by Ben Pastor
His travel companion’s attitude had changed ever since the morning incident, losing none of its hostility but becoming more duplicitous, astute. There she was, someone’s plain cousin. Marrying a Greek peasant, it went without saying against her family’s wishes, seemed to have given her a dual nature, making her into a hybrid creature like a centaur or a faun. All considered there was a slight danger under it all, in that wildness. From now on, she might dare him, or show him how far she’d strayed from bourgeois rules. A box whose tight locks have snapped lures more than a lidless box. Bora felt safe in his wife’s love, reciprocated. But what if Frances Allen tried seduction? Her middle name was Liberty.
“I thought you were looking for a Briton,” she said, carefully holding the cigarette with her wet fingers and blowing out smoke. “What good are Italians to you?”
Bora kept his eyes on the water. “They’re much more like Greeks than we are. ‘Same face, same race’, says Epitropos Kostaridis. They ‘get along’. You’ve taught me that by now; those we left word with along the way – even those who wouldn’t give us information – have started a grapevine. I rather think the British will find us if I don’t find them, and the Italians might know about it.” He handed her the lighter, stored his sunglasses in his rucksack and calmly unbuckled his holster belt. “Are you done tidying up?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Step back.”
Bunching belt and holster in his raised left hand, Bora jumped clear into the tank, and sat soaking in water up to his neck. He needed to lower his body temperature, and if she took it as a worrisome hint that he was aroused (he wasn’t), it would serve her right.
Frances Allen finished her cigarette with her back turned to him. When he left the improvised bath in his drenched clothes, she was sitting on a rock, gloomy under her visored cap. “Here.” Without looking, she tossed the lighter his way, and Bora promptly caught it. “We had better start again.”
Cotton dried quickly in the morning heat. Bora only had to change his wringing wet socks to keep them from sloshing inside his ankle boots. He noticed Frances Allen kept a closer eye on him but could not judge whether she was alarmed or intrigued. Two hours after stopping at the water tank, they came to a particularly bare and windy crest, without trails or tracks. If their next goal was called Meltemi, like the sea wind, it stood to reason that it would be buffeted by strong currents, and have a northern or north-eastern exposure. The breeze was therefore welcome as a pointer in the right direction.
Rounding the mountainside according to Kyriakos’ directions, however, the wind fell the moment they reached a more sheltered, level area. Strewn with pottery shards and sun-dried tiles, it bore traces of razed constructions, and was edged towards the valley by the stump of a stone wall, no higher than three courses. Frances Allen, in a tersely communicative mood, called it the Upper Palace. “One of the most elevated Minoan sites to date, John’s work. I didn’t realize you could reach it from this side.”
Everything looked bright yellow when Bora removed his sunglasses. “I have seen this place before.”
“When?”
“I’m not sure. As an illustration in Pendlebury’s book, maybe.”
She made a schoolteacher’s sour face. “That’s impossible. The site hadn’t been excavated two years ago, when The Archaeology of Crete went to press.”
“That may be, but I remember seeing that wall, just as it appears from where I’m standing. Unless…” Bora took out of his rucksack the photos developed by Kostaridis and glanced through them. “Ah, here. That’s where I saw it.” He showed a couple of prints to Allen, who seemed even less pleased.
“Where did you find these? We only started work here this spring.”
“Really. Did you allow visitors to the site?”
“Well, we’re in Crete, you don’t see any fences around. Farmers and shepherds constantly rove the countryside, we can’t keep them out.”
“I meant other scholars.”
“Not without invitation and hopefully not while we’re not here. It wouldn’t be collegial. Who gave you the pictures?”
Bora only said he’d got them in Iraklion, which was technically true. If Allen was telling the truth, both Savelli and Villiger could have flouted collegiality by coming by to snap photos of the site. He held the negatives against the light. The images of the Upper Palace were the first in the roll, a fact that potentially made a difference. It meant that, contrary to what Savelli had told Kostaridis, the film hadn’t sat in its sealed container for more than two or three months at most. Did that qualify as “a long time”? Bora handed the remaining prints to the American. “What can you tell me about the rest?”
She looked. “This was taken at Agios Silas. This one – Arkhanais, for sure. Tavernais, where the Italians were digging. The shard deposit near Kanli Kastelli. Hey, here’s my work: the Butterfly Double-Axe Tomb, my best find last April. I didn’t even let John photograph it! The photos of the artefacts – I can’t judge the exact provenance of figurines, ewers and seals: Cretan material, but they could come from the antiquarian market or illegal excavations.”
Tavernais. Wasn’t Tavernais where Savelli bragged he’d been digging? Did he suspect Villiger had photographed the site and planned to use it in his publications? It would explain why the Italian had been trying to secure this roll of film, though Villiger was well past plagiarism. Bora dutifully pencilled the locations behind the images. “So you’d say all the photos were taken on this island?”
“Those of the sites at least. Who’s the gal?”
“I was hoping you might tell me. Women always notice women.”
“Because men don’t, eh? No, I don’t know who she is. Flashy for a Cretan.”
“It seems she’s a much-admired cabaret artist, Cordoval by name.”
“Never heard of her. But I don’t patronize nightclubs and such.” A closer, tight-lipped look followed on Allen’s part. “Is she a natural blonde?”
“Good question. I’m wondering if you recognize the terrace she’s standing on.”
“Somewhere at Palèkastro near Iraklion. That’s Kastelli Hill in the background. Why?” So, Kostaridis – who should be familiar with the place – had been reticent about it, or lied outright. Bora looked up the town on his map and pencilled “Gulf of Iraklion” behind the photograph. If Signora Cordoval had recently visited Crete, there were interesting implications. Even a year ago, before the start of the war in Greece, it would have been dangerous for a Jewess to go about, all the more since she was popular across the archipelago. Standing in plain view, too… He studied the image, an unlikely portrait among shots of antiquities.
Somehow, the calling card with details about her family reached Villiger, and ended up in his deposit box. What does it mean, and does it have anything to do with…? Anyhow, either Signora was briefly in Iraklion and is now gone – and Kostaridis doesn’t know about it, or knows and didn’t tell me – or she’s still in Crete, under an assumed name and powerful protection.
It was a long shot, but what if her patron were the well-connected Villiger himself? She was a blonde specimen, after all – she could pass. The obvious runner-up was Professor Savelli, if they had made up and he’d incidentally let her keep the contended family brooch. The picture isn’t posed, however: she doesn’t seem aware she’s being photographed. Bora put away the photos except for the woman’s snapshot. What if Villiger took the photo, but his interest in her was anything but scholarly? Witness the family details penned on her calling card, plus the blank Aryanized visas, money routed through Jewish-owned banks in Rhodes… Damn. Damn.
“Mrs Sidheraki, would you say that these flowers in the picture are hyacinths?”
Frances Allen impatiently glanced at the image again. “They are common hyacinths. If you have any more idle questions, please ask at once.”
“Where do we go from here?”
“Up.”
Place of Hyacinths. Wasn’t it what the Turk called his residence near Irak
lion? Common or not, they fill the terrace where Signora is standing… Forget Villiger and Savelli. If that’s the case, Rifat Bey’s missing watchdog might not be missing at all, but protecting another house, where a dangerous lover is kept!
They left the site walking side by side, with the American indulging in the archaeologist’s habit of searching the ground with her eyes. But it was Bora who picked up a fragment that he showed on the palm of his hand.
All the plaster-faced bit of masonry had painted on was an eye. A fierce animal eye, limned by two wavy lines in dark blue.
“It’s the eye of a bull or a Minotaur,” she said, giving it back. “Frescoed images of the sacred bulls flanked entryways once. Their images stayed long after the palaces fell into disuse and were forsaken. Those who came later were superstitious, didn’t understand, feared them: the painted guardians made taboos out of the ruined mazes of corridors and rooms. Newcomers didn’t dare enter for ages.”
“What should I do with this?”
“Leave it there or keep it; we’ll never find the rest.” She stepped ahead of him to resume the climb. “Mediterraneans believe eye amulets are good luck.”
Bora half-smiled. “Ah, I need good luck.”
“Pocket it, then.”
The ascent grew demanding, along a steep ridge in full sun, where lack of vegetation forced the climbers to grope for a hold among rocks not always anchored and steady. Bora let his companion precede him, ready to catch her in case she lost her grasp. Despite her sandals, however, Frances Allen hardly missed a move. Years of practice across the island gave her a goat-like instinct for the smallest ledge and foothold. Her small, sturdy figure kept moving, now sideways, bent double, now on all fours as the crest required. Clearly, out of spite or pride, she fought her own weariness.
Bora kept up. He didn’t mean to stare, but when a coin-sized dark stain formed and began to widen on the seat of her dungarees, embarrassment nailed his eyes to it. She had to be fully aware she was bleeding heavily, but there was no pausing where they were. Bora forced his attention on the rock wall in front of his face, to avoid being seen to be gawking in case she looked over her shoulder. The only relief was that the strong wind had subsided, either because of the hour or because a stony vertical brow to their right protected this side of the range.
The painted masonry piece in Bora’s pocket pressed against his thigh; it caused a sharp throb that had the power of distracting him a little from his fatigue, and kept his senses acute. When the faint sound of an aeroplane engine bounced back from the mountain, he caught it at once, although it was difficult to understand where it originated. Turning as much as he could, he faced an overly bright sky that tricked the eye. It stretched seemingly empty, and by the time the aircraft appeared, it would be too close to avoid being spotted by the pilot. To Bora, it sounded like a small reconnaissance plane, which could only be German or Italian – more likely the first. Still, on this errand he had no desire to be noticed from the air, not even by his own comrades.
The slope he and Allen were labouring on offered no protection. Only a squat, wind-tossed pine tree to their right, perilously clinging to a rocky shelf and misshapen by the strong mountain winds. Bora called out and gestured to the American to move diagonally and precede him under its leafy head. Haste is no friend of precision. She stumbled, nearly lost her footing, reached the broken shade barely in time to avoid Bora’s landing on her.
A Fieseler Storch emerged from the blue like a pin pricking through fabric. It was German, and judging from its slow banking across the face of the mountain, searching for something or someone. Odds were, it had taken off from Iraklion’s airfield, acting on someone’s report. Bora must admit he and his companion could have been spotted by a German patrol down in the valley, too far away to intervene directly but fully equipped to pass the information on to pilots due for their daily rounds. The impervious nature of the Cretan hinterland demanded aerial reconnaissance, often in concert with scouts on the ground.
I don’t need to run into other Germans at this time, Bora thought. I don’t want to give explanations, and having them around would scare off those I’m going through all this trouble to meet. “Please stay down, Mrs Sidheraki,” he warned her. “The closer to the trunk, the better.”
If Frances Allen wondered why he was dodging his compatriots, she didn’t ask. Busy digging through her canvas bag, she nodded, distractedly. As soon as the aeroplane, which was right above them, veered away to start another circle, she said, “Turn your back. I need to change.”
“All right, but keep in mind it’s got dorsal armament. It could pick you off from up there.”
“I won’t leave this spot if you turn your back.”
“Keep talking, then. I want to make sure you’re near.”
Bora crouched facing away from her. He was tempted to think that at this point he could probably continue on his own even if she got away. Overhead, the scrawny aeroplane, more insect-like than similar to its stork namesake, braved the updraught with careful bucks of its square-tipped wings. Dancing on its sturdy landing gear, it all but hovered in place, drowning out the American’s voice off and on as she recited, “Four score and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth…”
Bora listened. The damned Texan is intrepid, a bigger headache for me than if she were the fainting type. If she had something physically attractive about her, I could offset my dislike with the indulgence we men dumbly end up feeling for good-looking pests. Not so, and her manners don’t help either.
Light and wieldy enough to sweep low, the Storch plied the width of the slope. At one point, it seemed to change its mind and give up the search. It sheered behind the vertical brow of the mountain and its rasping hum changed pitch, grew fainter.
“We are met on a great battlefield of that war…”
Behind Bora’s back, Frances Allen must have moved about or changed position, because some rocks were dislodged and went rolling down. From the corner of his eye, Bora saw a dust trail form as they cascaded, displacing more and more pebbles. At that moment, the aeroplane re-emerged from behind the stony brow. Lower still, it wove a figure of eight that allowed the pilot to draw near and observe the crumble of rocks.
“The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here… Shit.” Allen’s earthy comment reached Bora before the sound of the swerving engine blotted it out. “Shit, has he seen us?”
“He may have. Why couldn’t you stay put?”
“Go to hell, I’m doing my best.”
“Are you decent? I’m turning now.” Bora actually only half-turned. Evidently, the pilot’s attention was up. He was suspicious, and might now be debating whether to have his gunner open fire on the lonely tree. An experienced rear gunner could well strike a target on the ground. Bora put down one knee to steady himself, pulled out the Browning and looked right and left for ideas. A tottering outcrop, an unfettered boulder could serve his purpose. Worse luck, the barren incline seemed solid except for the place Frances Allen had kicked loose. Visions of what a burst of cannon fire could do to their flimsy shelter sobered him considerably. In Poland, he’d driven on a carpet of body parts after roads had been strafed; fleeing civilians lay torn to shreds, horses with bellies gutted by shrapnel kicked desperately in blood and dust. In that otherwise sweet September, whenever he could, he stopped to finish off the animals at least. He’d had to do it with human beings later, elsewhere. The sight stayed with him as a reminder of what war ought not to be, and is.
“…we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain.”
While the Storch headed away to complete another round, Bora did spy a seam out in the open, the faintly distinguishable rim of a vertical cleft, where rain was likely to channel during thunderstorms. He waited for the aeroplane’s pitch to rise enough to cover the report, and fired a single shot into the pebbly rim. Rocks detached, cannoned against one another like billiard balls, and started a slide that from the air would hopefully mimic a collapse caused
by sound vibrations.
Twice the aeroplane shaved the area where the rocks kept tumbling. Bora sat back and felt he’d forever recall the glint of the cockpit, memorize the flash of black and white crosses and letters under the wings and on the fuselage. The dorsal gun did not rotate to seek a ground target as the Storch righted itself, made a wider circle, returned. Twice it repeated the same manoeuvre, but already the crew’s interest had decreased, shifted toward searching further on, towards Mount Voskerò. The buzzing figure-of-eight dance transferred over and beyond the top of that mountain before Bora resolved that he could breathe out and relax.
Frances Allen squatted with her back to the tree trunk, and was rinsing her hands with water from her canteen. She’d changed into a pair of loose khaki shorts not unlike those Bora wore, unbelted and reaching to the knee. She’d tightly bundled her stained dungarees and now stuffed them inside her bag.
Bora meant to act obliquely upon his embarrassment. He was on the verge of saying he regretted putting her through all this, but something told him he had better not show sympathy at this time.
“Give me the goddamn lighter.” She spat at him. “I’m going to have a smoke right now and right here, whether you want it or not.”
Bora handed her the lighter. “Those were Abraham Lincoln’s words at Gettysburg, weren’t they?”
“Oh, screw you.”
At midday, they were high enough to have a wide stretch of blue sea in view. The silent treatment was operative again; they stopped for the time needed to drink and munch on canned food, avoiding each other’s face. Bora updated his diary. Their progress having brought them halfway around the mountain, once more a strong wind blustered against them. It accompanied them as they found and followed a narrow track specked with goat pellets, bending slightly downward and leading into a gully.