While it would be easy enough writing about life in Greece, as I approached my second column I realised that writing about villagers I knew would be more challenging. I was keen not to offend them, so I would have to fudge things or conflate people, apart from Myrto and Elpida, who wouldn’t have cared what I wrote, I thought. And no-one should conflate those two anyway. But the problem was mostly academic. Although the paper had an online presence, not everything went on it, including some of the Saturday magazine articles, like my column. My scribblings would be safe, for now. I would have to be especially careful about the expats. Even though I didn’t mix with them much, a few would have winkled out the fact I wrote for various British papers. If they even guessed I was writing about their village in a column they would not have been pleased.
“I hear you have met Thekla. She has already told me about it,” Leonidas laughed on his mobile phone.
“It was slightly embarrassing.”
“I am so sorry, Bronte. I don’t know why she came into the house. She didn’t have to, really. Ach, village women.”
“She’s hardly a villager. She’s much more an Athenian, isn’t she?”
“Perhaps, but I always think of her as a village woman, but complicated.”
“How so?”
“I can’t really say,” he trailed off.
Couldn’t say, or wouldn’t, I wondered. Why did so many people in Greece have complicated lives? And Myrto had told me on several occasions, “Villagers, Bronte. They all have their bladdy secrets!”
It occurred to me that perhaps Leonidas had conflicted feelings about Thekla and was too polite to say so, as she was on the flintier Maniot side of his family, his mother’s side.
“You will like her, I think, when you get to know her.”
“Yes, I’m sure I will,” I said, with feigned optimism.
He changed the subject, asking me about the creep. Had I seen him again?
“Remember, I told you, we will go together to Kalamata to see my detective friend if you have any more trouble. Let me know. Okay? I miss you, agapi mou.”
“I miss you too. I’m coming to Kalamata on Wednesday with Angus. He has a check-up with his cardiologist. Perhaps we can meet for a coffee?”
“Lovely. We will talk then.”
Leonidas had invited me several times to stay over at his home in Kalamata. It was a stylish top-floor apartment close to the beachfront, though I had never stayed over. It had felt like his space and an extension of his life as a doctor. People were always phoning him and it was a place where he did some of his paperwork and after-hours consulting. At that point in our relationship, it didn’t feel part of my life and I preferred the arrangement we had, even if it was sometimes lonelier.
Once I’d finished that week’s column, I started to think again about Eve Peregrine, especially after an email pinged into my inbox from my books contact, Gloria, telling me she’d been in touch with some publishing contacts and discovered there had indeed been gossip doing the rounds about Peregrine’s book delay, though how that got out I couldn’t imagine, unless the agent had been bitching. The publisher was said to be nettled that the book would miss its summer launch.
“I heard the publisher has signed up a few other female romance novelists with hot new titles geared up for early next year. It may be that he’s casting around for other stars to replace Peregrine if she stuffs up this book. But if you find out any more from Peregrine about the progress of the book, do let me know,” wrote Gloria in her email.
I doubted I’d ever get another crumb out of Peregrine about the book, or anything else for that matter. Despite her proximity, Peregrine would probably keep a low profile at her villa, trying to channel the power of the mythological muses, to no avail. She never seemed to come up to the village for any reason and where she went to socialise, if she ever did, I had no idea.
She’d given me her mobile number, in case I needed to check any facts with her, but I doubted I’d ever need to call it.
Chapter 8
Angus and the muse bulletin
The next morning before breakfast, I found Angus in his study again, at the computer, staring at a winking cursor. I sat down on the old rush-bottomed chair next to his desk.
“You’re not still working? Have you been here all night?”
“No, pet. Does it look like that to you?”
“Yep. You look a bit bleary.”
“I feel bleary.”
“Maybe you had too much ouzo last night. You’re supposed to cut back on it. Doesn’t mix with the medication.”
“Well, wine’s a good mixer. No harm in that.”
I laughed. “You’re supposed to cut back on all of it.”
“Don’t start now. It’s too early for gloom and doom.”
Angus had been warned by the cardiologist that he had to take his medication religiously and cut back on alcohol and lipids, the fatty stuff. He knew all of that, yet there was a gremlin in his soul that bucked the medical regime. It was Leonidas who had helped Angus last year to get a private consultation with a Kalamatan specialist, which was the start of his treatment.
He sighed. “I wish Polly was here. She’s always a positive influence.”
“And I’m not?” I asked.
“No, I didn’t mean that. Well, you know what I mean.”
Angus constantly surprised me. In the past six months I’d learnt a lot about the father I’d been estranged from for 10 years as if he’d been Odysseus, away on long sea voyages, though his sirens and sea monsters were somewhat tamer, like learning to tackle a foreign culture and learning Greek. When he first came here there was the initial challenge of easing himself into an expat lifestyle with a surfeit of souvlaki and local libations, until he tired of the expat culture, and his arteries rebelled. Then he worked for a few years as a private English tutor. It was during this part of his Greek odyssey he’d met Polly, short for Polyxenia, an attractive Greek woman in her fifties. She took English lessons from Angus and the two had become very close. Polly had acted as a translator during our search for Kieran but although the friendship with Angus grew stronger nothing more serious had come of the relationship. Now she was in Australia for a few months, where her daughter lived, married to an Australian. They had just had their first baby.
I too missed Polly, her laughing dark eyes, her wise counsel. I would miss her friendship in the coming few months and her sensible spin on the intricacies of Greek life.
“You couldn’t make me a coffee? This writing malarkey, honestly! I’ve got nothing but respect for your scribbling efforts all these years. Have I said that before?”
“Not that I remember,” I said, sarcastically.
“Well, I’m saying it now.”
I went to the kitchen, fixed him a strong instant coffee and took it back.
“This is the second day you’ve been here working at the keyboard. What’s the problem with the book then?”
“No problem. I just didn’t realise when I started that you can get really skunnered, not with the writing, but just sitting at a computer when the sun’s winking outside.”
“Then go out on the balcony and write in a notebook for a bit.”
“I think that might make it worse.”
“Look, let’s go to the village tonight for a meal. Take a break from the scribbling. It will do you good.”
“That makes me feel better already,” he said, sipping his coffee, leaning back in his chair, suddenly more relaxed. While we were chattering on about nothing in particular, we didn’t notice Zeffy sloping into the room. He hovered around a coffee table, where Angus had put the plate of honey biscuits I’d brought with the coffee. In a split second, Zeffy had made a grab for the plate, overturning it, secreting a few of the remaining biscuits in his mouth.
“I hate it when he does that. Go on, bugger off!” Angus said, waving his arm around. Angus wasn’t crazy about Zeffy being in the house but the dog was otherwise surprisingly good, given his previous homelessness.
His main failing was that he stole food, a throwback to the days of raking in bins. What I didn’t realise at first was that he didn’t eat everything he stole. Like a magpie, he often hid food, like biscuits and treats, for later: in the corner of a room, in a shoe, under my bed. Even down the side of the sofa. It was quite touching but damned annoying when things were found, half eaten by other critters or in a crumbling state. But he was a good guard dog. If anyone was hovering around outside the house, he’d know about it.
The village taverna, the Kali Parea, always seemed to earn its title, meaning ‘good company’. It was especially busy that night with a couple of large gatherings of Greek families outside. Miltiades the owner was in the middle of the paved square surrounded by tables. He was a stout man with a fat tummy and big meaty arms. He had wavy hair and dark, laughing eyes. On the square, he would often help the waiters take orders, but mostly, like Elpida, he wanted to chat to clients, collect some crumbs of gossip, have a laugh. He would trail from table to table in his convivial manner. With his big voice and mannerisms, he often resembled an opera singer about to break into a spirited aria.
Occasionally, when the music on the sound system was something he particularly liked, he’d dance as well. Often, late at night, when there was more of an empty space, he’d leap into a zeimbekiko dance. This is a solo dance originating in Turkey but now iconically Greek. It’s generally a macho performance with only one man dancing at a time and steps that can be as innovative as the dancer wishes but it’s usually underscored with muted passion. Miltiades was surprisingly nimble for a big man and diners always showed their appreciation. I didn’t think he’d dance that night, as the place was too busy, with several celebratory meals in progress, perhaps a name day or a baptism. It was unusual to see big gatherings any more, Angus had told me, as fewer people could afford to eat out regularly.
Miltiades always had time though to stop and chat with Angus or Kirios Angoose, Mr Angoose, as he always called him, unintentionally getting the pronunciation wrong. It always made me smile. Miltiades had been the one who offered to drive Angus to hospital the night last year he’d had chest pains – and he’d probably saved his life. No-one in rural Greece bothered to call out an ambulance. Most of the time there wasn’t one to spare.
I felt there was a bond now between the two men. Miltiades would pat Angus on the back and ask about his health, admonish him for eating too much fat or drinking too much wine, which resulted in much cheeky banter in Greek between the pair, which I always enjoyed, partly because I never ceased to be surprised by how good Angus’s Greek really was and how he had put it to good use the previous year when we were researching Kieran’s fate. A night out at the Kali Parea, in any case, always put Angus in a good mood.
I ordered the specialty of cabbage leaves stuffed with meat and rice in a white lemony sauce. Angus, as usual, favoured something he wasn’t supposed to have: pork souvlaki with chips, and a side order of ribbing from Miltiades about his diet. But he brought it for him anyway, with a complimentary jug of wine.
There was also a large group of expats that night, only a couple of whom I’d seen before, sitting at the edge of the square, at the back. It seemed a lively gathering. There was much talking and loud guffawing, with plenty of food and wine on the table. One couple were louder than the others: the man was tipsy, the woman had an irritatingly loud giggle, with a strange rising inflection. Angus pulled a face.
“That’s Geraldine. I call her the cackling coat hanger. She’s as thin as one, and always laughing, even when there’s nothing funny.” He shook his head in mild irritation.
“You don’t like the expats, do you?”
“Look, they’re okay. I saw enough of them when I first settled here, but the thing is, you’re damned if you hang about with them – you get sucked into their bitching and moaning – and damned if you prefer the Greeks. The Brits will think you’re letting the side down. Then there are people like Derek. He’s over there,” said Angus, dipping his head towards the table, “He’s the one sitting quietly at the far end, with the goatee beard, not talking, but nothing is escaping his notice, I can assure you.”
Derek was a miserable-looking man with a shiny bald head and doleful eyes. He refilled his squat wine glass at regular intervals. I didn’t like the look of him much, but I couldn’t say why.
“He’s one of those expats who runs off to Greece, saying he hates Britain, then holes himself up on his rambling farm on the edge of the village like a hermit. But here’s the thing: he knows everything that goes on in the UK, spends a lot of time apparently checking websites and putting comments on expat forums. The expats here are harmless enough, really. The Greeks don’t mind them, but I prefer to live a different kind of life here, that’s all.”
Before we went home, we stopped at the kafeneio for a nightcap. Its tables were set out just in front of the taverna’s, bordering the road. On busy nights the two businesses melded into one and there was usually a genial, noisy vibe. Those who didn’t want to partake, mostly groups of older Greek men, would hunker down in front of the TV inside to watch news programmes, argue over politics and play backgammon. This was one of Angus’s favourite haunts as well, where he met the paidia, as he called them. Paidia is the literal word for children but it also means mates, guys, and these were Greeks with whom Angus had a strong, sometimes boozy, camaraderie. We sat at a table near the road. Elpida joined us for a chat.
“You looking real good now, Angus, with your new diet. Handsome without the pony’s tail, eh Bronte?” she said, winking at me. I nodded in agreement.
“When I had the ponytail, Bronte used to say I looked like a Greek priest – without the stovepipe hat,” said Angus, chortling.
Elpida wagged her finger at him. “You are much too naughty to be Greek priest.”
We all laughed but then Elpida suddenly became serious, leaning into the table. She whispered, “Ah, before I forget, Bronte, I have found out for you, the man on the scooter. He’s called Dionysos. He comes from the village of Glika Nera, down the Mani. Old wreck of a place, full of strange people now with crazy ideas.” She made her hand into a claw shape and twisted it back and forth at the side of her head.
“What crazy ideas?” Angus asked her.
“Crazy political ideas. People on the Right who are for the Ellines Patriotes Enomeni party.” She pulled a face. Angus frowned.
“My stomach is twitching over these people, Bronte,” she said, tipping her head slightly to the one side and giving me a long, searching look. How well I remembered the day I’d first seen the creep Dionysos, with another man on the road. Elpida’s stomach was doing a spirited cha-cha that day, and she was right.
“Don’t worry, Elpida, we’re on the case,” said Angus, then he added something to her in Greek and they both looked at me.
“Translation, please! You’re both making me nervous.”
Angus said nothing but Elpida rubbed my shoulder. “Don’t worry, koritsara mou, my girl, you got lots of friends here and you got your babas,” she said, referring to Angus.
On the way home, Angus slipped his arm round mine.
“You didn’t tell Elpida about the creep pushing me over, did you?” I asked him. Angus shook his head. “Because she’ll get angry with him, and where will that lead?”
“No, not at all. I just told her to let me know if Dionysos comes prowling about again. Just so we know. But what this guy has against you exactly is a mystery, and also why he’s hanging around this village so much. Maybe he’s just a misogynistic thug. Next time I’m with the paidia I’ll sound them out about this guy.”
Chapter 9
Chaos has no deadline
My mobile chirped on the table while Angus and I were eating breakfast on the balcony. It was Eve Peregrine’s agent, Sylvia Rainford.
“Eve’s disappeared,” she blurted out, breathlessly.
“What do you mean disappeared?”
“She hasn’t called or emailed since the day you spoke to h
er, which is over a week ago, and her mobile is always on voicemail.”
“She doesn’t call every day, does she?”
“No, but lately we have been in close contact because of the … err … book deadlines and so forth.”
“Perhaps she’s on her way back to the UK.”
“She would have told me if that were the case. Anyway, she said this would be a longish stay in Greece this time.”
I scratched my head. Angus was watching me with a quizzical look, buttering a large slab of hearty village bread.
“Was she all right the day you interviewed her? Did you upset her in some way?” the agent asked in a flappy voice.
“Me? Of course not. The interview was fine. She talked about Greece, as planned. Nothing contentious there. I did ask her about her book, but I’ve told you that already ….”
Rainford cut over me. “The new book? I don’t remember us discussing that.”
“I called you after the interview. We talked about the delay, remember?”
“Oh, okay, yes, I kind of remember that. But was she upset about the book or anything else? Because something must have sent her off the radar, and you’re the last person to speak to her.” There was a rising inflection of panic in her voice. I was glad I didn’t have any kind of agent.
“Look, there’s probably a simple explanation. Perhaps she’s just cut herself a bit of slack,” I said.
“You don’t know Eve. She doesn’t do slack.”
“Then I don’t know how I can help.”
“Well, look, if Eve hasn’t contacted me in the next couple of days perhaps you should report it to the police there. I mean, does anyone in the village there have a key to her house? Maybe she’s in there. Maybe she’s collapsed or something.”
“That’s a possibility, I suppose. Leave it with me and I’ll check out the house.”
How Greek Is Your Love Page 7