How Greek Is Your Love

by Marjory McGinn

  He turned and stopped me, putting his hands on my shoulders. “All in good time, agapi mou,” he said, kissing me softly on the lips. I felt that errant curl of his tickle my forehead. It filled me with a tremor of delight.

  “First, I must say something, Bronte, that we must have no more doubts between us, no more bickering over other people, okay?”

  I nodded. “Of course.”

  “There will only be trust and happiness from now on, yes?” I knew he was referring to our last conversation about the ‘Phaedra problem’.

  “Is that why you brought me here, my love, to tell me that?”

  “Yes, and no. Come and look at this,” he said, propelling me towards one of the nearby icons with a gold sandbox in front filled with lighted candles that seemed to burn especially bright. It was an icon of the popular saint, Ayios Dimitrios, who’d had such a starring role in our search for Kieran the previous year. I recognised the icon because I had a smaller one on my chest of drawers in Villa Anemos. The image of this crusader saint with the boyish face, riding his sorrel-coloured horse, was burned into my consciousness now. I was confused, however, as to why this saint seemed relevant today.

  This particular icon, like that of St Konstantina, had a thin silver chain across the front of it, on which were hung small metal tokens that I knew were called tamata, votive offerings that represented the wishes of those worshippers who came to plead for some miracle or other. The tamata had carved mages of small babies, hearts, legs or arms, both touching and bizarre. They would be left there in the hope of an intercession by the saint for a good outcome for an illness or some problem or other.

  “Are we here to make a wish for something?”

  “In a way, yes,” he said enigmatically, gazing at the tamata on the icon of St Dimitrios. I smiled. Was this his idea of filling in time until the church ‘event’ began? But I dutifully scanned them all again.

  “Look at this. Someone has tied a ring to the collection, an expensive one, by the look of it. How extravagant! Is it in the hope of a romantic union?” I said, my eyes fixed on the diamond ring that scintillated in the candlelight, sending off shards of colour around the chapel. Leonidas said nothing but daintily untied it from the chain so I could see it better. It dangled on a silver ribbon. He held it out in front of me, his eyes black and glossy in the candlelight.

  “Take it,” he teased me.

  And then it dawned on me, even before he untied the ribbon and put the ring slowly on my finger. Standing in a bowl of light, under the shrewd gaze of a few dozen benevolent saints, he asked me to marry him. I gasped, delighted at the unexpected romance and inventiveness of Leo’s proposal.

  “Well, since you’ve gone to all this trouble, it would be ungracious not to say yes,” I said, laughing.

  “That’s wonderful, Bronte. S’agapo poli, I love you very much, and I hope you’ve always known that.”

  I nodded, a little tear twitching at the corner of my eye. “Yes, I have and I love you, more than I can say.”

  We hugged and kissed in front of St Dimitrios. I had never expected that if a proposal came from Leonidas it would be as fantastical as this. What an unfathomable man he was sometimes.

  “Now for the champagne. That’s why I carried the backpack,” he said with a wink, retrieving the bag and walking towards the chapel door. “Let’s sit outside. I don’t know how the saints might take to us drinking in the chapel.”

  We sat close together on the wooden bench outside and drank chilled champagne from two crystal glasses and watched the sun disappear from sight. Everything about the evening had been so beautifully orchestrated. Perfect! Including the fact we were sitting now on this same bench where we’d sat the previous year and had a long conversation about our love for each other and the logic of me staying in Greece, even though there seemed to be obstacles in the way. It had been Leonidas who’d had faith in overcoming them, as well as all my recent doubts and fears that love would never be enough to close the gap in our cultural differences. His good sense and genial nature always carried the day. That’s what I loved about him the most. And he was right. It was all a matter of trust.

  With the chapel at our backs and the gulf spread out before us, it seemed like the most perfect place in the world to seal our fate. We sat there a long time, not saying much, just enjoying those precious moments.

  Later, at dinner, we talked of many things to do with the past and our future life. Finally, I was to meet the rest of his family in Kalamata, who were going to be told of our engagement. I didn’t know whether to be delighted or terrified. At least Thekla might have ridden back to Athens on her broomstick by then. That would be a small blessing. And there was the small matter of his nine-year-old son Adonis in Athens, whom I was also to meet finally when he came to spend part of his summer holidays in Marathousa. There was so much I was still to learn about Leonidas and the world around him.

  “I can’t finish this evening without asking you the most important thing of all,” I said. He tipped his head slightly, a wrinkle of curiosity between his brows. “How did you manage to organise that scene in the chapel, in secret?”

  He laughed keenly. “I did get help from Stavroula, the woman you saw rushing down the path. She’s the keyholder and looks after the chapel for the local papas. She organised everything: the flowers, candles, and put the ring on the icon. She was also the sentry up there until she saw us approaching and made sure that no-one else went inside. She was sworn to secrecy. I didn’t want the surprise to be spoilt.”

  I scoffed at him a little. “But nothing’s ever a secret in a Greek rural village, right?”

  “When it comes to death and marriage. There are rules, Bronte,” he said, with a wink.

  Slowly and predictably, however, the villagers discovered our news and it was the talk of Marathousa. First the xeni gets kidnapped, then she’s saved by her one-time homeless dog, and then she gets engaged. Po, po, po!

  When I told Angus, he was pleased but philosophically so. He gave the diamond engagement ring a paternalistic nod of approval.

  “I’m pleased Leo finally popped the question, pet. I was beginning to wonder and I’d have been scunnered after the Phaedra business if things had just slid along in first gear,” he said, with a mock grizzle in his voice.

  There was still much chatter about the village over the abduction and it sometimes spilled into heated debate in the kafeneio between a few of the older men with different views on politics, though I doubted any of them supported a party like EPE. Most of the villagers were glad to see that Dionysos and his cronies would be dealt with, just as the EPE were beginning to see there was rising opposition to their violent, racist tactics.

  One day when I was at the kafeneio checking emails, Elpida came and sat with me. We talked for a while about the kidnapping and once more she was remorseful that although she sensed the danger, she hadn’t been able to act on it quicker.

  “Don’t worry, Elpida,” I said, “you are too busy being mayor and police constable as well as running a business. What more could you do?”

  She shrugged. “But all has come good in the end. So, we all a bit happy these days, Bronte. Not everything in crisis in Greece, eh? Especially for you and Leonidas,” she said, impishly, rubbing me affectionately on the back.

  Zeffy always came with me to the kafeneio now and he was still very much remarked upon. He was declared a hero and even offered a glass of Mythos beer now and then by one of the village men, which Zeffy would drink with great relish, much to everyone’s amusement. He even made it into a feature story in the local paper after Dionysos was charged with his offence. The dog who saved the foreigner in the Rindomo Gorge. There was a photo of Zeffy and a picture of the gorge and the plateia, with Elpida standing proudly at the doorway of her kafeneio. Elpida had pinned the page proudly to her board inside the kafeneio. It would in its way become part of Marathousa legend in years to come.

  It was during these happier days that I got some news via email
that I was keen to share with Angus. I found him one day in Villa Anemos, typing away at his laptop. He turned and looked at me as I came into his study with a mug of coffee for him. He had a face like a sunken soufflé.

  “Ah, that’s not a happy face. How’s that book going?” I asked him.

  He rubbed his hand over his eyes. “More than halfway through now and it’s going well. More for you to read.” He handed me a small pile of typed paper. I was slowly working my way through his book, offering a few suggestions, doing a bit of editing.

  “It’s all fine. I’ve told you that. But how’s the rest of it taking shape?”

  “If I’d known what a long, hard task writing was I might not have started,” he grizzled, not for the first time in the past few months.

  I squeezed his arm. “Well, you probably need some extra motivation. And I know just the person who’ll do it,” I said.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Polly, of course.”

  His face brightened.

  “I got an email from her today and she says she’s finally coming back to Kalamata. I think she’s grown tired of the good life in Australia and she’s yearning for a bit of chaos and crisis.”

  “Aye, as if!” he said, with a wry smile.

  Despite his affection for Polly, I marvelled that I had become a kind of go-between, sending and receiving emails from Australia because Angus didn’t like spending time on the internet unless it was for research. It was one of the curious things about my father that I was also learning. Or was it more the case that he was slightly niggled with her for disappearing to Australia and that was his way of showing it?

  “She’ll be back in a couple of weeks. She’s missed us, but you especially, I think.”

  Angus smiled and tapped away at the keyboard – something nonsensical.

  “Did she say that?”

  “Not in so many words, but a woman knows these things. Therefore, I think you should send her an email very soon.”

  “Aye, you’re right, Bronte. I should.”

  I was secretly thrilled by the news of Polly’s return. With her warm personality, she had been a positive influence on both of us. Perhaps this time, despite the age gap of some 12 years between Polly and Angus, their relationship might have a better outcome. Less conventional than many perhaps but satisfying all the same. If Polly had been here in the past few months, I knew she would have prodded Angus on with his book. She would have known what to do about the prodigal Phaedra and the thorny and embittered Thekla, who had kept herself strangely scarce in the days following my abduction.

  There had still been no congratulations from her either about my engagement to Leonidas, which was, I imagined, not a normal occurrence in Greek society. But I did hear that she would be returning to Athens at the end of August. She would never come back to live permanently in Marathousa, she said. I punched the air and thought that my life as Kiria Bronte Papachristou would be much less troublesome with her far away.

  Chapter 27

  Eve’s creation

  “I suppose you knew I’d legged it back to London,” Eve trilled down the phone.

  “I wasn’t sure. I did hear a rumour that you’d been holed up in your tower in June with, on occasion, a certain young man,” I replied.

  “No comment.”

  It was now July and I hadn’t seen her for weeks, nor had Leonidas mentioned any sightings of Eve and Angelos together at their favourite haunts along the coast. She never contacted me, and Angelos appeared to have turned up most days for his work at Myrto’s farm. I assumed the affair was fizzling out.

  I had called her one day from my new mobile, after the dramatic loss of my first one in the kidnapping. I expected she might be in London but was surprised when she told me she was back in the Mani.

  “Call by and see me, if you like. Well ...” she broke off for a moment. I could hear the tinkling of ice in a glass as if she were drinking something cool and strong. “I was rather angry with you when you made that threat to expose me over the book, but I’m over that now. So, let’s be friends again, shall we?”

  “Sure, let’s, but I have to say, Eve, I can’t see you if you’re still seeing Angelos, even now and then. It might sound prim to you, but Leo will be angry. He just adores Angelos.”

  “And he thinks I will pollute his nephew’s lovely mind?” she said, peevishly.

  I sighed down the phone.

  “Calm yourself, Bronte. I’ve got so much to tell you. Why not come to my house tomorrow afternoon. By the way, I’ve heard about your kidnap. Appalling business. Obviously, you’ve got a lot to tell me, too.”

  “Why not come to Villa Ambelia? My new home.”

  It was the first time I’d ever said those words. It was Leo’s wish that I should move properly into the house, now we were engaged, and it would be our main house, with him spending a bit more time there. Angus would have Villa Anemos all to himself.

  The following day, I was busy setting up a study for myself out of one of the smaller bedrooms, with a table by the window for a desk and a view down towards the gulf. Eve arrived in the afternoon with a chilled bottle of white wine and a large plastic bag.

  “More dresses, Bronte. The other one suits you so much I wanted to give you a few more in the same style. A thank-you gift from me,” she said, kissing me on the cheek.

  “That’s very kind. But a thank-you for what?” I asked, as I took the bag and glanced quickly inside at two neatly folded dresses in sumptuous colours.

  “Well, firstly, for making me see sense over my dalliance with Angelos, which is over, and has been for a few weeks,” she said.

  “Good,” I said, hugely relieved. “What’s the other thing you’re thanking me for?”

  “I’ll tell you in a minute. First, I did hear that you were engaged. Many congratulations,” she said, pulling my hand towards her and checking the ring, like a pushy mother. “Well done you! Leo’s quite a catch. In fact, he’s gorgeous. I wish I’d met him first.” She winked.

  If I hadn’t known her better, I would say it was a cheeky gesture, nothing more. When I’d first met Eve, I hadn’t marked her out as a siren on the rocks, but now I knew differently, though she carried it off with panache.

  We sat on two matching sofas, facing each other. I poured two glasses of wine. She looked thinner but more relaxed. She stared around at the room, giving nods of approval.

  “So, you really aren’t seeing Angelos any more?” I asked.

  “No. And not because you threatened me, which I didn’t appreciate,” she said, with a pout. “The thing is I could fall madly in love with that man. He’s wonderful, but I admit he’s too young and I’m not ready to be garrotted by his family as a cradle-snatcher. The old Thekla woman, for a start, would probably stick a knife through my head. She looks capable.” I nodded keenly at that. “As for Angelos, well, we had our fun and now it’s over. Easier to end it sooner than later. I’m not being vain but I do believe he liked me a lot, too,” she said, with a pensive look.

  I had no doubt he liked her. Eve was a very sexy woman. But I was relieved to hear all this. We drank more wine and I filled her in on all the village news.

  “Honestly, Bronte – you being kidnapped by some fascist thug. When I hear something like that, I just know I couldn’t live here full-time. To be honest, I could not marry a Greek. I’m much too opinionated and bad-ass for that! And I admit too, I’ve not behaved very well of late in any respect.”

  “That’s all true,” I said, with a sardonic grin. “But what’s the other thing you wanted to thank me for?”

  “It’s about the book. For a start, I’m grateful for you listening to the whole saga. You can’t imagine how depressed I felt about it when I came here in the spring. I had a real go at it in Vathia, but I didn’t get one sensible word out. I wrote quite a few overdue letters to friends, as I recall.” She sniggered lightly.

  “How has it all panned out then?”

  She settled herself back on the cushio
ns with a cat-like grin. “You’ll be surprised. While I was in London, I sorted through Grace’s apartment which, as I’ve told you, she left to me. In accordance with her will I gave most of her personal items to her niece Imogen. The computer and its contents were left to me, as well as the contents of her desk.

  “I went through the computer documents again and didn’t find the rest of the book. But when I was sorting through her desk, where she kept diaries and notebooks, I came across a key taped to the back of one of the desk drawers. It was well hidden and I might easily have missed it. It was a small squat thing and looked to me like some kind of safe key. So, I hunted about, looking for a hidden safe. I eventually found a low wall cupboard behind a small chest of drawers in a spare bedroom. There it was, the hidden safe, inside the cupboard attached to the floorboards. The key fitted. Grace never mentioned it, but then why would she? And she didn’t expect to die suddenly either.

  “There wasn’t much inside the safe: paperwork relating to the property, some family photographs, letters and some small storage discs, nothing very valuable, but there was also a cardboard box file in which I found a sheaf of handwritten pages, which included ... the last chapters of my latest book!”

  She paused for effect. I gasped.

  “I know. It’s amazing, isn’t it? God, my hands were trembling with relief when I took out the pages and read them – all I needed to finish the book.”

  “Wow! Did she always write a first draft in longhand like that?” I asked.

  “No, not at all, but it seems she’d decided to write the final chapters while on holiday in Scotland. At the end of the chapters she’d signed them ‘Anstruther, March 2013’ and then stored them in the safe, I suppose, until she could transfer the work onto her computer document. But she died before that happened.

  “But let me explain properly. You see, Grace had been feeling slightly off-colour at the end of February. Possibly the prelude to her heart attack, I don’t know. She said she wanted to have a break in Scotland. I didn’t think it very peculiar because every year she went there, to the Fife coast, where she’d spent time as a child. Grace’s parents were Scottish. She was very sentimental about the place and always rented the same small cottage for a week or two. She wasn’t one for holidaying abroad. The cottage was simple, with a view to the sea. There was no phone line or internet there, a bit like my Mani tower, and she only took a very basic kind of mobile phone with her. Grace liked the freedom of being without modern technology, and I absolutely agree with her on that score.