How Greek Is Your Love

by Marjory McGinn

I had to ask what malagousia was, as Angus and I usually preferred the local wine sold in village stores, which everyone drank, even one of the more pukka expats, who often referred to the wine as “eminently quaffable”. I doubted Peregrine would agree.

  “It’s an excellent Greek wine, very peachy and nice,” she said.

  “Okay, one glass. I’m driving.”

  She shrugged sardonically. “Would that make a difference in rural Greece?”

  “Probably not, but I’ll try at least to be sensible,” I said, offering a smile.

  She returned with two crystal glasses of wine on a tray with a large dish of salted nuts. The wine was as peachy as she’d said and her change of mood was even peachier. Peregrine settled onto the sofa again and seemed to relish the wine, drinking it quickly as if to banish all bookish thoughts. I marvelled at how tense celebrities could be with journalists when they often do much scarier things in pursuit of fame than answering a few benign questions. It had hardly been a News Of The World type of interview.

  I was beginning to understand what a curious and complex creature Peregrine was. The wine was nice, however, and as she relaxed, she became chatty. We passed some time talking about life in Greece. She refilled our glasses.

  “By the way, have you looked at those wonderful photographs on this wall?” She swivelled around towards the wall displaying three large black and white prints, which I was facing. “Aren’t they divine? They’re all shots of the Mesa Mani, the Deep Mani, by a British photographer,” she burbled.

  The first one she pointed to was a starkly beautiful image of a stone ruin on a treeless promontory.

  “It’s a temple close to the mythical Cave of Hades near the Cape Tainaron lighthouse? Do you know about that?”

  “A bit.” I vaguely remembered Angus and Leonidas talking about the site, the doorway to the Underworld in ancient times, but I hadn’t been there.

  “Ah, you must go. It’s so quiet down there, so beautiful. I adore that place,” she said.

  The second photo was of Porto Kayio, she told me, a small bay not far from the other location. Another remote kind of place, framed by low hills with a long promontory on one side. She then moved to the third picture. “But this place here is my absolute favourite.” The photo showed a saddle of rock with a phalanx of tall towers, many derelict, ranged across it. The place looked severe, the image softened only by the olive trees straggling down the hillside. Another lonely outpost.

  “Where’s that?”

  “It’s the deserted village of Vathia, one of the real old Maniot strongholds. The tower houses were fortified in the days when clans fought each other for prominence. You must visit this village too. There are so many places like this in the Mesa Mani, places to escape the rat race.”

  She was on a roll now, her mood remarkably leavened from previously, and I jotted down the names of the places she gave me, more to be polite than anything.

  “You tour quite a bit of this region when you’re here, I take it,” I said.

  “I have in the past but not as much as I should. I come for a few months every year in early summer, mainly to work on my latest book. This year, the same. But I’ll probably stay longer this time until I’ve …” She didn’t finish the sentence but I guessed what she was alluding to. A few rings were twisted again, then silence.

  I should have let this thread go, but I must have had a gremlin on my shoulder, whispering in my lughole. I braved a return to the ‘work in progress’. It seemed a shame not to.

  “Perhaps when you’ve finished your novel, Eve, you might contact me and let me know. I could write a small piece about it for one of the British nationals.” I raked about in my bag for my card and handed it to her.

  She turned the card over in her hands a few times, frowning. “I really can’t promise anything, you know.”

  “Okay, we can talk about it later,” I said quickly, with an air of finality, glancing at my watch. Ready to bolt now.

  Yet I could sense the gears in her brain thrumming away, working over a spiky response perhaps. I was about to get up when she sighed deeply.

  “The thing is …. I can’t promise an interview because … you see …” More twisting of the pony tail. “I have no idea when the book will be finished, actually.”

  “Oh, but you said it would now have an autumn launch, didn’t you?”

  “Well, that’s what I’d hoped.”

  “But?” I said, trying to nudge her along.

  Agonising silence and then, “Tell me, Bronte. Have you ever had writer’s block?”

  “Is that what’s holding up this book?”

  “Kind of,” she said, “though I don’t know why I’m telling you this. You must have an honest face, for a journalist, if you don’t mind me saying that.”

  I laughed thinly. I don’t think it was my face exactly. It wouldn’t be the first time an interviewee had waited until the very last moment to reveal something significant. It was what I imagined a psychotherapy patient would do when they know their time’s nearly up at a session. But when the confession came in an interview, in hindsight, it always felt as if the whole procedure had been leading to that final question.

  “No, I’ve never suffered from writer’s block. As a newspaper journalist I’ve never had that luxury. Deadlines and all that.”

  “It’s not a luxury, I assure you,” she said primly.

  “I’m sorry to hear you’re having problems with the book. I assume you don’t want any of this to come out.”

  “No, please, it’s strictly off the record. It would affect my reputation, not to mention rile my publisher.”

  “He doesn’t know you’re having this problem?”

  “Not really. All he knows is that I’m a bit behind with things and that the book won’t make the summer deadline, and that’s bad enough.”

  “Ah, that’s awkward,” I said.

  She nodded. “So, just to be clear, it’s off the record and please abide by that because I can be a ferocious opponent when people cross me,” she said with a flash of her eyes. I didn’t doubt it. “I don’t know that it’s writer’s block exactly. I find that a bit extreme. Sometimes words just don’t flow as they should … they get … you know … waylaid.” She flapped her hands around.

  A luvvie’s euphemism, no doubt, for words stacking up in a U-bend. It was a block all right, the iconic undoing of many a scribe, but rarely admitted to.

  “I’m sure it’s just a temporary blip. After all, you’ve penned so many best-sellers already.”

  “It doesn’t feel like a blip. I thought that spending more time in Greece would offer a solution but …,” she trailed off, shrugging her shoulders mournfully. “I don’t mind telling you, and again it’s off the record, this has really brought me a bit low at times. And I’ve probably said far too much and I apologise for moaning about my writing career. It’s not what I intended.”

  If I’d expected her to give me more insights into her literary heartbreak, I was wrong. The drawbridge was cranked up and there was a slight return to chilliness. All the same I felt a bit sorry for her if she was telling the truth. I picked up my bag.

  “Thanks for the interview and the refreshments,” I said, smiling, but I was keen to be on my way. “If you want to talk again about the subject, do call me. Perhaps I can help in some way.” Though I couldn’t really see how.

  She quickly rose from the sofa, rubbing her hands down the front of her linen trousers to smooth out the wrinkles. It seemed more symbolic than practical. I bade her farewell at the door. She offered a clammy handshake.

  “Do you mind if I see the article before you send it off?” she asked.

  “If you really want to, but I promise I won’t mention the writer’s block.”

  She winced at the ‘block’. “Oh, don’t worry. I think I do trust you. I’m sure it will be fine, and please call if you need any more quotes.”

  Strange, contradictory woman, I thought as I started up the Fiat and wound my way back
to the village. I wondered why she had wanted to do the interview at all since there was no book yet to promote, unless she just wanted to stay onside with her publisher. I couldn’t help but think that the writing drama was probably only part of her current problems. Maybe she was in some kind of menopausal ferment or poleaxed after a failed love affair. I’d probably find out in the autumn when the book still hadn’t appeared and the news filtered through to the book review pages of the newspapers.

  When I got home, I decided to email Sylvia Rainford again and tease out something about the book delay. The response was vague, all to do with the book probably taking longer because of research and so forth. It was interesting that Rainford hadn’t mentioned any of this to start with. But I was sure she didn’t know the real reason for the hold-up, and neither did the publisher. Perhaps they just thought Peregrine was keeping sloppy deadlines these days, bad enough though that was.

  I also contacted an old colleague, Gloria, the books editor on The Alba, who knew a lot of people in the industry. While not giving too much away, I thought I’d sound Gloria out and see if any gossip was doing the rounds among the literary fraternity about Peregrine’s procrastination.

  Chapter 6

  There’s something about Zeffy

  Zeffy, the former bin boy, took to his new regime of daily walks like a Crufts wannabe. With his new collar and lead, his fur trimmed, his cockatoo crest gleaming white, he looked chipper. One day I took him into the village. Before we reached the outskirts, my heart did a queasy salsa when I saw the creep again on the scooter coming towards us. Had he moved into the village now? He stopped ahead of me on the other side of the road, the engine running. This was really too much! Zeffy started up a furious round of barking. He hadn’t forgotten the man who hit him with the rock, the mark of which was still visible. As I got closer, the creep glared at me in his usual fashion. Then he laughed, pointed at the dog, and said something in Greek I couldn’t understand. Zeffy didn’t like the tone at least and was up on his back legs, straining against the lead, baring his teeth.

  “Fiye,” the creep shouted in Greek to the dog, with a wave of his hand that seemed to mean ‘get lost’.

  I pointed at the creep and shouted back, “You, fiye!”

  He didn’t respond for a moment, just stared hard. I wondered at the wisdom of being out here alone after that first encounter, telling him to push off. It crossed my mind that the creep knew where I lived now. It wouldn’t be hard to find out in a small rural community. More reason never to walk this road alone in future.

  “You not speak to me again, xeni, or …” he said, without finishing the sentence, but he didn’t have to. I got the picture but it was the dog he focused on now, pointing at it, spitting something out in Greek, his face twisted in spite. It frightened me. There was no denying he had something nasty in mind. As if Zeffy sensed the danger, he started barking again and pulling on the lead. I slipped my mobile out of my pocket and fumbled for the camera icon but in the time it took to get it activated, the creep had roared off on his scooter and I got nothing, apart from a distant shot of him from behind looking unrecognisable. And there was no number plate on the scooter either, as I had suspected.

  I continued to the village, faster this time. I felt shaken and angry. So, there was a threat this time. If I spoke out of turn again, the dog would be dealt with. Easier to threaten the dog than me. By the time I reached the Zefiros café, my mood was calmer. Elpida was surprised to see me with a dog, and all the details had to be supplied. Where did I get him, why, when, and was he living in Villa Anemos?

  “Bronte, you rescued a street dog, really? Ah, you know I think I remember this vromiko skilaki. The dirty fur, the funny patches. I threw him bits of food sometimes. He looks different now. Like he’s been in the washing machine, yes?” She laughed, looking down at him as he sat nicely on the terrace between us. “What you call him?”

  “You won’t believe it, but I named him after your kafeneio. He’s Zefiros, or Zeffy for short.”

  Her eyes went big and round.

  “Why you do that?”

  “Because I like it here. I like the name. And I found him just after the last time I was here.”

  “Po, po, po, Bronte!” she said, waving her arm around, as Greeks do when they hear something exceptional, frustrating, or plain crazy. I didn’t know whether she liked the fact a dog was named after the kafeneio or not. One day it would surely all make sense to her. But I had something else to talk to her about.

  “Elpida, remember recently when we saw some guys on their scooters parked on the road? You said you didn’t like the look of them. One had long greasy hair, a long nose, mean eyes.”

  She rubbed her chin where a small bump gave it a kind of point. “I remember. Why you ask, Bronte?”

  “You said you thought he was from further down the Mani. Do you know where he’s from exactly?”

  She sat quietly a moment, her lips pressed together with concentration. “I’m certain he’s from the Mesa Mani, like I said. But which village, I don’t know. Is he making you trouble?”

  “Well … it’s just that I keep seeing him on the road between here and the house. I wonder why he’s hanging about so much. He’s got a mean look and I don’t like him,” I said, not wanting to reveal all the details of the two incidents. Elpida was feisty enough to confront a troublemaker. That would only make things worse, maybe for her as well.

  Elpida rubbed her chin again and looked serious. “Okay, Bronte. I make some more enquiries for you. Someone here will know for sure who he is. No-one in Greece can hide for long,” she said with a wink. “But why do you always walk that road. It’s a long one. Why you don’t drive here?”

  “I never felt it was unsafe, until now.”

  She grimaced. “You be careful, okay. But good you have a dog to protect you now. Little Zefiros,” she said, rubbing the air above his head, if not his head exactly, making the white crest rise with the static. She went inside the café and returned with some biscuits for him.

  “What does Leonidas say about the dog?”

  “He likes it a lot,” I lied. “Who wouldn’t?” I gave Zeffy a proprietorial grin as he worked over his biscuits.

  Leonidas would have to be told this weekend. I felt sure he’d like the dog, even if it wasn’t a poodle!

  “What is that?” said Leonidas, pointing at Zeffy and crinkling his nose, when he saw us walking along the road from Myrto’s farm.

  It was Friday afternoon. He’d just turned up from Kalamata in his black four-wheel drive. He looked smart in a dark suit, carrying his medical bag.

  “Myrto has given you a stray dog?” he said, his eyes growing dark and quizzical.

  “No, of course not.” But then I had to explain how I’d come across Zeffy with a head wound and took him to Dr Blacksnake. I didn’t mention the creep just yet.

  “He’s just a young dog and all cleaned up now. Isn’t he lovely? Go, say hello to Doctor Leonidas,” I said to the dog, in a simpering voice. There will be trouble, I thought.

  But Leonidas only stared at the dog, with its comical face patch and lovely chestnut brown eyes that had become big and pitiful, the default expression for dogs winning over humans.

  “Okay, it’s not a poodle. But are you keeping him for good, or just until you find him a real home?”

  “For good.”

  He gave me a squinty look.

  “You’ve got him inside Villa Anemos?”

  I nodded. “Is that okay?”

  Leonidas gently puffed air through his lips. Generally, rural Greeks don’t like to keep dogs indoors. Outside in a doghouse, or on a stout chain, was usually good enough. But Leonidas was a city Greek as much as anything and I knew that some people in Kalamata kept pet dogs in their apartments. It wasn’t completely uncharted territory.

  “Don’t worry, I’ve had him all fixed up, vaccinations, drops for the fleas, ticks. The lot. He won’t be a bother. Trust me. And I won’t bring him into Villa Ambelia.”
Wouldn’t dream of it!

  Then I explained what I’d called the dog. He laughed at least at the mad idea of naming a dog after a Greek kafeneio. Then he became more serious.

  “Are you lonely, agapi mou, living out here at the edge of the village?” he said, his head slightly tipped to the side. He squeezed my arm gently, as if to prompt me.

  “No … of course not. I’ve got Angus for company and I see other villagers. Myrto and Angelos are nearby. Why do you say that?”

  “I just wondered,” he said, narrowing his eyes.

  “Look, it’s like this. I wanted to save Zeffy because he saved me.”

  “What do you mean, Bronte?”

  Time to confess. At least then Leonidas would feel more accepting of Zeffy.

  He shook his head when I finished my story. “Panayia mou! Why didn’t you tell me this before? This is serious.”

  “I didn’t want to alarm you. Maybe it was just an accident. But very unpleasant. And look, that’s how Zeffy got the mark on his head.” I pulled aside his fur a bit where the scar was still visible. Leonidas bent down and looked at it.

  “I see, but it’s healing okay,” he said, ruffling the dog’s ear slightly.

  “I’ve seen the creep again, today, on the road. He didn’t do anything. Just stared.”

  I thought it best not to mention the veiled threat – not yet. I didn’t want to alarm Leonidas too much.

  “I think this guy comes from further down the Mani but he keeps turning up here. It’s part of the reason I wanted to keep the dog. It’s safer and I like him.”

  Leonidas was quiet for a moment. He pinched his lower lip gently with his top teeth, which he often did when he was weighing up something.

  “Take the dog home and come to my house. We’ll talk there,” he said, looking up and down the road, almost comically, before I turned and led Zeffy to Villa Anemos.

  Angus was out. I fed the dog and told him to stay quiet. He went straight into his soft dog bed, which I’d bought at a Kalamata pet shop and placed just outside my bedroom door. I pondered what Leonidas had said about getting Zeffy because I was lonely. It was a curious observation. Yet Leonidas was smart and insightful. He’d seen something in me that I hadn’t wanted to admit. I had everything I wanted here. This was my dream life in Greece, the place I’d chosen to live, but a thought nagged like a stone in a shoe, that in a way I was a bit lonely. Lonely because I was still an outsider here, feeling my way, pleasant though it was most of the time, whereas Angus wasn’t. He’d been here too long. Zeffy was an outsider, a ragged bin boy once, and still living on the fringes. We had a lot in common.