The Summer of Secrets, page 37
On top of all this, Babá had stomach problems, but refused to go to hospital.
Sofía didn’t want to visit England, but she loved Jamie too much to disappoint him. The best thing she could do was take his mind away from the subject. She doused the fire under the kazáni.
‘What are you up to? I know that look, Sofía, you she-devil.’
‘Up to? Nothing, honestly, Jamie.’ She narrowed her eyes and pouted as she approached him. ‘I’ve blended a new perfume and I’d really like to hear your opinion. It needs to age a little longer, really, but I still think it’s quite powerful as it is.’ She turned the simple glass bottle upside-down on her middle finger and dabbed it behind her ears. After repeating the process, she ran a loaded fingertip down from her chin, ending deep in her cleavage. ‘Come here, lover. Inhale this perfume on me and tell me your impressions. What does this scent bring to you?’
Before she could say more, he was upon her, nuzzling her ear, then, following the scent, he pushed her dress off her shoulders. His face became puffy, his eyes glazed and as he pressed himself against her, she felt his wonderful body harden.
‘You witch, you make me lose control of myself,’ he muttered, sweeping her up and laying her on the citrus leaves. ‘What is this magic power you have over me that makes me want to love you in the middle of the day?’ He tugged at her clothes, biting the side of her neck, thrusting against her. Driven by longing. ‘I shall have you right here, outrageously, while you are supposed to be working. You turn my blood to fire and my head is spinning with desire.’
One hand pressed against her lower back, while the other was behind her head. He kissed her so passionately she feared he’d bruised her lips, yet she wanted him more than she ever had before. Almost fainting with pleasure, she suddenly realised they were both naked. As the heat of her body intensified, so the scent increased and wafted around them both with each movement until, intoxicated, they were lost in the lap of Aphrodite, drunk on the wine of Eros. Pan played a rapid rhythm on his pipes as the gods smiled down on the lovers. Out of control, each took their own pleasure from the other, which lifted their eroticism to new exquisite dimensions until all sense of time and place escaped them.
After, they lay panting in the pit of citrus leaves, silent and smiling and staring at the rafters. Sofía glanced around at the scattered leaves and the scattered clothes. She rubbed behind her ear and sniffed her fingers for any sign of the perfume, but it had disappeared without a trace. Just as well, she thought.
They stood. Kissing and laughing, they peeled leathery foliage off each other’s body and found their garments. Sofía, so happy, was sure she had conceived. It was the right time and what could be more glorious? Yes, she convinced herself, a few days before the church celebration of the birth of Christ, she might have managed to get herself pregnant at last.
*
Christmas week passed with all the traditions of the season. Too soon, Jamie had to return to his battalion now stationed in Athens where the Greek Civil War had gained impetus. The conflict was fought between the army of the Greek government, whom Britain supported, and the Communist Party of Greece, the KKE (backed, everyone suspected but never said, by the Soviet Union). The world watched and twitched nervously as the Cold War gained momentum and the threat of nuclear disaster terrified the world.
*
On the last day of the year, María went into the distillery and found Sofía crying uncontrollably.
‘Hey, Sofía, what’s brought this on?’ She put her arm around her sister’s shoulders. ‘Tell me and I’ll see if I can help.’
‘I’m not pregnant!’ Sofía sobbed. ‘I was so sure this time. It’s not fair, María. What’s wrong with me? We’ve been married for four years, yet we don’t have a family of our own. People will think I’m barren . . . that I don’t have a womb capable of supporting life.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with you, Sofía. You may have been married for four years, but the fact is you’ve only been together for what, six months?’
‘Jamie says the same. Now, he wants me to go to England for a month in June, but I fear you can’t cope without me.’
‘We can manage! You must go. Meet his family, be alone with him for a while. Ayeleen and Popi are quite grown up. They can take your place for a month; besides, it will do everyone good to see how hard you work.’
*
As the church bells rang in the new year, Sofía tossed and turned in her empty bed, trying to decide. When the dawn light crept over Castellorizo, she resolved to visit England and despite María’s warning that the Tsambika Mountain legend was pure superstition, desperate Sofía decided to make the pilgrimage. She would do it the day before she flew to England from Maritsa airport, in Rhodes.
*
In June, just as Sofía was leaving Castellorizo, Mustafa returned from his travels. As always, the big Turk was delighted to see the latest addition to his family, the baby boy named after him.
Sofía was running late. Just about to leave for the ferry to Rhodes, she remembered her intention to take some of the intoxicating perfume to England, hoping the passion it instilled would help her to conceive.
‘Go ahead, Zafiro. Take my case down to the ferry,’ she cried. ‘I’ll be there in a moment.’
She hurried back into the house, ducked behind the unfinished carpet and through the stout door into the distillery. On the top shelf, out of the reach of children, a row of glazed stone demijohns with a tap near the bottom held maturing oils, each bearing the name and date of the content. She had to stand on the worktop to reach the one marked with XXX.
Trying not to inhale any of the scent’s aroma, she stretched up, smiling to herself as she decanted a measure of the concoction into a glass aspirin bottle. It would be wonderful to lie in Jamie’s arms again and she found herself remembering their last time together, over Christmas.
She didn’t hear Mustafa enter the distillery. ‘What are you doing up there, Sofía?’ he asked.
She blinked at him, speechless for a second, not wanting to tell him about the power of the oil, or why she was taking it to use on her husband. ‘Ah, I’m going to do the Tsambika pilgrimage, in Rhodes, so I’m taking a little oil to help my legs heal in case of injury. They say you can get some bumps and bruises.’
‘Do you really believe putting yourself through such a terrible ordeal will help you get pregnant?’ he asked. ‘Surely that’s lunacy?’
‘I don’t know, Mustafa.’ She turned her eyes away, not wishing for an interrogation. ‘But you see, I’m willing to try anything. I love Jamie so much, I’m desperate to give him a child.’
The big Turk gave her a withering look, shook his head and raised his hands towards her. ‘Come on, let me lift you down from there.’
*
‘What!’ María shouted. ‘She’s going to climb to Tsambika Monastery on her knees before she gets on a plane to England? She’s mad! The only miracle that might happen is that they allow her on the plane with her legs in shreds,’ María shouted. ‘Please, Mustafa, go after her. God knows what might happen. We might never see her again!’ She pushed him towards the door. ‘Go down to the port and talk to her, quickly, the ferry’s due out in five minutes.’
Mustafa, always a martyr to María’s wishes, called Zafiro. ‘Come, my son, help me find your aunt before the ship leaves.’ They hurried down to the port. The ferry trumpeted loudly as the last passengers rushed aboard with their bundles and boxes.
Mustafa and Zafiro separated and raced around the decks for a minute, with no luck, then Mustafa shouted from the top deck railings to his son, below.
‘Zafiro! Go ashore, quickly! Tell your mother I’ll be back on the next ferry from Rhodes.’ The mooring loops were tossed off the yellow-painted stanchions as the sailors started to lift the ramp. ‘Quick, Zafiro!’ Mustafa yelled, then gasped as his son, on seeing the tailgate being raised, ran and made a flying leap, arms whirling, legs running through the air heading for the retreating quayside below, as the ferry pulled away.
For a terrifying second, it looked as though Zafiro might end up falling onto the ferry’s propeller – and that would surely be the end of him. He landed on the very edge of the quay, teetered, fought for his balance right on the rim of the concrete, but then threw himself forward and secured his place on the dock. Mustafa grinned, proud as a priest at a baptism.
Zafiro punched the air, spun around and yelled to his father. ‘Don’t worry, Papa, I’ll take care of everything while you are away!’
*
At last, for the first time in her life, Sofía could relax away from her family. She found it an odd sensation not to be at everyone’s call and to have no responsibilities. Locked inside her tiny cabin, she lay on the bed and tried to imagine Rhodes. She’d never been before. Even when María was there in the hospital, Sofía stayed home to take care of things while other children went with Mamá. She heard that Rhodes is an island of castles, palaces and beautiful buildings. With her love of Greek history, she longed to spend some time in the ancient city.
She had two days before her flight to London. Could the story about Tsambika be true? It seemed far-fetched, but her desperation made her susceptible to fables and fairy tales. Because of her secret belief that somehow the childlessness was her own fault, she would try anything to get pregnant. Perhaps the deal with Tsambika was that she had to believe – in that case, she would.
Sofía had been so exhausted when she embarked the ferry, she fell asleep shortly after entering her small cabin and woke to the sound of the ship’s hooter as it entered Rhodes commercial harbour at five o’clock in the morning. Still under cover of darkness, she was one of the first to disembark the ship. The Castellorizo ticket office had booked a room for her near the Rhodes bus station. The travel agent told her to catch the Lindos bus and ask to be called at the Monastery of Tsambika. On the dockside, she took a waiting taxicab and, ten minutes later, was standing outside her room.
‘Here’s your key, miss,’ the landlady said handing over a key with a brown label stating the number and address of the room.
‘Thank you. Do you happen to know what time the first bus to Lindos leaves?’
The middle-aged woman smiled kindly. ‘Every two hours starting at nine and the return is also every two hours starting at eight o’clock. It takes an hour and three-quarters to Lindos.’
‘Thank you, but actually I’m going to Tsambika.’
The woman’s face fell. ‘The pilgrimage?’ Sofía nodded. ‘Alone?’ the woman asked, concerned now. Sofía nodded again. ‘Oh my goodness!’ The landlady crossed herself. ‘Where have you come from?’
‘Castellorizo. It’s my first time in Rhodes.’
‘Listen, you can’t go up Tsambika mountain on your own, you need the support of friends or family with you. Who will give you water? Who will wash your bleeding shins with salt water? Who will feed you words of encouragement, wipe away your tears and join you in prayer?’
‘I’m sure I’ll be all right, don’t worry,’ Sofía said.
‘No, you won’t. There’s little shade and it’s steep and gruelling. Please, don’t go alone.’
Slightly unnerved now, she wanted to be by herself. ‘Perhaps I’ll just go and look. Thanks for warning me.’
An hour later, she found herself sitting on a street bench waiting for the first Lindos bus. She watched the driver get out of his cab, step on the front bumper and turn the destination roller until RHODES TOWN disappeared and LINDOS took its place. Then he climbed down and called, ‘All aboard!’
She paid her thirty cents to the conductor who gave her a ticket, then settled back to enjoy the journey. After all, she wasn’t forced to climb the mountain on her knees. She could wait until the last minute before she made her decision. On the seat in front of her, a woman was trying to control her two children. A doll-like girl of about three and her brother, a babe-in-arms. What would it be like, to have little ones of her own? She’d be the absolute best mother. Her children would be highly intelligent due to their early introduction to books and learning. They’d also be beautiful, with lovely manners and a kind disposition. She made many plans for their future and dreamed of the day she would have grandchildren too.
CHAPTER 49
OLIVIA
Castellorizo, Greece, present day
WE WALK OVER TO THE square, Uncle and I, arms linked. ‘I wonder which house it is?’ I study the buildings around the open space. To my right stands a travel agent, then the island’s only supermarket, clearly family owned and fully stocked. There are spaces where dwellings once stood – the square foundations visible in the paving – but all other signs of the buildings have gone. I wonder if their demise was due to the bombings, or the earthquake that my uncle has mentioned. A majestic rubber tree dominates the space. Ahead, a small sign indicates the way to the island’s only bakery.
Uncle stares around, seeming confused. ‘I can’t quite get my bearings,’ he mutters, ‘it’s been fifty years, you know.’
Four elderly women in black sit shoulder-to-shoulder, crocheting in the deep shade of the tree. Uncle goes over to talk to them and comes back beaming. ‘I guess by that smile, you found it?’ I say.
‘Yes, look, it’s that one with two floors; burgundy walls with cream shutters, doors and balcony. I should have recognised it, but didn’t because it’s been painted. The house was white when I left.’
‘I wonder if anyone lives there now?’
‘It seems not, according to the ladies over there.’
*
We find the old priest and learn that seven men of the cloth have passed through since Uncle first handed over the keys, half a century ago. My uncle returns with the key to his old home, a notebook of expenses and a little bundle of blue bank books wrapped in an elastic band. Delighted to find the pages filled with almost fifty years of rent deposits.
‘There’s enough here to make a good start on the renovations,’ Uncle says as we return to the house. ‘I can tell you I’m quite excited about this, Olivia,’ he says, turning the key to his old home. ‘And a bit emotional too.’ I catch the tremble in his voice.
The latch bolt resists, clonks and complains as it tumbles. With a loud protesting groan, the heavy painted door creaks open. We stand for a moment, staring into the gloom, feeling as if we are about to step into another dimension.
Uncle’s hand covers his mouth and I can see he’s struggling. I take his other hand and give it a squeeze. Sad for him, I touch his arm. ‘Do you have a photo of David?’
He nods and without speaking, reaches for the wallet in his trouser pocket. He flips it open and hands it over. There is great declaration in the moment: a coming out, a display of bravery, as if dark secrets from a buried past find release and escape into the astonishing Greek sunlight right there on his doorstep. An odd sound comes from him, half gasp, half sob.
‘Oh, David,’ he whispers then turns to me. ‘We were so happy here.’
We stand close together. I slide my arm around his shoulders and give him a gentle hug. Poor dear. I suspect he’s been very lonely for a long time.
‘It was different in those days, Olivia. People like us . . . well, we were attacked, thrown into prison, even killed, by self-righteous males and religious zealots, so we were very discreet. No shouting of our love for each other like Sofía and Jamie, or María and Mustafa. Just two businessmen who shared a house. But we loved each other more than life itself. You said there were two types of people in the world, givers and takers . . . well, David was a giver. He gave to the poor, the needy and the very church that condemned him. I never got over his death.’
I study the black and white photo behind a cellophane window in his wallet. The heads and shoulders of two handsome young men, very alike, smile back at me.
‘Shall we go in?’ I say, peering into the gloom. ‘After you, Uncle, as it’s your house.’
I follow him through the doorway. The shutters are closed. It is dark inside. He tries the light switch and with a click, the place dazzles in illumination.
‘Oh my! It’s another time capsule,’ I say. ‘Look at the place – 1960s–70s, all of it. My friends go crazy for this stuff.’
‘Sofía and Jamie had rebuilt one floor, before baby Tsambika came along. It was enough for them. David and I added a second floor. The big house was too much for us. Besides, we liked being closer to the harbour. It’s always been the hub of the island.’ We gaze around the interior.
‘Shall we open the shutters and let some natural light in?’ I suggest.
My uncle goes around the room, touching things, smiling sadly, peering into space as if watching old ghosts. He opens windows, pushes at louvres, gazes, sighs and reminisces in his mind.
‘After David’s death, I fell into a bit of depression, so I went to England to be with Sofía. María, all her children and my parents had gone to Australia, you see. I’d always been fascinated by the past, something I got from my sister, so I went to teacher training college, studied history and became a teacher.
After a while, he says, ‘Sorry, Olivia; I know what you’re thinking, but I’m very reluctant to let that Rob – family or not – stay here.’ He pulled a book from the bookcase and let the pages run through his fingers. James Joyce, I noticed. ‘Just to think of him touching David’s things, it’s like sacrilege. You probably don’t understand.’
I want to say: yet you didn’t mind strangers living here . . . but I hold back. After all, I’d probably feel the same. ‘Look, next time we come to Castellorizo, why don’t we stay here? It would more than halve our expenses.’
