‘He was there for at least two hours one lunchtime last week.’ he gloated.
‘I don’t want to hear your stories,’ Fotini said brusquely to Antonis as she poured him a raki. ‘And above all, I don’t want Maria to hear them either.’
‘Why not? Her sister is a tart. Don’t you think she knows that already?’ snapped Antonis.
‘Of course she doesn’t know that. And nor do you. So what if her husband’s cousin comes to visit her? He’s family, why shouldn’t he?’
‘Just the occasional visit would be one thing, but not virtually every day. Even family don’t bother to visit each other that often.’
‘Well, whatever you think, Maria mustn’t know - and nor must Giorgis. He has suffered quite enough. Seeing Anna married to a wealthy man was the best thing that could have happened to him - so you’re to keep your mouth shut. I mean it, Antonis.’
Fotini did mean it. She slammed the bottle down on the table in front of her brother and glared at him. She was as protective of Giorgis and Maria Petrakis as she would have been of her own flesh and blood, and wanted to keep these vicious and damaging rumours from them. Part of her could not believe them in any case. Why would Anna, whose whole life had turned around the night she met Andreas, risk throwing it all away? The very thought of it was baffling, ridiculous even, and besides, she held out hope that Manoli, the subject of Antonis’s scurrilous rumour-mongering, might one day notice Maria. Since the lunch on the feast of Agios Giorgis, Maria had chatted incessantly about Andreas’s cousin, repeating every detail of their encounter at the Vandoulakis house.
Manoli had been seen a few times in the village. With his connection to Giorgis he had found a warm welcome among the men of Plaka and soon became a regular fixture at the bar; he was found there as often as anyone, playing backgammon, passing around strong cigarettes and discussing the politics of the island beneath a thick pall of smoke. Even in this small village on a road that led only to even smaller villages, the pressing issues of world politics were high on the agenda. In spite of their remoteness from them, events on mainland Greece regularly aroused both passion and fury.
‘The Communists are to blame!’ exclaimed Lidaki, banging his fist on the top of the bar.
‘How can you say that?’ answered another voice. ‘If it wasn’t for the monarchy, the mainland wouldn’t be in half the mess it is,’ and so they went on, sometimes into the small hours. ‘Two Greeks, one argument’, the saying went, and here, on most nights of the week, there were twenty or more villagers and as many arguments as there were olives in a jar.
Manoli had a broader world view than others in the bar - many had been no further than Iraklion and most had never got as far as Hania - and he brought a new perspective to argument and conversation. Though he was careful not to brag of the casual conquests that had been a recurring theme of his travels, he entertained them all with stories of Italians, Yugoslavians and their brothers on mainland Greece. His was a light touch and everyone liked him, enjoying the gaiety that he brought to the bar. Whenever there was a pause in the argument Manoli would have an anecdote or two to tell and the assembled company were happy to indulge him. His tales of the old Turkish quarter in Athens, the Spanish Steps in Rome and the bars of Belgrade were mesmerising and while he spoke there was silence, except for the occasional clack of worry beads. He did not need to embroider the facts to entertain. The stories of his brief imprisonment, being adrift on a ship in the middle of the Mediterranean, and fighting a duel in the back streets of a Yugoslavian port were all true enough. They were the tales of a man who had travelled without responsibilities and initially without cares. They showed him to be a wild but not uncaring man, but as he spoke, Manoli was conscious that he did not wish to be perceived as an unsuitable match for Giorgis’s daughter and accordingly toned down his stories.
Even Antonis, who had ceased to skulk in the corner whenever his boss’s rakish cousin appeared, now greeted him warmly. Music was their common bond, plus the fact that they had both spent a few years away from this province; though decades younger than the grizzled men they drank with, they were in some ways more worldly-wise than their elders would ever be. As a child, Manoli had learned to play the lyre and during his travelling years it had been both a companion and his security, at one point the only thing that stood between him and starvation. Often he had found himself singing and playing for his supper, and his lyre was the only possession of any value that he had not gambled away. This precious instrument now hung on the wall behind the bar, and when the raki was low in the bottle he would remove it from its hook and play, the bow sending the sound of its vibrating strings shuddering through the night air.
Likewise, Antonis’s wooden flute, his thiaboli, had been his constant companion during his years away from home. Its mellow sounds had filled a hundred different caves and shepherds’ huts, the notes soothing the hearts and souls of his companions and, more prosaically, helping them while away all those hours they had spent watching and waiting. As different as Manoli and Antonis were, music was a neutral space where wealth and hierarchy played no part. The two of them would play in the bar for an hour or so, their haunting melodies casting a spell over their audience and over those whose open windows captured the escaping sounds as they drifted through the stillness.
Though everyone was aware of the great wealth that Manoli’s parents had enjoyed and of the fortune that he himself had frittered away, most of the villagers now accepted him as someone just like themselves, who needed to work hard for a living and who, quite naturally, aspired to having a wife and a family. For Manoli, the simplicity of this more settled life had its own rewards. Even without the possibility of seeing Maria, which had been his original motivation in visiting Plaka, he found much in this village to love. The bonds between childhood friends, the loyalty to family and a way of life that had not needed to change for centuries, all had great appeal. If he could secure a woman like Maria, or perhaps even one of the other village beauties, it would complete his sense of belonging. Apart from saints’ day celebrations in the village, however, there were few legitimate occasions for him to meet her.
The formalities still observed in villages like Plaka drove him mad. Though he found the enduring traditions part of the attraction, the obscurity of the courting rituals he found nothing less than ridiculous. He knew he could not mention his intentions to Anna, and anyway, he was not visiting her so much now. It was a pattern he knew he needed to break if he wanted to achieve his planned conquest of Maria. Anna had been predictably brittle with him when he last visited.
‘Well, thanks for coming to see me,’ she said tartly.
‘Look,’ said Manoli, ‘I don’t think I should come at lunchtime any more. People are beginning to mutter about me not pulling my weight.’
‘Suit yourself,’ she snapped, her eyes full of angry tears. ‘You’ve obviously finished your little game with me. I assume you’re now playing it with someone else.’
With that she marched out of the room, and the door slammed behind her like a thunderclap.
Manoli would miss their intimacy and the sparkle in Anna’s eyes, but it was a price he was prepared to pay.
Since there was no one at home preparing him meals, Manoli often ate in one of the tavernas in Elounda or in Plaka. Each Friday he went to Fotini’s taverna, which she and Stephanos had now taken over from his parents. One visit in July, he sat there looking out to sea towards Spinalonga. The island, shaped like a large, half-submerged egg, had become so familiar to him that he scarcely gave it a second thought. Like everyone else, he occasionally wondered what it must be like over there, but he did not dwell on such thoughts for long. Spinalonga was simply there, a lump of rock inhabited by lepers.
A plate of tiny picarel fish sat on the table in front of Manoli, and as he stabbed each one with his fork, his eye was caught by something. In the dusky half-light a little boat was chugging its way from the island, creating a broad triangular wake as it cut through the den
se water. Two people were in it, and as the boat came into the harbour, he saw that one of them looked very like Maria.
‘Stephanos!’ he called. ‘Is that Maria with Giorgis? You don’t usually see a woman out fishing, do you?’
‘They haven’t been fishing,’ replied Stephanos. ‘They’ve been making one of their deliveries to the leper colony.’
‘Oh,’ said Manoli, chewing slowly and thoughtfully. ‘I suppose someone has to.’
‘Giorgis has been doing it for years. It’s better money than fishing - and more guaranteed,’ said Stephanos, putting a plate of fried potatoes down on Manoli’s table. ‘But he mostly does it for—’
Fotini, who had been hovering in the background, saw where this conversation might lead. Even if he did not intend to, she knew that Stephanos was likely to forget Giorgis’s desire to keep the facts of Eleni’s tragic death from leprosy a secret from the Vandoulakis family.
‘Here you are, Manoli!’ She dived forward with a plate of sliced aubergines. ‘These are freshly cooked. With garlic. I hope you like them. Would you excuse us a moment?’
She grabbed her husband’s arm and led him back to the kitchen.
‘You must be careful!’ she exclaimed. ‘We all have to forget that Anna and Maria’s mother was ever on Spinalonga. It’s the only way. We know it’s nothing for them to be ashamed of, but Alexandros Vandoulakis might not see it that way.’
Stephanos was shamefaced.
‘I know, I know. It slips my mind sometimes, that’s all. It was really stupid of me,’ he muttered. ‘Manoli comes in here so often, I forget that he’s connected with Anna.’
‘It’s not just Anna’s position I’m thinking of,’ admitted Fotini. ‘Maria has feelings for Manoli. They met only once, up at Anna’s house, but she hasn’t stopped talking about him, at least not to me.’
‘Really? That poor girl needs a husband, but he looks a bit of a rogue to me,’ replied Stephanos. ‘I suppose there’s not much choice around here, is there.’
Stephanos only saw things in black and white. He understood what his wife was getting at and realised that he and Fotini had a role to play in bringing these two together.
It was precisely a week later that the opportunity to engineer a meeting between Maria and Manoli presented itself. When Manoli appeared that Friday, Fotini slipped out of a side door and ran to the Petrakis house. Giorgis had eaten and gone to the bar to play backgammon and Maria now sat in the fading light, straining to read.
‘Maria, he’s there,’ Fotini said breathlessly. ‘Manoli is at the taverna. Why don’t you come down and see him.’
‘I can’t,’ said Maria. ‘What would my father think?’
‘For heaven’s sake,’ replied Fotini. ‘You’re twenty-three. Be bold. Your father needn’t even know.’
She grabbed her friend by the arm. Maria resisted, but only feebly; in her heart she yearned to go.
‘What do I say to him?’ she asked anxiously.
‘Don’t worry,’ Fotini reassured her. ‘Men like Manoli never allow that to be your concern, at least not for long. He’ll have plenty to say.’
Fotini was right. When they arrived at the taverna, Manoli was immediately in charge of the situation. He did not question why Maria was there, but invited her to join him at his table, asking her what she had been doing since they had last met, and how her father was. Then, more boldly than a man normally did in these situations, he said, ‘There’s a new cinema opened in Agios Nikolaos. Would you come there with me?’
Maria, already flushed from the excitement of seeing Manoli again, blushed even more deeply. She looked down into her lap and could hardly reply.
‘That would be very nice,’ she said eventually. ‘But it’s not really the done thing around here . . . going to the cinema with someone you hardly know.’
‘I tell you what, I shall ask Fotini and Stephanos to come as well. They can act as chaperones. Let’s go on Monday. That’s the day the taverna shuts, isn’t it?’
So before she knew it and had had time to be anxious and think of all the reasons against it, the date was agreed. In a mere three days from now they would all go to Agios Nikolaos.
Manoli’s manners were impeccable and their outings became a weekly event. Each Monday, the four of them would set off at about seven in the evening to spend an evening watching the latest movie, followed by supper.
Giorgis was delighted to see his daughter being wooed by this handsome and charming man, someone he had liked for many months even before his daughter had got to know him. Though it was a very modern approach - all this going out before there was any kind of formal agreement - they were, after all, moving into a more modern era, and the fact that Maria had an escort helped to contain the mutterings of disapproval from the older ladies of the village.
The four of them enjoyed each other’s company and the trips out of Plaka changed the texture and pattern of their otherwise routine lives. Laughter characterised their times together, and they were often bent double with amusement at Manoli’s jokes and antics. Maria began to allow herself the luxury of a daydream and to imagine that she could spend the rest of her days looking at this handsome, lined face, aged by life and laughter. Sometimes when he looked straight into her eyes she felt the invisible hairs on her neck stand on end and the palms of her hands dampen. Even on a warm evening she would feel herself shudder involuntarily. It was a new experience to be so flattered and teased. What light relief Manoli was from the colourless backdrop of the rest of her life! There were moments when she wondered if he was actually capable of taking anything seriously. The bubbles of his effervescence spread to everyone around him. Maria had never enjoyed such carefree happiness and began to think this euphoria was love.
Always weighing on her conscience, however, was what would become of her father if she should marry. With most marriage arrangements, the girl left her own family and moved in with her new husband’s parents. Clearly that would not happen with Manoli since he had no parents, but equally impossible was the idea that he might move into their small Plaka home. With his background, it was inconceivable. The problem went round and round in her mind, and not once did it seem absurd that Manoli had not yet even kissed her.
Manoli was on his best behaviour and had long since decided that the only way he would win Maria was by conducting himself faultlessly. How absurd it sometimes seemed to him that in another country he might have taken a girl to bed when they had scarcely exchanged names, and yet here he had spent many dozens of hours with Maria and had not yet touched her. His desire for her was intense but the waiting had a delicious novelty. He was sure his patience would be rewarded and the wait only made him want her all the more. In the early months of this courtship, when he gazed at her pale oval face framed by its halo of dark plaited hair, she would look down bashfully, afraid to meet his eye. As time went on, however, he watched her grow bolder and stare back. If he had looked closely, he would have had the satisfaction of seeing a quickening pulse on her pretty neck before her fine features broke into a smile. If he took this virgin now he knew he would be obliged to leave Plaka. Though he had deflowered dozens of girls in his past, even he could not disgrace the lovely Maria and, more importantly, a voice inside urged him to hold back. It was time to settle down.
From a distance, Anna smouldered with envy and resentment. Manoli had hardly been to visit her since Giorgis and Maria had come for lunch, and on some occasions when there were family gatherings he had stayed away. How dare he treat her that way? Soon she learned from her father that Manoli was wooing Maria. Was this just to provoke her? If only she could show him that she really did not care. There was no such opportunity, however, and therefore no such catharsis. She desperately tried not to think about them together, and irritably threw herself into increasingly extravagant projects about the home to distract herself. All the while she knew that in Plaka events were inexorably unfolding, but there was no one in whom she could confide, and the fury built up inside her lik
e steam in a pressure cooker.
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