The Trojan Walrus

by Julian Blatchley

  A minute before I had had her neatly docketed as a useless, effete rich-bitch, and was wishing that Iraklis had a chief mate; now I was wondering whether she had the right captain. What on earth is the point in having stereotypes if people won’t conform to them?

  * * *

  The Grave-Robber’s course lay southwards about three hours lazy sailing to the bijou port of Hydra, with a pause for lunch and a swim in a bay where every fold of the sandy seabed showed clearly through three fathoms of sparkling crystal. The water was still pretty cold, but that didn’t deter our young clientele.

  Hydra is a wonderful first destination for a charter, being a delightful port at the end of a short but interesting sail through wonderful scenery. There are narrow passages to negotiate and large ships to encounter. There is a castle and some monasteries to look at, and towering mountains, misty islands and shimmering horizons to romance over, and there are a couple of well-frequented but never the less charming swimming-bays to lurk-and-lunch in. Possibly most important of all, there is A Corner To Be Turned.

  This latter is a very significant point, because a mere five-and-a-half miles south-east of Poros one rounds Tselevinia, closing out the verdant, forested, pine-scented slopes of the Saronic Gulf and opening into the arid, terracotta magnificence of the craggy Eastern Argolic. Between the precipices of Hydra and the vertiginous south face of Dokos are scattered the barren rocks and spires of numerous islets, all tinted various earthenware shades, and these stud a sea which radiates an almost electric blue glow wherever the sun has not turned it to coruscating spangles of white-gold. The contrast is marked, and fosters a sense that the voyage is going somewhere, that enormous progress has already been made, that this is merely the first in a succession of sensory delights.

  The town of Hydra plays its part in this drama to perfection. A direct approach from Tselevinia to the harbour brings one first to a fortified outcrop which bristles with cannon under the vivid red, white and blue of the Hydra flag. Whilst the attention is on this feature, and the windmill-strewn cliffs above it, the town seemingly sucks in its belly to lurk the better out of sight, metaphorically holding a silencing finger to its lips. Then, as the yacht rounds the corner, it leaps out with a loud ‘BOO!’ The crew, moments before quite entranced by the towering rocks and the fortifications, are now completely overwhelmed by the abrupt manifestation of an entire fairy-story town.

  Grey stone, sand-stone, whitewash, mandarin roof-tiles, ornate campanile, bright flags and softly faded awnings of all hues sweep up into the sky; beneath soaring, craggy peaks, the hillsides are carpeted with stylish little townhouses, studded here and there with imposing mansions and white monasteries. Cannon seem to poke out of every wall. The houses are closely packed around the three steep sides of the port, so that to me they resemble the audience in an ancient theatre, rainbow-hued and leaning earnestly forward to enjoy the performance below them... and a performance there often is, for the port of Hydra is small and busy. The skipper needs confidence here, and a spot of luck doesn’t come amiss either.

  I managed to get in reasonably early, and baggsied a place on the North Quay, which I would have managed to get into easily if only the crew had not tried to help. Clemmie handled the anchor very nicely; the problem was the rest of them. PeePee was being over-earnest with the ropes, half of the others were getting in everyone’s way whilst taking photographs, and the remainder suddenly decided to take an interest in things nautical. In their eagerness to grab hold of other boats, these latter provided me with about two dozen appendages to worry about as they reached out with hands, legs, etcetera. The fact that most of them were rather pleasantly-shaped and very scantily-clad appendages didn’t help my concentration much either.7

  On our anarchic way to the quay we had an entirely unnecessary contretemps with another charter-boat. This was due to me shouting myself hoarse at people to put boat-hooks down and keep their extremities inside the railings when I should have been steering; but the boat we hit was well-fendered and crewed by some very charming, competent Dutch people who fended us off and held Iraklis whilst I tried to get her tied up to the wall. This wasn’t going too well when Pan materialised at the opportune moment to take our ropes.

  Pan, the waterman of Hydra and already an acquaintance of mine, fitted into the extrovert Hydra waterfront panorama perfectly... which is to say, he was about as inconspicuous as a hippo in a hamster-cage. With hair half way down his back and a spade-beard covering his chest to the third shirt button, a sartorial taste which brings to mind a suitcase after an air-disaster, a bass voice that can command bulls and a personality so cheerfully forceful that it can be enjoyed from the mainland, Pan is not a man who ‘arrives’ or ‘appears.’ Rather, he manifests himself, as he did now. One of his conversational Bashan bellows, combined with his startling appearance and magnetic presence, controlled the girls in a way that my five minutes of ranting had not come close to achieving. Having restored order, he nimbly secured our stern-lines and settled the passerelle on the quay with a deftness which hinted of sorcery. Then I abandoned Iraklis, leaving Clemmie in charge, and set off with Pan to get Molto Allegro tied up.

  Throughout the trip, Shergar had, by dint of his masterful engine, kept his anchor a faithful thirty metres from my rear-cleavage. To this point he had done very well indeed, for a beginner, but to ask him to park (or even turn around) in Hydra was taking it too far. I hastily whispered the situation into Pan’s ear… or rather, into the thicket of hair which I presumed concealed his ear… and moments later we were afloat in Pan’s wonderfully shapely little red work-boat. Shergar simply dropped his anchor when I told him, and then we took his stern-line ashore, Pan standing in the stern and leaning forward on his oars in the style of a gondolier. In no time at all Molto was tied up about three boats along from Iraklis, and with none of the commotion which had attended my berthing.

  The sun was about to dip out of the bowl of the harbour, so I made a quick arrangement with Pan to fill up my water early in the morning, and told my crew that they could shower as much as they liked, but only until the water stopped coming out of the taps. Then I accepted the offer of a sundowner with the tolerant Dutch crew before heading to the cafe for the evening rendezvous.

  Just as I got seated at the Corner Kafeneion, the taller of the two American lecturers who were sailing with Shergar breasted determinedly through the nearby mule-rank, scanned the terrace, and surged through the chairs to my table. The very definition of purposefulness in khaki utilities, with a wide-brimmed hat and a jaw broader than his forehead, he looked as if he had a full-length drawing of Indiana Jones in his dressing room, and studied it daily.

  “Jew mhaind if ah set wuth yew uh whaaal,” he said, and when I had translated this from Profound Alabaman into contemporary English I inserted a question-mark at the end of it and smiled my assent.

  “Most welcome!”

  It was a waste of breath. He was already collapsing his six foot frame into the chair next to mine.

  “Whutcha drenk’n?”

  I said a cold beer would not be unwelcome, and he set about calling a waiter.

  “Wader! Wader!” He semaphored wildly, and bobbed up and down like a prairie dog, head swivelling after anything dressed in black and white. Sadly, most of the waiters then in view belonged to the adjacent cafes, so he got no satisfaction; but in any case this is not the way to attract a Greek waiter, as anyone with experience of the country will tell you. They are not summoned, they must be stalked, with technique and guile; and, as in the pursuit of all wary and elusive creatures, the hunter must know his quarry. Oh, dear, I’m off again...

  * * *

  Greek waiters are very often highly skilled at their profession, especially in up-market cafes. The best of them rarely use a notepad, no matter how large the order, and the menu is never referred to for the price. Our man knows his bill of fare intimately, can explain any item in a useful selection of languages and often makes excellent suggestions when the client mis
apprehends, or if his indecision is wasting valuable time. He is entertainingly adept at manoeuvring enormous trays through the dynamic bustle of a crowded terrace and often presents his wares with a pleasing display of showmanship, which may include the one-handed opening of beers, the juggling of bottles or glasses, or simply a smooth flourish as he pours drinks.

  From his professional handling of glasses, bottles, ashtrays and the like, one gets the impression that he went to a waiter school (he probably did; most towns have them in the local technical college) and he is proud of his profession. But he is a Greek before he is a waiter, and he is even more proud of that. He is no-one’s inferior… he is smart, polite, welcoming, and will be energetic in setting up your table to suit your party, but he is always your equal, and that air of deference expected in good cafes in other lands is not to be found. The Greek waiter will come when his time allows, he will give priority to his regular customers, he will take the time he needs to do his job without apology,8 and that includes a few moments to make conversation with his valued clients. You can’t deflect him when he is engaged in something else, so flapping your hand in his face as he passes is useless, and you can’t shout or whistle at him across the tables, because he is not your dog. And when he doesn’t want to see something, he could ignore a crocodile... even if it was in the bath with him!

  This ability of Greek waiters to fail to notice clients when they chose is one of the remarkable phenomena of the country, as iconic as Doric columns on a headland above a sun-drenched cobalt sea. His eyes may appear to be riveted to your very breast, but no amount of semaphore or calisthenics will evince the least flicker of an eye-lid. He can make what appears to be the most thorough scan of his tables, during which his pupils track directly across your face, and not respond to any level of attention-seeking activity short of a clown on a trampoline.

  His hearing is equally selective... as The Bard has it, ‘Thou but offend’st thy lungs to speak so loud’. And he can be just as unobtainable even when receiving payment… several times in my early days in Greece I muttered ferociously ‘OK, I’ll get up and leave... then he’ll soon give me some attention, the swine!’ He never did. All I ever got for my pains was an increasingly guilty feeling as I walked away, and after twenty fruitless yards a humiliating walk back to my seat.9 On one occasion I ran off to deal with a problem on the boat and ended up having to leave the port. I went back to pay about a week later, which the waiter appeared to consider entirely satisfactory. He knew exactly what I owed, gave me a grave nod and counted out my change without any comment.

  Foreigners attempt to be polite to overcome this blindness…when entreaties in their own tongue cannot prevail, they learn Greek. Unfortunately, the native English-speaker tends to translate directly from ‘excuse me’ to the Greek sygnomi. This means the same, but a Greek will use it only when apologising… which, it must be remarked, is not a common national pastime. Greeks simply aren’t that self-effacing; and they don’t expect you to be, either. Many foreigners who have spent some time in Greece have come to believe that sygnomi really means ‘ignore me’.

  The word you should use is parakaló…‘please’. But use it just the once... the waiter will have registered it, and repeating it will only harm your cause. He’ll be with you as soon as his personal schedule allows. Even better, give a discrete signal, such a single raised finger, as he performs his reaction-less scan. Don’t expect a response, but if you are then cool about it he will probably materialise behind your shoulder before too long; and if he doesn’t, then even throwing plates won’t change things.

  Mostly it is best just to be as relaxed as everyone else in the kafeneion, but if you really, desperately need to pay and be gone just count up the bill, leave it on the table with a small tip, and give the waiter a wave as you leave. He’ll generally just give you a wave back.

  On the day in question, Billy-Bob’s† aerobics had doubtless put us at the bottom of the list and our expectancy of being served would probably have been sometime in the early hours of the next day had Pan not made one of his abrupt materialisations. He, of course, commanded instant attention; but Billy-Bob seemed to think it was his performance which had done the trick and appeared a little mollified.

  As we chatted for a few minutes, looking, I suppose, like Indiana Jones having a drink with Father Christmas and his apprentice, I regarded Billy-Bob somewhat guardedly… people who drink fresh orange juice at six in the evening are not a species I can claim to have extensive experience of, but he seemed pretty intense and I assumed he had something (probably Shergar) on his mind. I wasn’t wrong.

  Pan, spotting a massive gin palace approaching the outer mole, left with his customary abruptness. Barely had his neon shorts left his chair than Billy-Bob set down his glass firmly, gave me the eyeball and laid his fore-arm purposefully on the table.

  “Nauw, lookee here; this guy Shergar... has he ever been on a boat in his goddam laaaife?”

  I adopted an expression of extreme bewilderment.

  “Shergar? Why?”

  “He’s ayuctin’ laike he ain’t never seen a boat. Ah meyun, he’s a naice guy, but he don’t seem to know whar he’s goin’ or how t’git thar! Seyez he needs to stay near yeu so that he knows whut t’do!”

  I allowed my expression to clear and change into a grin.

  “Ah, I see. He’s up to that old game again, is he?”

  “An’ jes whut gay-um wud thayut be?”

  “Oh, he’s a bit embarrassed about telling you who he is... a bit of British understatement.”

  “So, he knows whut he’s about?”

  I leaned conspiratorially across the table.

  “Shergar,” I said quietly, “is an Olympian. A gold medalist.”

  It wasn’t exactly a lie... there is a go-kart track at Olympia, and Shergar had several medals for winning races there.

  “He’s rather shy about it, though,” I added, “and he has a very dry sense of humour.”

  Billy-Bob sat back and laughed.

  “Jee-yuz! The guy’s behavin’ laike he don’t know sheeyut! So he’s OK?”

  “Take it from me,” I said. “Molto Allegro is in very good hands.”

  Looked at in a constructive way this was almost true... Shergar had wonderful hands. It was just unfortunate that they were the hands of a mechanic and racing-driver, not a sailor.

  * * *

  The whole flotilla enjoyed a rambunctious ‘welcome’ meal that evening. It was eaten under a massive plane-tree in a square so perfectly whitewashed and so quaintly furnished that it looked like a decoration on an iced cake. A yellow light oozed from the strings of lamps overhead, creating a bowl of golden-warm conviviality ringed by the purple-blue shadows of the dimly-lit, narrow lanes. In this refulgent haven our young charges regaled themselves on moussaka, dholmadhakia10, keftedakia† and Greek salads whilst kanatas of cool rosé wine went the rounds, and cheerful black and white waiters swirled and smiled. The gardens of the Hydriots were concealed behind high walls, but the floral scents which filled the air were eloquent testimony to their luxuriance. To complete the ambience there was, seated under the tree, what looked like a moustache with legs wearing a Greek fisherman’s cap and twanging popular Greek airs on a bouzouki... Frangosyriani, followed by Dirlada, Who Pays The Ferryman, Zorba’s Dance and Never On A Sunday; then back to the beginning. The kids loved it.

  When all the food was eaten and the kanatas ceased to arrive, Xanthos and Yeorgaki deftly guided the youngsters towards a disco high up over the edge of the town, sufficiently far removed that we couldn’t hear the screams, and the rest of the skippers retired to the Pirate Bar in the port to relax for an hour or two. Then we went back to our boats to be available in case anyone came back and did anything silly.

  As I waited, I admired Spiros’s organisational skills; the food and drink had been emphatically traditional, and the setting had been a choice of genius. It had been undoubtedly touristy… it was only a wonder Anthony Quinn himself hadn’t dan
ced Syrtaki through the middle of it… but none the worse for that. Yet despite being a distinct success, the meal had been a budget event… salad, meat-balls, vine-leaves, moussaka and some wine; no beer, grilled meat or fish… tasty, traditionally Greek, and it wouldn’t have cost much. In addition, I don’t doubt that the gratitude of the disco-owner further defrayed Spiros’s expenses. He had me working for him for half-rate, PeePee was doing the job just for experience, Shergar was being paid by someone else and some of the skippers had probably paid Spiros for the privilege of attending... and I hadn’t seen a client frown all evening. The man really was a genius!

  There were a few shenanigans on the other boats when the future of archaeology began to traipse back from the disco, and I did help fish two promising academic careers out of the water further down the quay, but my gang came back decorously enough; boisterous, but not stotius. They got settled into the cockpit, then Clemmie produced, from gawd-knows-where, a violin and began playing wonderful, racy, sparkling gypsy-sounding folk music. In between, I became involved in some strenuous folk-singing, and the bubble of conviviality echoed around the darkening little arena of the port.

  As the town closed down for the night, I kept a wary eye on the dock and the other boats for any sign of complaint about the noise, but all that happened was a number of people came down to the sea-wall and took a seat to enjoy the violin, and the boats around nodded serenely without objection. Shergar and Pan joined us at a late hour, and streaks of crimson were beginning to slice the sky beyond the battlements as we finally heave-ho-and-a-rumbelowed our way down the companionway steps.

  * * *

  Next morning I awoke relatively early, courtesy of an enterprising Hydra cat which decided to try his luck in the galley and mistook me as a footpath from the hatch to the promising remains of a sandwich on the work-top. Even the fuss of Moggy’s eviction did not rouse anyone else, however, and all was still in the boat.

  It looked like one of those cinema scenes from the inside of a submarine, when the exhausted crew are sleeping off a jolly good depth-charging… clothes and half-unpacked bags lay on tables and the floor, artefacts littered every surface. Legs and arms lolled out of cots, and the ‘clop-clop’ of water against the hull was overlaid by a deep, steady susurrus of relaxed breathing.