How Greek Is Your Love

by Marjory McGinn

  “I hope you do not scare the tourists away from Greece, Miss McKnight, writing too much about our terrible economic crisis for your British newspapers,” he said, with a forced smile.

  “No, of course not,” I said, giving Leonidas a meaningful look. He smiled faintly, a mere twitch at the side of his mouth.

  More chatter in Greek, then the detective turned to me, snapping his notebook shut.

  “Miss McKnight, there is probably nothing to worry about here. I am sure your friend will return, but we will do some checks in case an unidentified person has been reported.” I was sure he meant unidentified ‘body’, which was something I didn’t want to think about. He shook my hand before we left, a strong finger-bending handshake, then he slapped Leonidas on the back with laddish affection. People were loitering in the corridors, some in uniform. It was noisy, the air was thick with worry and cigarette smoke, and I was glad to be back out on the street again.

  After we left the police station, Leonidas drove back to town and parked near his surgery. We had a coffee nearby, but didn’t talk much. He seemed a bit thoughtful, as he often was these days.

  “How do you know this detective?” I asked, amused at the thought of two people who couldn’t have been more different.

  “He is married to one of my cousins on my father’s side, so really we’re related in Greek terms, though I don’t see him much.”

  But it was useful, I had no doubt, having a cop in the family in a country where I was beginning to understand that to do anything quickly and easily you need contacts, something to ease your way in life.

  “Thanks for taking me to see him today, but I don’t think it will achieve much, do you?”

  He shook his head. “Probably not. The worst that will happen is your friend will turn up after a disastrous end, an accident perhaps,” he said in the perfunctory way that doctors have in explaining difficult subjects.

  I shuddered. He smiled, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners, but there was none of the usual sparkle in this gesture.

  “Is there something troubling you today, Leo? You look preoccupied.”

  He tipped his head slightly to the side and gave me a sweet but searching look.

  “I had a difficult morning in the surgery. Same worries as usual. I struggle to help people these days when patients can’t get the necessary drugs from the pharmacies when there are shortages. Just this morning I saw a patient suffering from cancer. He has seen his oncologist and needs to continue with a course of chemotherapy and yet he can’t source the drugs here in Kalamata now. He will have to go to Athens to source them, and he is tired and sick. It’s tormenting. Every day brings a fresh challenge.”

  He rubbed his hand over his chin. I tried to imagine what it would be like here, having cancer, and having to schlep about from place to place searching for life-saving drugs. These stories always made me anxious about Angus. I wondered what would happen with his heart condition if he couldn’t get hold of his medication.

  “Sorry, Bronte. I should spare you these details. It must be depressing for foreigners to see what a mess our country is in at the moment.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s nothing I haven’t already heard from Angus or seen on TV.”

  Angus always updated me on the state of the crisis and every night we watched the evening news on the TV when we were home together. He would translate relevant parts to me. I had already begun to learn rudimentary Greek from books Angus had given me, and I had the Greek alphabet under my belt at least. I tried to read the subtitled news headlines that always accompanied most news programmes and only now and then did I recognise a word. Most regularly I saw the word ‘thriller’ – as in political thriller – in Greek script, which was part of the media lexicon now. I saw footage every night of people demonstrating over political and social issues, but even still, the lack of serious language skills often made me feel I was living in a parallel world from most other people, which seemed wrong. As if I were in most respects immune to everything that others suffered.

  Leonidas and I sat in silence for a moment, finishing our coffee. Along with all his other worries, I was sure the visit to Kalamata police station couldn’t have lifted his mood much. When I saw him looking so thoughtful, I felt such tenderness towards him.

  “If you’re free this afternoon, why not come back to the village for a while. We can go out to a taverna later,” I said.

  “I don’t think so, agapi mou,” he said, squeezing my hand. “I have a lot of paperwork to do tonight. I am sorry.”

  “Okay, we’ll see each other tomorrow night anyway. Perhaps on Saturday we could go for a drive somewhere or have a swim; just have a nice chill-out time. What do you say?”

  He didn’t answer at first but glanced at his mobile phones, scrolling emails on one of them. He always carried two: one just for patients, the other was personal.

  “Actually, Bronte … I can’t come this weekend at all. I have some important family things to attend to,” he said, still looking at one of his phones, reading a message.

  “Oh, that’s such a pity,” I said, struggling to mask my disappointment.

  He looked up at me, a consoling tilt of his head, his lips pressed gently together. It was the kind of look a parent would use to comfort a child after delivering bad news. And it was bad news indeed because I lived for the weekends when he came back to the village. And there had been no weekends I could remember when he hadn’t made it back to Marathousa. Before we said goodbye at the café, he hugged me tightly and kissed me. I had the nagging sensation that he hadn’t quite told me the truth; that something was wrong but he didn’t want to share it – not yet.

  “Look, my love. Maybe if I can, I will drive to the village on Sunday afternoon for a few hours, but I won’t promise. I will call you though.”

  He kissed me again and I turned quickly away before he saw the glimmer of tears. A childish overreaction, no doubt, but they were tears of confusion and frustration, reminding me that amid the joy of living a dream life in Greece, notwithstanding the crisis, I was still like a stranger in paradise.

  I’d borrowed Angus’s Fiat for my trip to Kalamata and walked back to the narrow side street where I’d parked the car, flanked by badly positioned, beaten-up wrecks. On the walk I’d managed to scupper my poor mood somewhat, reminding myself that falling in love with a Greek doctor, pulled in different directions during this crisis, was never going to be easy. I may have been treading water hard but my love for this man was the important thing. And there were small gains in this new, complicated life, I thought, as I got behind the wheel of the Fiat.

  I never thought I’d ever be driving in Greece, and not in Angus’s old bomb. It had taken weeks of practice to get used to the left-hand drive, the roads, the way Greeks didn’t bother with road rules; the way they could drive, drink coffee, text on their phones, all at the same time. Just that morning I had seen a guy on a scooter wearing a regimental uniform, a trombone balanced over his knee as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  As I roared out into the narrow street I thought, well, if I can drive in Greece and stay in one piece, I could conquer any setbacks.

  Angus went to Kalamata on the Friday on ‘business’, as he liked to call it. I knew he often did research for his book at the public library in Aristomenous Street, but I suspected that later he would meet some of his old drinking buddies in the cafes and ouzeries of the city. He’d shown me the ouzeries, a remnant of an older era, that were minimalist, sometimes raucous, male hangouts, in side streets, where shelves were decorated with empty ouzo and wine bottles from decades past and men were hunched over metal tables, moaning about life. There was an exotic aura of the Levant about these places and although I rarely went inside with Angus, I did hope they’d survive the worst of the crisis.

  I phoned Eve Peregrine again but still there was no answer. I also called her agent, Rainford, to update her and report that I’d been to the police station and was certain they were keeping Per
egrine on their radar. Angus had told me he doubted anything would come of the visit, as the force was reeling from budget cuts and staff shortages during the crisis.

  Rainford, however, was still playing the same old scratchy record. “I can’t fathom it. It’s all so unlike Eve to do this. I can’t even contemplate that something terrible has happened. But something must have upset her in an extraordinary fashion for her to disappear like this.”

  I sensed the veiled accusation again, that it was all because of my interview, benign as it was. However, I promised to update Rainford the minute I knew anything. If I thought that would be the end of things for a bit, I was wrong. Peregrine was catapulted right back into my life that afternoon when I got a call from The Daily Messenger. This time it was the news editor.

  “We have your feature on Peregrine, and thanks for that. It’s fine and we’ll run it as and when,” said a youngish-sounding Londoner, who spoke fast, gobbling up his words, in a perishing hurry with deadlines, no doubt. I was ready to hang up when he rushed me through another idea, telling me the paper now wanted Peregrine for something quite different. While I listened to him outlining what it was about, I marvelled at how so many people were in such dire need of Peregrine just at a point in her life where she had no intention of being accessible.

  This particular piece concerned a Tory MP called Douglas Markham, who’d been prosecuted for sexual assault and had now been convicted and given a six-month jail sentence. As it happened, Peregrine had had a volatile two-year relationship with Markham 15 years earlier. There had been plenty of stories and pictures online about their relationship, which I’d found while researching Peregrine for my first piece, though I’d only glanced at most of them. However, I’d gleaned that Peregrine and Markham were a dazzling power couple in their time, she as a popular TV star, just before she gave up acting for writing. He was a good-looking, ambitious but high-handed backbencher, obviously heading for greater things in politics and finding his niche in recent years as a cabinet minister. Throughout his career, however, Markham, already divorced with one child, was better known for romantic scandals and a lack of personal judgement.

  Now he’d have a criminal record to add to his exploits, convicted of sexual assault on a young parliamentary worker, a fact that would trounce his career. I can’t say I’d followed his case with much interest since I’d left the UK. I might have, if I’d known the Messenger would one day task me with interviewing Peregrine about the whole sorry business rather than the benign feature on being an expat in crisis-hit Greece.

  “We’re planning a few spreads on Markham,” said the editor, “now he’s been sentenced. We want to get in quick with some strong coverage before everyone else does. And how perfect that you live near Peregrine in Greece. So, here’s the thing: get her to talk about their fiery life together, what he was like, scandals, sex, drugs, whatever! Everyone remembers them as a pair and the fact there was a very public, acrimonious split. Okay?”

  I marvelled at how news editors could brief you with the expectation you will tease out impossibly candid stuff as a matter of course. Even if I could actually find her, I had doubts that the guarded and somewhat flaky Peregrine would spill that many beans. But as if he’d tuned into my silent worries, he added, “Peregrine will talk, don’t worry. The publicity won’t do any harm at all, especially with a new book coming out soon, yes?”

  Yes, yes, but not to the book coming out any time soon.

  “Sure. Leave it with me,” I said, sounding chipper. How could I not when the fee he quoted was ridiculously generous?

  “And we’d like it ASAP, in the next day or so. Thanks.”

  I gulped. As if!

  “If you hook this in nicely,” the news editor said, “the Messenger will get you to do more stuff from Greece if you want it. You know, with the crisis and all.” Then he hung up.

  So, here was a large carrot. The Messenger, despite leaning more to the right than I was comfortable with, was always a paper that freelance journalists gravitated towards because it valued decent reporting and was thorough, and best of all it paid well. It didn’t look shabby on your CV either.

  I sat at my desk, staring through the window at the crags of the Taygetos. What the hell was I doing though, agreeing to interview a woman I’d just reported missing to the local police? In another few days if Peregrine didn’t turn up and the police had no leads, I’d have to contact the British Embassy and hand the problem over to them. I’d be writing a very different kind of news piece then. But if she was still alive and hiding out somewhere, as I hoped she was, I’d have to find her before someone else did.

  Angus came back early, looking rosy-cheeked and glassy-eyed, as if he’d had a fair nip of alcohol. I’d cooked pieces of chicken in the oven and made a salad. He sat down at the table to eat and poured himself a glass of beer. I told him about my latest commission.

  “You’re going to write another piece for that crappy right-wing rag!” was all he said, slicing into a chicken leg.

  “Yeah, okay, but it’s the biggest-selling quality tabloid in the UK. Who am I to turn up my nose at that?”

  “Oh well, work’s work, isn’t it?” he said with a sour face. I had the impression there wasn’t a newspaper left that Angus liked much, apart from one or two Greek ones, but I wasn’t about to start a discussion on the rights and wrongs of modern journalism.

  “Pity you get this big commission and the subject’s just legged it,” he said, chortling darkly.

  “Yes, trust me!” I said, slugging from a bottle of beer, thinking what a dismal weekend this was going to be. No Leonidas, Peregrine lost, and Angus being his usual cheeky self.

  “So, we’ve got to put our thinking hats on and really find Eve this time.”

  “We? Och, Bronte,” he said, putting down his fork, “we’ve done all that; followed your hunches down the Mani, in and out of Hades, and everywhere else. What do you suggest now? Oh, I know, let’s drive north and go see the Oracle of Delphi. She’ll know where the tormented scribe’s hanging out.”

  “No need for that. Elpida’s the next best thing – the Oracle of Marathousa, I call her. And maybe she’d be as good as anyone,” I said, trying to make light of my misery. But if anyone had seen Peregrine in the vicinity or heard some report about her, it would probably be Elpida.

  Angus gave me a squinty look. “I hope you’re joking, pet, about finding Peregrine. She could be anywhere in Greece.”

  “I know, I know.”

  “How soon does the Daily Mess want this piece?”

  “Soon as possible.”

  He shook his head. “Is all this angst really worth the money? If you’re short, I’ll give you some.”

  “It’s not just about the money, Angus. I want to make a success of freelancing. I didn’t give up mainstream journalism in Scotland to sit in Greece swinging worry beads around and working on a suntan.”

  He smirked. “Sounds good to me. Look, you can try to find this damn woman but if you can’t, just tell The Mess. You can’t comb a brick after all.”

  “Is that one of your village sayings?”

  “You get my drift. I mean, have you got any idea where to start, or are you just going to wing this completely?”

  “Wing it, yes.”

  He drained the beer bottle and went to the fridge for another. “Why don’t I call the cleaning woman on her mobile and see if she’s heard anything. That’s a start, eh?”

  “Good thinking. Any other good ideas? Happy to hear them.”

  “Not at present, but I’ve got something else to talk to you about, Bronte,” he said, not looking at me and absently twisting the base of his beer bottle on the table.

  “If it’s not urgent, keep hold of it. I’ve got to concentrate on this for now.”

  “It’s not urgent, but it could be,” he said, glancing up at me.

  “About your health?”

  “No, something else.”

  “Okay, sounds ominous, but can we talk later?”r />
  He nodded and dialled a number on his phone. He spoke in Greek, rolling his eyes at me before hanging up.

  “The cleaning woman knows nothing. She’s as mystified as everyone else.”

  After dinner, my stomach was swishing with tension. I sat at my desk and flipped a fresh page in my notebook, then fired up my laptop. I started planning who I could call or email, even though I’d run out of ideas. I gave Sylvia Rainford a try, to tease out the name of any contact Peregrine might have in Greece, to track her down. It drew a blank. While I’d avoided any mention of Markham, it was Rainford who brought up the subject.

  “Eve and Markham were quite an item once, though you’ll probably know that of course,” she wrote in her email. “It might seem a long shot but I’m beginning to think that Eve has run off somewhere to avoid talking about it. I guess that would make some sense. She’d have known his sentencing was coming up and would expect the press to hound her for comments, given the pair’s past relationship. And I’ve had calls about it already; papers requesting interviews with Eve.”

  “Really?” I replied. “But why would Eve do a runner? She’s off the radar in Greece anyway. Hardly anyone knows her exact location and it’s fairly remote, I can assure you. No-one will have her mobile number, except you and a few other trusted people. I can’t see papers sending reporters out for this. It’s not that big a story, is it?” I wrote, feeling somewhat guilty about my own commission. But needs must. “What are you telling the journalists who call?” I asked her.

  “Just that Eve’s in Greece but out of contact at the moment. Sounds thin, but what else can I say? Can’t tell them the truth, can I? Not yet. Not unless.”