The light of a bright gold dawn pressed against the balcony shutters and she lay quietly watching it. The sense of nightmare began to fade, and courage seeped back with the coming of the sun. What had happened last night had been real enough. She, at least, knew that, even though no one else believed her.
She arose to watch the day breaking over Grecian sea and Turkish mountains. Beth got up early, too, and Vanda. When it was time to go downstairs for breakfast, Dorcas flung the strap of her handbag over her shoulder and did not leave the letter behind.
The morning began without hurry. Except to ask how she felt, no one mentioned the occurrence of the night before and Dorcas kept her own counsel. If Fernanda watched her now and then, she pretended not to see. Johnny made no further gestures of sympathy. He behaved with something of the reserve that had begun with the mention of Gino’s name.
During the morning he drove Fernanda around Rhodes, while Dorcas sat in the back seat, her feet upon the catapult ball in its canvas bag. They visited Rodini Park, then followed the road that wound up Monte Smith—that hill above the town which had been named for a British naval officer. Here stood the broken columns and chunks of fallen stone that had once been the Acropolis of Rhodes. There was a hippodrome where games had been played, too fully rebuilt to preserve a sense of ancient activity.
During the morning’s drive Dorcas strove to put all worry about Beth and Vanda from her mind. Today her emphasis must be upon balance and calm self-possession. Not by the slightest degree must she edge toward the distraught state in which Fernanda and Johnny had seen her more than once yesterday. She could not confide, where she would meet only disbelief, but she could resist being treated like an invalid.
Tomorrow she and Fernanda would have tea with Madame Katalonos and she would ask again about the wife of Markos Dimitriou. If Markos had lived until his wife got to the hospital, if he had seen the face of the man driving the car which cut him down, he would have spoken. Even though the chance was not certain, there was the real possibility that Mrs. Dimitriou would know something. And when the truth was known, then Dorcas would have, not only reassurance about herself, but a weapon to use against Fernanda if it became necessary. If Fernanda tried to take Beth away from her, she would cease to protect her from the truth about Gino. What had happened yesterday had indicated that it might be necessary to fight not only for her own well-being and sanity, but for Beth as well. She would not have Beth placed in the same hands that had raised Gino to what he had become. Yet she knew the trouble Fernanda would make if she tried to remove Beth from her entirely.
On Monte Smith they stood between the columns and looked down upon the town of Rhodes. From here the very quality of the old city was visible, packed as it was within climbing, wandering walls, its rooftops and chimneys crowded together in so tight a maze one could hardly mark the narrow streets twisting between. Here and there the domes and needles of mosque and minaret broke the line of flat roofs. The Turkish occupation had endured until fairly recent times and the mark of the sultans and of Turkish culture was everywhere. There was still a considerable population of Turks living rather reservedly among the exuberant Greeks they had never been able to assimilate.
Outside the Gothic walled city lay the newer Rhodes, more spaciously set among its, trees and gardens, with wide avenues and modern civic buildings. Rimming all, beyond the harbor, lay the deeply blue Aegean.
Fernanda wrote off the ruins on Monte Smith with a careless wave of her hand. “This isn’t one of the really important places. There’s not much left here, and even less at Iyalisos, I understand. It’s Camiros and Lindos I want to see. We must arrange a drive to Camiros soon, Johnny.”
Johnny had begun whistling plaintively as he stared at the crowded town at their feet. He nodded without answering, and Dorcas wondered what he was thinking. Once this place had been tremendously alive. Fine sculpture had stood on every hand, crowning a city so great that the three older ones had lost their eminence and power and given way to Rhodes.
They left the heights because Fernanda wanted to be on the move and antiquity meant little to her.
Later, during the quiet, warm hours of midday when Rhodes went to sleep, Dorcas found herself unable to rest. When Beth was in bed for her nap and Vanda in the next room, she went idly downstairs in order to move about, feeling as restless as Fernanda.
Outside, it was as if an enchantment lay upon the town. The streets were empty, the market stalls closed, the stores locked and deserted. Nothing stirred. She walked about for a little while then returned to the hotel. Johnny Orion was the only occupant in the lobby. He sat at a table writing a letter. When he saw her, he looked up and beckoned.
“Come and sit down. You’ve been out in the terrors of noon, I see.”
She seated herself somewhat hesitantly and rested her arms on the table between them. She was never sure what she might expect from Johnny. If he was going to be either critical or pitying, she wanted none of his company.
“What do you mean—terrors of noon?” she asked.
“Greeks are never afraid of moonlight or the hours after midnight,” he said. “Pan—he’s known as Kaous in Rhodes—and the local Nereids choose the hour when the sun is high for their mischief. It’s safer to be inside and asleep at that time. Did you know that if you meet a Nereid in the sunlight you may lose your power of speech forever? It’s well known in every village that this is what has happened to the addled and foolish.”
She found herself catching up his last words. “Fernanda thinks I am addled and foolish, though I’ve met no Nereids at noonday. And you thought so, too, last night.”
“But you’ve recovered,” he said, not denying her words.
She shook her head. “No—I’m just growing a little stronger every day. I’ll learn to dissemble properly in time. But I can’t manage it yet. Johnny, there was someone on the balcony last night. There was a shadow.”
“Clouds cast shadows,” he said. “They can fool you. Don’t think about it any more.”
There was no reaching him, but today she did not mind so much. With a sense of returning strength, she felt more confident. She must not go on being fearful. If she showed the watchers a bold and indifferent front, they would think she knew of no letter and they would let her be.
“I’m keeping you from your writing,” she said, and moved to rise.
He pushed the sheet of paper aside. “It can wait till later. It’s to a boy who was in one of my classes back home.”
She noted his frown. “A boy in trouble?”
“Maybe. That age can be a time for trouble when you get off on the wrong foot.”
“Are you trying to counsel him?”
“Not exactly.” His sudden grin was engaging. “I’m just giving him a little hell. If he trusts me enough, maybe he’ll listen.”
She found herself suddenly curious—not about the unknown boy, but about Johnny Orion.
“Where did you grow up?” she asked.
“In Chicago,” he told her. “A pretty drab part of the West Side, I guess. Only I didn’t know it was drab at the time. My father was a cop. A good one. He believed in an old-fashioned principle called responsibility and he believed in kids.” Johnny smiled faintly, remembering.
“Tell me about him,” Dorcas said.
“There’s not much to tell. He did his job every day and in his free time he took on the kids around our neighborhood. He used to make me help him with them. What I didn’t know was that he was helping me at the same time. He found things for us to do that we could believe were important. He set me talking to the kids who wouldn’t open up with him. He was tough and kind and he believed in right and wrong without any confusion in his own mind. At the same time he knew that nobody was all good or all bad. It was a fine life for me. I didn’t know about being underprivileged, though we never had much. I never thought about people not understanding me. He kept me too busy. Besides, we had a public library on the next block and that’s where I began to find
out about the world. That’s where I first got interested in Greece. I’ve been reading and learning about it ever since. I didn’t see why I shouldn’t grow up and have a look at it. So here I am. Not very dramatic, I’m afraid.”
“Those kids who wouldn’t open up—could you do anything about them?”
“Sometimes. Pop was no psychiatrist. He thought there were a few rotten apples. But he said you could never be sure, so you had to keep trying as long as you could. Not by coddling and easy-going. Many’s the walloping he gave me, but it was always deserved, and the big thing was we knew he liked us and thought we could amount to something. I seem to carry no scars on my soul as a result.”
“You’re tough, too,” she said. “Tough in a good way. I’ve felt it. You must be like him.”
“Maybe,” he said. “I’d like to be like him.”
There was an unexpected easiness between them. Not harmony, exactly, not understanding, but at least a lack of strain.
“Orion?” She spoke the name aloud. “It sounds like a Greek name. Is it?”
He laughed. “It came to me by way of Ireland in the beginning. But it had a sojourn in South America and a few other places and there was a sea change. I like it this way.”
“Orion was the hunter slain by jealous Artemis,” Dorcas said. “I can’t see you as a hunter. O’Ryan goes better with the color of your hair.”
“I could hunt if I had to,” he said.
Because there was easiness between them, she could ask him a question straight out—a question that brought them back to the present.
“What do you think of Vanda Petrus?”
He considered her words soberly. “Fernanda has told me her story. I expect we’re seeing what’s left of a broken woman. Some people fight back and save themselves no matter what happens. With others the vital thing inside dies before the body does. This woman seems like one of those.”
“I’m not so sure,” Dorcas said. “When she looks at Beth, she seems altogether alive. It frightens me a little.”
“You worry too much,” he said, and she winced from the words. She had opened herself to them and the sense of easiness was gone.
He glanced at his watch and folded the letter. “Things should be opening up soon. I’d better be on my way before Fernanda catches me.”
“Catches you?”
The look of Ireland was in his eyes, bright with impudence. “I’ve got to find the proper parties and get permission for us to smuggle a stone catapult ball out of the country. Fernanda wants a story, not a scandal. There’s a law against the removal of archaeological objects—which this might be considered.”
“She told you?” Dorcas asked.
Johnny shook his head. “Not Fernanda. She thinks her secret is safe in that canvas bag. This morning I tossed my sweater into the back seat. When I went after it, I saw the bag and being the curious type I investigated. Fortunately most Greeks have a sense of humor—unless you rub them the wrong way. I’ve got to make this a very funny story. Wish me luck.”
She was laughing as she walked with him to the door. He went down the steps whistling cheerfully, and she suspected that he would make it a very good story indeed. It would be rather nice to have Johnny Orion on her side—not pitying, not disbelieving, not impatient.
7
At four o’clock the following afternoon Madame Katalonos’s chauffeur arrived at the hotel to take them to her house for tea. For all his uniform and smart cap, the man who drove them had the look of a pirate about him, fierce mustachios and all. He spoke no English, but he had his orders and he could open a car door with a huge slab of a hand, making an impressive flourish. And he could drive three blocks like a madman.
The house where Xenia Katalonos lived was nearby—an old house, very large, with a high wall around the property and a well-cared-for garden within. The jingling bell at the gate was answered by a young Greek maid who came to show them in.
Paved walks led through the garden to the house, and the area immediately before the steps was paved with small black and white pebbles arranged in a neat Turkish design. Fernanda paused to admire the geometric pattern.
“Typical of Rhodes,” she said. “Both the Turkish touch and the pebbles. Did you know that all those pebbles in the Children’s Fountain at the United Nations were gathered and sent there by the children of Rhodes?”
The maid, waiting politely, led them into the house and left them in a vast, high-ceilinged drawing room carpeted with an oriental rug, its rich colors softened by the years that had made it doubly precious. The furnishings were elegant, chosen with taste and an eye to the blending of soft, deep colors. A tall samovar of burnished copper had been placed upon a low brass-topped table drawn before a sofa of blue brocade.
Madame Xenia did not keep them waiting. She appeared in the doorway almost at once and flowed through it toward them. “Flowed” was the very word, Dorcas thought. Today she had discarded modern fashion for a long, drifting gown of blue and white that draped her fine figure to good effect and stirred gracefully about her knees as she moved. Dorcas remembered the name Johnny had given her. Today she was Medea to the hilt—the boldly shaped bones of her face, her flashing dark eyes and tragic mouth, the strength of will that charged and moved her, all bespoke Greek tragedy.
She greeted Fernanda with a strong clasp of the hand and bowed politely to Dorcas. There was no doubt as to which of the two she knew to be important.
“It is good of you to come, to give me your time,” she said, gesturing them toward the sofa and flowing into a chair with the same grace that had marked her entry. “You must tell me all that you have seen, all that you have done. I wish to know everything—so I may help. It is my great regret that my husband is not here to greet you as well. Most unfortunately, he is away.”
So that was how Constantine Katalonos’s wife meant to play it, Dorcas thought. She was glad to be little noticed since this gave her a better opportunity to study their hostess and her surroundings.
The woman raised dark, handsome eyes to a place on the wall just out of Dorcas’s view. “That is a portrait of my husband. A very fine likeness.”
Remembering Vanda’s words, Dorcas turned with interest to look at the picture that hung in a place of honor. Her first reaction was one of unpleasant shock. The striking, sardonic face of the portrait was urgently familiar. Yet she could not place it in her memory. It was an ageless face, though clearly Constantine had been younger than his wife. The artist had exaggerated the narrowness of the cheeks, emphasized the pointed chin. The eyes were an indefinable color beneath brows that lifted at the outer corners, and they looked at the observer with mocking intent. Surely she would remember such eyes if she had seen them before. It was a dreamer’s face, as if the man knew some inner vision. The lips, both sensitive and sensual, smiled, but their expression was derisive, and somehow she knew it well.
Where could she have encountered this man that she should feel faintly ill at the sight of his picture? The sensation was physically disturbing, and she was appalled by her own intense reaction. There seemed so little cause. If she could feel ill at the mere sight of a picture, how was she to reject Fernanda’s concern about her? She was beginning to dread these lapses into a state of anxiety she remembered all too well. They seemed to come without warning and to be prompted by anything, or nothing. Even by the picture of a stranger!
Madame Xenia sighed deeply and turned her attention to the samovar. The tea came scalding hot from the spout into glasses set on delicate china saucers adorned with small silver teaspoons. There was a sticky cake of honey and nuts, which their hostess announced she had made herself.
Dorcas sipped hot tea and tried to take strength from the brew as she listened to the two women.
“I am a very good cook,” Madame Xenia admitted. “Sometimes I send the servants from my kitchen and make everything myself. Constantine, my husband, has said that no one in all Greece is a better cook than I. But when one talent is sacrificed, it is neces
sary to find another, yes?”
Fernanda praised the cake and told of their visit to the Hospital of the Knights, which was now a museum. Madame Xenia’s interest quickened.
“I am something of a patroness of this museum. Too much has been lost of ancient Rhodes. We try now to preserve whatever we can. And of course there are new discoveries being made. Perhaps in my husband there is a rebirth of our ancient art. It has been my privilege to encourage and help him in his work. The creative artist is not always practical. Myself, I have a practical nature. I am very good for Constantine. I have done all—” She broke off, suddenly overcome by her own emotions.
Dorcas glanced again at the disturbingly familiar face of the man in the picture and thought of Vanda’s hints that Constantine had run away from this wife who tried to “eat him up.” What was the association that left this sickness of despair in the very pit of her stomach?
Fernanda was speaking of the three ancient cities she had yet to visit—Iyalisos, Camiros, and Lindos, and Dorcas tried to listen. Madame Xenia recovered her poise and spoke of these places with enthusiasm. Camiros had great beauty and was only a short drive from Rhodes. At Iyalisos the ruins were few, but the monastery of Philerimos was there, and an exceptional view. It was a place to which her husband was devoted. He went there often for inspiration. Again not too far from Rhodes. Lindos was a longer drive, but the most beautiful place in all Greece.
“Not even the Acropolis in Athens is more beautiful than the acropolis of Athena Lindia,” Madame Xenia told them fervently. “In the village of Lindos I have a small house. It is yours whenever you wish to visit. You must not go and return the same day like a tourist. You must stay in my house and learn to know the beauty of Lindos.”
Fernanda accepted with alacrity and Dorcas could see her mentally scooping up everything their hostess said. Xenia would be good for a story in her own right, as Johnny had suggested. Dorcas drank her tea in silence. At least the feeling of illness had passed. Indeed, her first sense of shocked recognition had begun to pass, and in the artist’s interpretation she could now find nothing to alarm her. Yet the feeling had been there. Why?
Seven Tears for Apollo Page 11