There was a public image to uphold. Her face. Her hair. Those were the important parts. A woman's face must always be presentable. Bruises aren't covered by cosmetics. They taint the skin as though they carry residual evil with them ... as though they were a blight, a sickness.
He wasn't here this morning. He never was this early. But his spirit still lingered, as if he had a crony who lived with them, and reported her every movement. Davonna slid her legs onto the floor and shoved her feet into faded, red slippers with worn out soles. Her right knee wobbled, and she gasped in pain.
"Bollocks."
She clamped her lips together, but nothing moved. Did she think it would? Was there a chance he'd jump out from behind the wardrobe? Her pale hand flew to her heart; it thudded away underneath her fingers. Everything was tight, wound around the coil of her fear. It loosened, oh yes, it loosened, but it never unwound.
Davonna's gaze slid over to the large clock, with the Kensington Station face, opposite their bed. A whole five minutes ... gone. There wasn't time to dally over a shaft of light or breathing exercises. She striped off the sheets and plopped them in a hamper by the door. She grabbed her white silk robe, slung her arms through it, and pulled out a broom from behind the closet door.
It never stopped, this morning routine: sweep, dust, wipe, and weed. Ten years of the same and Davonna had timed it to the minute. It had been months since she'd taken a few minutes to relax. The time was precious. Rarer by far than pearls.
After she finished work, the light was allowed in. Davonna padded around the house on quiet feet and thrust open the red shutters. It was as if the sun only rose after Davonna put her fingers against the painted wood, unlocked the latch, and pushed. Or maybe the sun rose because she had come out to meet it, and it greeted her as a long lost lover, eager to fold her into his arms.
She always came to the library last. There were no shutters to open, but a wall of glass, which overlooked the garden. The green grass, cypress trees, and hedges shimmered, as if the colors meant more in the strange moments before the sun came up. She stood in front of the window and closed her eyes. With a tug, she untied her robe and let it fall to the floor in a puddle to expose her pale skin. There were green patches on her thighs and spills of light blue on her lower back and lingering yellow splotches on her shoulder. She looked like a faded patchwork quilt. Davonna knew they were there, she felt them every time she moved or twisted or bent to pick up a newspaper. As she stood and let the library’s magic pierce her body, it drove away the chill and pain and the darkness. She stood as a statue, counting off the moments in her mind and watching as the sun shortened the garden's shadows. In a moment, her robe was on again, and she padded from the room. She paused only to caress the spine of a book on a shelf, hidden in shadow, its cover worn, the title on the spine indistinguishable, and went upstairs to dress.
I in a calf-length, white cotton shirtdress, cinched with a black belt, Davonna stepped out onto the road. Although the sun hadn't crested the sea, the air was balmy and thick. It whipped at her arms and pulled at her neat bun. She drew an arm across her face to shade her eyes from the bright sun. There was Mitilini, the cacophony of faded orange and grey and red patterned roofs. Laughter rose from those homes surely, as children jumped on their sleeping parents. In another, a husband made coffee with his eyes half-shut, or perhaps lovers greeted each other without saying a word. She ached to be there among them, listening to the sound of life. John had said this house (if a two story, 20,000 square foot building made a house) was better than any in the village. The wealthy and powerful lived on hills, and the rabble lived at their feet.
With a heavy sigh, Davonna walked on, sticking a wide-brimmed hat on her head, gathering her basket, and starting down the road. It hadn't rained for a few weeks and the ground was stiff and cracked; small stones skirted this way and that under her leather sandals. The dust rose and caressed the hem of her dress. It whipped side to side, a daily dance.
"Κalimera," a boisterous voice said, from the same spot it did every day.
Davonna turned. Ioannis Dukas, their closest neighbor, smiled at her from his front garden. Every morning, without fail, he was to be found there, in a white linen shirt and pressed slacks, reading a book, a pot of tea next to him on a marble pedestal.
"Kalimera, Ioannis," Davonna repeated.
Ioannis smiled as he always did. But was it from friendship or mirth at her accent? She tried, but it was never without its English lilt. She didn't stop to chat. There was never time. But she smiled and wished him a fine day before half lurching forward. What she never saw, after she'd passed his palatial home, was that he walked to the road, cup in hand, and frowned. Then, when she was out of sight, he left to give his wife the report.
It was said in Mitilini that the shopkeepers set their clocks by Davonna. She waited by the pier for the stalls and shops to open. They watched as Ioannis watched, with intrigue, and they spared the time for curiosity. Lesvos never matched the fast pace of London life. They were a content people, who knew, with absolute certainty where they fit within the framework of the island.
Davonna sat on the pier, on the same bench, and looked at the same hills with the same sad eyes. The water underneath her might have been in the Thames last month, it might have slipped under Tower Bridge and lapped against the London Eye. It was a comforting thought, a piece of home. It carried the sounds of cabbies and tourists and busy workers with it, sighing on the breeze. The grey stone buildings behind her with their white windows and trim and orange tile roofs were still, but they hummed with muffled life. Even the one-ton ship's anchor, which rested on its side on the cobblestone parking lot, looked as though it had only thrown aside and would, at any moment be carried away.
"You're early."
Davonna turned, and once more shaded her pale green eyes from the bright sun. A man stood before her, tall with coppery skin and dark brown hair and the kindest most honest eyes: the godlike police officer of Mitilini: Thanos Argyris.
"I can't be," Davonna said, with wide eyes.
"Five minutes, I think. Spiros and Aris commented on it as I passed the bakery."
"I suppose I rushed," Davonna said as she stared out over the sea.
"It's a fine morning."
Davonna was an enigma to Thanos, to the whole town. She had come on wings, arriving one day as though she had always been there. She was quiet, timid even, with a strange look in her eye. Thanos couldn't place it although she reminded him of a child he'd once seen in a faded and dog-eared copy of National Geographic, a refugee from Darfur.
They sat as the water lapped against the pale, white rocks, and in the breeze a pair of swings, half-forgotten like the anchor, swung back and forth, adding their creaking to the sea's delicate symphony.
"I have to go. The bakery will be open."
Thanos' heart sank as he watched her slip on the damp pier in her haste to get away. He looked longingly at her, and everything he'd wanted to say rushed back to his tongue ... he looked heavenward in exasperation. A line of greater white-fronted geese flew over, in mute silence. Thanos sighed and shuffled to his squad car, to dream of Davonna.
Davonna walked across the grey street, past a pair of grumpy grandfathers arguing about football, and strode to the bakery where a short round man leaned against the wall, pulling on his lip. He drove his fingers into his back and thrust his large stomach out, moaning as his back cracked. The baker, hardly to be mistaken for anything but, looked up in surprise as Davonna cleared her throat.
"Kalimera, you look lovely!" he said, gesturing her inside.
"Thank you, Sprios."
Spiros was a short man with voluptuous, wavy black hair. He sampled the bakery's goods habitually, his white apron tied loose across his ample stomach. But Spiros moved with agility, in and around the cramped bakery, which defied logic.
Davonna took a deep breath to soak in the smells as she walked up to the curved glass display case and the wooden floors creaked under her feet.
It was the same every day; the aroma of yeast and cinnamon and the trailing line of flour, which marked out Spiros and Aris' travels. The breadbaskets that lined the back wall overflowed. An intoxicating fragrance of melted Asiago cheese permeated the air, conjuring cravings from thin air.
"Efharisto," Davonna said, thanking Spiros as he placed a large bag on the counter.
He nodded and assured her it was fresh. Before she thought of escape, Aris strode towards her as stealthy as a mouse; holding out a plate.
Aris was the antithesis to Spiros, tall with muscular biceps and a wide chest. Davonna liked to imagine that it was from the kneading. They had it worked out well between them; Spiros took care of the customers and Aris made the bread. Davonna looked at the plain, white plate, the kind that was in constant use in the bakery. On it were four of the most perfectly shaped tiropitas she'd ever seen. The pasty was light and flaky and the feta, Parmesan, and cottage cheese bulged out of the sides.
"Sit and have a bite."
"I ..."
"Sit," Spiros said and moved her to a chair in the back of the store in between two long butcher-block countertops; covered in flour. "There's naught so pressing you can’t sit and eat a tiropita."
Davonna smiled in spite of herself. As Spiros left to see to the jingling door, Aris sat in front of her. He crossed his right leg over his left and watched with relish as she took a bite of the pastries.
"It's delicious."
"We don't see you often enough. I told this to Spiros. You work too hard. I'm sure you're lonely, wandering around in a big house all day. And you're always here. Your family must miss you. Why not go to Paris for a weekend? Or Athens?" he said, patting her knee.
While Aris talked, Davonna moved back in her chair; out of his reach. She finished a second tiropita, it melted in her mouth, the crumbling of layer upon layer of flaky pastry, was intoxicating. She longed to close her eyes and drift off to a lounge chair underneath a canopy of wisteria and warm sunshine and a cool glass of sangria, with the lazy sounds of bees and twinkling birdcalls circling around her. But Aris leaned towards her in anticipation. He would wait for an hour if it meant she'd talk.
"The house is magnificent and I've been so comfortable on Lesvos. I can't think of a reason I'd go anywhere else." Aris pursed his lips as Davonna talked and stuffed the rest of the tiropita, unladylike, into her mouth. "Thank you for the chat and the food," she mumbled and fled the bakery, catching up her basket as she whipped around the doorway.
"How is John?" a voice shouted.
Davonna gasped as she turned and saw Aris mere feet behind her. She blinked and blinked again as people moved around them.
"He's fine," she mumbled.
"Are you happy?"
Davonna clamped her lips together and stared. She didn't know these two men ... beyond a casual acquaintance and yet in Aris' eyes there was doubt and concern and pity. Davonna frowned, wondering where it originated. She turned away, leaving Aris behind, his question unanswered, her mind a torrent.
She trudged through the crowded streets and up the winding hill to the house. Aris' face swam in front of her and she wondered why he'd even asked. But in the beating sun her musings were cut short. The basket on her shoulder grew heavier as she trudged up the hill. A rock bounced into her sandal and she wriggled and stretched her foot to eject it. As she came in sight of the house, her head spun and she put her arm out to steady herself on the iron gate. She wanted to swim in the pond at the back of the property. But there wasn't time for such triviality.
So she walked through the kitchen door and started to work. She chopped and seared meat and rolled pastry and mixed crème patisserie, all the time filled with dread.
Davonna woke the next morning, confused why John was still in bed. She watched him, like a dragon, feigning sleep. She scooped up a pile of clothes and fled the room. Downstairs, in the pantry she pulled on faded jeans with holes in the knees, a short-sleeve grey shirt, slipped her feet into wellingtons, and headed to the garden. The morning air was cool and light and pleasantly humid, but its comfort evaporated too soon. The scorching sun replaced it. Even the grass shrank beneath its fiery gaze.
In the unrelenting heat the work was exhausting. A huge pile of debris cascaded over the wheelbarrow, but only one corner, the size of a swimming pool, lay completed. Davonna thought longingly of a long soak in the massive copper bathtub upstairs, pouring in Epsom salts and a few drops of lavender and sliding beneath the silky water.
It was hours before she trudged back through the garden, her shoulders slumped, to eat. She sat at the table and drank glass after glass of water. The sun shone thick and bright through the kitchen windows but the vent above her head blew out crisp, dry air. Davonna raked her hand across her forehead and slumped into her chair, her arms dangling off the sides. Dirt lay caked underneath her fingers and in her nail beds.
"Morning."
Davonna looked. John stood in the doorway, bleary eyed.
"Good morning," she replied. John stumbled forward and when she didn't move, cocked an eyebrow at the teapot. Davonna rushed to the sideboard and slid a cup in front of him.
"I'm on evening shifts this week. I've got to head out in an hour. Make me two poached eggs, will you," he snapped.
Davonna backed towards the stove, filled the pot, and set it under the gas.
"Wash your hands before you touch anything else," he snarled.
Davonna looked at her hands in horror. "I'm so sorry. I've been in the garden."
"I know, the bloody snap of your pruning shears echoed like a bloody anvil."
Davonna swallowed. "I'm ... sorry, John."
"Whatever. I'm sure my sleep doesn't matter to you, but if you've forgotten I am the one who makes the money. I make this possible for you," he said, wagging his arm.
Davonna nodded, turned to the sink, grabbed a scrub brush, and set to work on her hands.
John left an hour later, in an exquisitely tailored suit, his hair combed to perfection. He strode out the front door and walked around the house to the garage. Davonna watched from the kitchen. The Morgan started with a rumble and he eased it from the garage. Its dark, black paint and the red piping on the new black leather seats gleamed in the sun. The top was down, as it always was.
She walked back out to the garden. The sound of the Morgan's engine in her ears, and the impression of John's stare on her back and the sound of his voice ordering her to scrub off her hands. She swallowed and twisted her hands together and wiped her head. The world spun around her and she closed her eyes: willing it to stop. A never-ending sense of failure filled Davonna ... but more than that, failure where failing decides life or death, where any moment might be your last and a cruel torturous end awaits you. The result, at least for her, was a life on the edge with no relaxation, no hope, no glimmer - just the blank soulless eyes of death.
Davonna toiled away under the hot glare of the sun until the light cooled and then light faded altogether. It was so dark; she hardly saw whether she pulled weeds or flowers. She pushed the wheelbarrow towards the trashcans, shoved her load in, and stumbled back to the house.
The house was quiet when she walked back in. She flicked on the kitchen light and stared at the inside of the pantry. None of it tempted her, even though her stomach growled and twisted, and her head was as heavy as a watermelon. She closed the door and trudged upstairs to shower and collapse into bed.
At 3:00 a.m., according to the sickly blue light of the alarm clock, Davonna's eyes flew open. She stared at the ceiling, confused why she'd woken, and then bolted upright; straining her ears. A faint noise came from downstairs; like a muted hammering. A click echoed through the house and the darkness receded an inch as a light turned on. Davonna grabbed her mobile phone and typed in, 1-0-0.
"There's someone in my house," she whispered after the emergency dispatcher answered. They asked for the address and for a door to be opened for the police. "The back door to the kitchen," Davonna said. Her heart thundered in her ears, and
the calm young woman offered to stay on the line until help arrived. "No, I'll be ok."
She hung up the phone, and a moment later was embarrassed that she'd called. It might be John. But no, he's working tonight. He wouldn't leave the hotel. The noises had stopped. Maybe it was the house: the shutters clinking against the windowpanes or the air conditioner starting.
She slunk out of bed and pulled on her robe. She clutched her mobile like a lifeline and tiptoed from the room. At the door, she hesitated; if she took the main stairs it would leave her exposed. With a flash of memory, she nudged open a hidden door, to the left of the master bedroom, and slipped into the servant's staircase. The steps were thick with dust and the space was so close, so dark, so suffocating, that Davonna had to force herself not to flee in terror. She gripped the rough handrail with both hands and stepped deeper into the gloom, the dust muffling her footsteps.
On the last step, Davonna pitched forward and stumbled into the door at the bottom with a thump. She froze, her ear pressed at the door, and listened. With the merest hint of a squeak Davonna opened the door and slipped into the darkness of the kitchen hallway. Pale blue moonlight pooled on the floor. It gave the hanging pots and pans an otherworldly glow. She crept across to unlatch the door and waited until she heard the light crunch of gravel. A figure moved out of the shadows. She shrank back, stifling a scream behind her hand.
"Davonna?"
"Thanos?"
"I got the call. There's someone in the house?"
"Yes," she whispered, and pointed through the kitchen and out towards the main part of the house. "The noises came from John's office."
"I'll go check," he said. He laid a strong hand on her shoulder and then slipped from the room.
Davonna sank onto a chair. Her heart slapped in her chest. Her mind raced, and she imagined Thanos as he crept through the house. The burglar might wait behind an open door, spring out, and hit him on the head. Then a shuffling, a small whine, the chink of metal on metal. Davonna turned, cocking her ear. It sounded as if it came from the terrace.
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