, Oaxsa has been closed before. Many times. People died in search of what I do not know. Ancient treasures? The hidden tank of gold? Soon strangers will come to hear the archaeologist and climb that mountain of a thousand winds in search of the dead.”
The priest pondered. “You see Mimis Steffanakis as the priest?”
“Exactly, Father Dimitrios. He already is.”
The priest shrugged. “I wonder if I see Mimis the way you paint him. Is he an evil one unearthing the dead, and with Demetra, enlivening pagan spirits; a heathen acting as Christ? Have his excavations caused the death of innocent people? If you were asking me to pass judgment then I would find in favour of his innocence. Your charges would be thrown out of court for lack of proof. So you see, I will not be part of your plan. At least for now. What you do is your business, but I will not play a part in it. Your idea will do more harm than good.”
“So we wait until another dies? Wait until the gossip really begins to spread of the secrets he keeps up there. In business I act before there is trouble. If we wait until everything collapses, then we will have lost.”
“I thank you, Aristides, for bringing your concerns to me. I, too, will keep a careful watch on the mood of the villagers. But I am a man of God obeying God’s laws. I am not a politician or a businessman. That is your role, and you may see fit to do what your heart and mind tells you, but for now, I will not be a part of it.”
Aristides wanted to say more. His face flushed with redness but he turned instead toward the door. With one hand on the knob, he said, “The offer still stands. You need a bigger window to see what’s going on out there.”
He pulled the door sharply as he met the eyes of Semele. Her stare was discomforting and he stopped to study it momentarily. She walked him back through the church and to the front door. There she took Aristides’ hand and squeezed it.
I hear the language of the Turk, the language of the Greek.
The language of the dead, alive, when I am dead asleep.
I hear the language of the lemon tree, her blossoms singing sweet,
The language of the wind, on occasion when we meet.
I hear the language of the water in the colours of the sea,
Of voices faintly speaking within an ancient olive tree.
Mavrokakis
Circa 1880s
Elefsis Port along the Gulf of Korfos
July 1980
D
emetra’s voice was strong, masculine and free of inhibition. She sang old mantinades while tidying her boat beside the wharf, filling the air with the sounds of music for the passers-by. She sang the songs that made her the happiest. These were the songs she had sung to her husband, Hierophos, while he was still alive. Since his death she sang not to love lost, but to love that never dies.
Clouds of mist in
Time disperse:
Great blessings in time
Become a curse.
I wait for you always
Either dead or alive,
Because love of faith
In the bones survives.
In the fullness of the moon,
A tree never takes root;
Only from the tree of love,
Roots and branches shoot.
Demetra hoisted three baskets of fish onto the wharf while bellowing to the fishermen moored beside her to join in her songs. They needed little enticing, her voice waking their deep passions, both as heroic lovers and warriors. No Cretan man of the sea could resist a mantinade. The age of these songs was unknown. So many of them were invented to sing on long voyages to pass the time. There were songs of the sea, the wind, the moon, and of a love back home above the waterline – and lust.
At first the fishermen sang together as though from a single heart. Later each man took his turn to sing alone. These songs made them feel free and without the weight of gravity, lifting the fishermen to a place of wonder in the clouds, and at the same time, prizing open the poor hardened souls. Such was the splendour of these mantinades, the men would sing them forever if not for the practicalities of daily life.
When they finished singing, the joyous feelings of unity and desire slowly subsided. Returning to earth and their earthly bodies, they regained the prejudices, fears and resentments they had left behind. For a few, it took only a glance at Demetra’s three baskets of fish to regenerate blooms of bitterness. Privately, they conspired.
“She lights a thousand candles. One for every demon in that cave up there,” said Paramendes.
Another agreed. “I believe this is true. Which one of us would dare walk up there at night? At that time her blue eyes turn red, like fire, and she can eat the flesh of men!”
Yet at times their fear and resentment were replaced with awe, knowing she needed the help of no man. Among themselves they still recalled the morning her winch broke in heavy seas. The fishermen watched as she pulled in her nets, laden with fish, by hand. Later, on the wharf, without pleading for assistance, she lifted the nets to shore by herself. She boxed the catch and carried it to the platea to sell. There was not a man amongst them who did not admire her that day. That she was nearly seventy years old only enlarged her reputation.
“Give her credit, men,” said Kolikos. “She’s the last to navigate by fingers; two fingers off Cape Sitia for safety, three fingers from Fengari Bay toward Lefteros.”
The fishermen nodded respectfully, remembering how their grandfathers navigated by fingers. One had made it all the way to Syria without a map. It was an art known only by the finest sailors. They knew every bay or outcrop of land by heart and passed their knowledge to their offspring, who in time dismissed the technique in favour of a machine.
When young Spargos had his boat dry docked in Agia Eleni for repairs, Demetra offered him work on her boat until his was fixed. Her sharing the profits with him for nine weeks kept Spargos’ family in food, with enough left over to fix his ailing vessel. When too much drink filled the fishermen’s heads with self-misery and cursed accusations, Spargos would always remind them of her generosity.
“She didn’t need me on her boat. There was not one thing I did that she could not easily have done herself.”
“How generous is that woman’s soul when it comes to all of us?” came the reply. “Why didn’t she tell the fish to jump into our nets?” asked one ashen-faced sailor.
“Why doesn’t she tell us how she does it?” asked another. “You should know. You fished with her every day.”
“I think she smells them,” said Spargos, wishing to conceal his loyalty.
“Bah!” came the sharp denial, though their eyes looked back eagerly, wanting to hear more. They waited. Waited. Then Paramendes flicked his hand and turned away. “You’ve become her little puppy dog.”
Spargos saw the disappointment in their eyes. One by one, they turned their backs toward him. An invisible hand reached inside and squeezed the young man’s heart, turning his face bright red. The decision to reveal might remove their silent reje
ction.
Spargos told the fishermen about Demetra’s story of her dead husband, Hierophos. She had told him how Hierophos had appeared in her cave night after night, arriving as a blinding light. The light was so strong, so bright, she could not look at him. The shape of the light moved as though it had arms that reached out to embrace her. Demetra related how, through the breath of this light, she felt him speak: “Look for me. I have chosen to be the fishes in order to be near you. All the fishes in the sea will shine bright. Look for me.”
Spargos then revealed how, when he was with Demetra, he witnessed a stormy night when lightning bolted from the sky and smashed into the sea. The lightning seemed to surround her like a cape. Her purple sweater turned as white as the lightning. “Hierophos,” she shouted, arms raised up to the sky.
“You gossip like old women,” shouted Manolis Theepsos. “All of you! You should be ashamed. Plato told a story about men just like you. Do you know it?”
With embarrassment, the men shook their heads in denial.
“Then I will tell you. There were once many men who lived underground, their legs and necks chained so they could not move. There was a dim light coming from above and behind them. Their own shadows bounced around when they moved. They looked at these phantom shadows all day long. One man got loose and climbed out and was nearly blinded by the real light, the sun. He began to see what was beautiful and what was true. He thought of the families of the men below and knew he had a problem. Should he tell them that their shadows and phantoms are a lie? Should he help to free them so they, too, could see the truth, or should he say nothing? Spargos, you know the truth about Demetra, and you do nothing.”
A few days later, Father Dimitrios listened to Spargos’ confession of his betrayal of Demetra’s trust. The priest questioned him: “Why did you tell this story? What other reason did you have but to alter the perception of Demetra in some bad way, or to reinforce the thoughts of others? You, of all people, Spargos.”
Digging at the Crossroads of Time Page 5