The Summer of Secrets, page 9
At this time of austerity, the Konstantinidis family often placed a poster in the port informing the locals they would buy myrtle on a particular day. Local women went over to Turkey in their husbands’ small boats and gathered sacks of leaves from the wild shrubs. Babá bought this vegetation from them for a few welcome Italian lira.
The air swirled around Sofía, lulling her with its drowsy intoxicating aroma. Her eyelids drooped as she slipped the block and tackle hooks under the heavy copper top of the still and hauled. Perfumed steam dampened the air and her skin. Once she had lifted the kettle lid, she wound the rope around a cleat on the wall. She wheeled the wooden barrow to the holding tank of myrtle leaves, singing a sweet refrain as she shovelled the spear-shaped, leathery leaves into the barrow. Lost in thoughts of the new baby, she jumped in fright when the myrtle mound exploded and a soldier leapt up from the pile, throwing leaves into the air like a volcano.
He lunged towards her, yelling foreign words she couldn’t grasp.
Instantly terrified, she slammed the shovel down on his head with all her strength. Blood gush from his scalp, his startled eyes widened, then rolled back in his head as his knees buckled.
Sofia screamed, her heart thudding. ‘Holy Virgin, I’ve killed him!’ She threw the shovel down as sweat beaded on her face. An irreversible situation that would condemn her to hell in the hereafter. ‘God forgive me! What shall I do?’ Clasping a hand over her mouth, she backed away. He lay deathly still on the pile of leaves. His terrible wound stopped spurting almost as quickly as it had started. Crimson blood covered the side of his face and one shoulder of his uniform.
In her shock, she had thrown herself against the distillery’s stone wall. She ventured forward. The man, she now realised by his uniform, was British. They would shoot her! What should she do with the body of a dead soldier? She glanced at the steaming still and trembled so much her legs almost folded.
‘Dear God, what shall I do? My sister’s just had another baby and her husband may leave – never to return – if he knows he’s married into the family of a murderer. A murderer! Me! My mother will die of shame. Besides all this, my father and uncle might do something stupid, or irreversible, like bury the body, or drop it out at sea, I know them that well. Please, Dear God, tell me what to do.’
Her prayer was answered immediately. She must tell her hero, the teacher. Anastasia would answer all her questions. Sofía’s panic returned and before she had even thought the idea through, she found herself racing out of the rear door and down the back streets. Within minutes, she was running around the sandy bay of Mandraki.
*
The teacher lived in a neat cottage near the shore. Sofía pounded on the blue door, then fell, sobbing and breathless.
‘What on earth is the matter?’ the teacher asked lifting her to her feet. ‘Sofía, isn’t it?’
‘Miss! Oh, miss! I’ve killed a soldier in the distillery!’ She threw her arms around the teacher and collapsed in tears. ‘What shall I do . . . oh, what shall I do? They’ll shoot me!’
‘Let’s calm down. Take a sip of my coffee.’ She stirred more sugar into it. ‘They won’t shoot you, you’re too young, so stop fretting about that. You’re over-excited, perhaps in shock.’ She put the little coffee cup into Sofía’s hands, but they were shaking so much she spilled half of it. ‘Now, sit down, take a deep breath and tell me what happened.’
Sofía took a sip of the bittersweet drink. It was the first time she had drunk coffee. ‘I was about to shovel myrtle leaves into the barrow. This soldier just leapt up out of the pit. I didn’t mean to do it, honestly, but he gave me such a fright. I was holding of the spade, so I just whacked him. He went down, miss, blood gushing from his head. I’m sure he’s dead. Completely dead! Oh, what will I do? María’s just had the baby and no one’s in any state to deal with such a catastrophe.’
‘There’s only one thing we can do, Sofía. Come on, let’s go and take a look.’
‘I’m truly sorry. I didn’t mean it! Will they put me in prison?’
‘One thing at a time. Let’s see the soldier first. Perhaps he’s just unconscious, who knows?’
They hurried around the bay, through the back streets again and in through the back door of the distillery.
‘What?’ Sofía stared at the leaves.
Anastasia also stared around. ‘Where’s the soldier, Sofía?’ she said with a tinge of irritation.
‘He was there, right there on the myrtle leaves.’ She pointed at the heap, unable to see any sign of blood. ‘He was, honestly. Perhaps he slid back under the pile.’ Her heart was still thumping with terror and she stepped back with the thought that the whole incident might happen over again. ‘He must still be under there.’
Anastasia dragged her eyes away from the leaves and stared at Sofía for a moment. ‘You are quite sure you didn’t imagine the whole thing?’
‘I’m quite sure.’ Sofía picked up the shovel. ‘Look at all the blood on the end. Oh, miss, I’ve killed him, haven’t I? His dead body must have slipped back under the leaves!’
‘Stay calm. Can we lock the door from the outside?’ Sofía nodded. ‘Where does the other door lead to?’
‘It goes into the house, but we keep it locked to stop the little ones coming in here. It’s too dangerous when the stills are running. Usually, we only use that door when it’s raining.’ She went over, turned the key and then slipped it into her pocket.
‘Then I think we must go and tell your father what’s happened. We don’t know what we’re dealing with and the soldier will probably have a gun.’
*
They backed out of the distillery, neither of them taking their eyes off the mound of leaves. Once outside, they locked the door and hurried around the building straight into the house where Mamá and María were sitting on the bed, feeding the babies. Rosa was holding onto the windowsill, practising her ballet moves. Babá and Uncle were stacking wood next to the fire. At first glance of the teacher, both men stood tall and sucked in their bellies. Sofía was relieved to see that Mustafa had left for his ship.
‘Miss Anastasia, welcome, please take a seat.’ Babá spoke Italian, as was the law. He pulled out his chair and dusted the cushion, his eyes flicking nervously to his wife, then his brother.
The teacher went over to Rosa who was still practising her ballet, holding onto the windowsill. ‘Very good, you’re coming on nicely, Rosa.’ She used one finger to lift her chin, then eased her shoulders back and gently turned her extended arm into the correct position. ‘Good,’ she said to the child. ‘Keep practising.’ Anastasia faced the men and spoke in Greek. ‘Forgive me, but which one of you is Sofía’s father?’ She sat and folded her delicate white hands in her lap. ‘I don’t recall either of you coming to the school to see her fine work or discuss her future.’
The men blustered. Mamá smiled broadly. ‘That’s because he’s never shown interest in his daughter’s future, Miss Anastasia,’ she said. ‘Although I believe Sofía has the capacity to embrace a fine career.’
Sofía cringed and felt her cheeks burn as her mother tried to impress the teacher by using fancy words.
Anastasia tilted her head to one side and smiled understandingly. ‘No doubt, Mrs Konstantinidis, but that’s not why I’m here. Sofía’s father?’
Mamá returned to straight talk. ‘The fat one.’
The teacher turned to Babá. ‘Allow me to come straight to the point. Your daughter believes she has killed a British soldier. Do you know anything about it, Mr Konstantinidis?’
CHAPTER 13
OLIVIA
Castellorizo, Greece, present day
FROM THE DOORWAY OF THE old building, I peer into the living room and try to imagine life as it was for my ancestors. Unease grows in the pit of my belly and I feel exposed and vulnerable in this lonely spot on the outside of town with only the mayor and the electrician for company.
‘Yes,’ I say to the mayor. ‘My great-uncle, Yeorgos Konstantinidis, is very much alive. Would you like to speak to him?’
I call George’s number then thrust my phone at the mayor. A rapid conversation, with much hand waving by the mayor and raised voices, sounds to me like an enormous argument. Finally, the mayor returns the phone.
‘Bravo! Yeorgo . . . George, he was my big friend, we were like brothers. Ah, Yeorgo, ah, man.’ The mayor shakes his head. ‘It was like he came from my mother’s own womb!’ he cries, which I think is a little overdramatic.
I put the phone back to my ear and listen. ‘Olivia, are you there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Don’t trust this man. Skyfalos was like his father: the biggest liar in Greece and a mafioza cheat. He would sell his own mother. He was the biggest snake in the country and a coward too. A nasty piece of work. Married a foreigner because no Greek family would let him near their own daughter. I know this from my friend Constantino. Also, he hates foreigners, especially those who are more intelligent than him, which must be everyone that arrives on the island. This makes him dangerous.’
‘Thank you, Uncle. Tell me, do you think the floor of the house is solid and safe for me to walk on, or is there a cellar? There is an electrician by the name of Gregoris here, who says it’s not safe.’
‘Ask Gregoris his grandfather’s name.’ I do, then reply to my uncle whose response is joyful. ‘Bravo, Olivia. He says his grandfather’s name is Demetriou. My dear girl, he was one of my best friends! He had my boat, the one in my paintings. Ask him how his grandfather is.’
‘Why don’t you ask him?’ I pass the phone to Gregoris who peers right into my eyes.
After a clearly joyful exchange in Greek, he hands it back to me and says, ‘My grandfather will be happy to know his good friend, Yeorgo, is still alive and plans to return.’ He gazes into my eyes again, sending a shiver down my spine.
Careful, Olivia! You’re on the rebound, remember!
I return my attention to the phone. ‘There’s a cellar, Olivia. The electrician believes the floor is unsafe. Don’t risk it,’ my uncle says.
‘What about the distillery?’
‘Ah, that floor’s solid. It had to be because of the weight of the copper kettles. There were three. I hope they’re still in there, pardon the pun. You can go in through the outside door at the back if it’s clear. Good luck! Call me tomorrow.’ I can hear the tiredness in his voice.
‘Get some rest, Uncle. If you think of anything important, just write it down and keep it by the side of the phone. Bye now.’
After the call ends, the mayor bids me goodbye with the excuse of work waiting and hurries back towards the port.
Gregoris says, ‘Really, this place is too dangerous. My cousin’s a builder, he’ll fit some supports under the floor, but until then, best stay outside.’
‘I’m not going any further. I just want to see what’s here. I’m so excited.’ The floor groans in protest and I feel it tremble. Horrified, I leap back in fright, straight into his arms.
He laughs. ‘No need to throw yourself at me, Miss Olivia!’
‘No, the floor . . . it gave me a fright,’ I stammer. ‘I thought I was going to crash through it. I’m longing to explore inside.’
He laughs again as if he understands my excitement. ‘Let me help.’ He unclips a torch from his toolbelt and passes it to me. His eyes narrow ever so slightly as our hands touch. I can’t explain why I feel slightly triumphant.
The torchlight dances around the room. I’m impressed by an exposed stone fireplace to my left. It takes up a third of the wall. Pots and pans hang against crumbling stucco either side of the chimney. A black cauldron stands in the fireplace over an empty grate. I remind myself that María had sixteen children, so cooking must have taken up the greatest part of her day. To my right, the width of the room is filled by a sleeping platform and a staircase. Momentarily forgetting the fragility of the floor, I step towards it excitedly.
‘No!’ Gregoris shouts.
The whole bed seems to move. ‘Crap! Someone’s in there!’ I leap back.
‘No, it’s mice. The place is infested,’ Gregoris says as I bump into him again.
The vermin scatter like one vast grey scurrying blanket that seems to slip off the bed. I shrink with horror and step out of the doorway. A shelf has collapsed at the back of the bed, dropping piles of folded linen into a dust-covered heap, which I mistook for a sleeping person. Leaning forward, I stare around, convinced something is about to leap on me from the beams. The corners of the room are concealed by decades of undisturbed cobwebs that waft to and fro with the draught from the open door. It’s as if the house itself is alive . . . breathing. The steps to the sleeping platform have crumbled. A huge centipede, at least ten centimetres long, scurries across the floor. Every kind of infestation has set up home and now my skin crawls with revulsion.
A confusion of planks and beams at the back of the room tells me something has collapsed, but it doesn’t appear to be the upper floor. Also, there is a door hanging off its hinges. Where will it lead . . .?
*
Turning back into the dazzling sunlight, I say, ‘Can we have a look at the distillery, Gregoris?’
‘Yes, Miss Olivia,’ he replies, glancing at his watch.
‘Please, must call me Olivia.’
‘Then you call me Greg, OK.’
I nod. ‘Look, don’t let me keep you, but, if you have time later, I’d like to talk about connecting the house to the mains, or better still, to solar. You’ll find me at the harbour in the evenings, at Eleni’s Place.’
‘Sure, sorry, but I do have to go soon.’ He smiles, his eyes crinkling and perhaps a question on his lips. ‘Keep the torch for now. Is there anything else I can help you with?’
‘You’re very kind, thank you. I’d just like to see if it’s possible to get into the distillery from the back.’
He nods and I follow him around the outside of the building, but we find the perfumery inaccessible, unless we break a window that is. Part of the cliff behind the back wall has slipped and a mound of scree comes halfway up the back wall. It’s a job for a mechanical digger. I place my hand against an exposed quoin. The stone is warm, full of the day’s sun, yet around the corner, the wall is cold and dark as a tombstone. A shiver runs through me. I imagine my superstitious mother, shoulders up, rubbing her arms as she says: Brrr, someone just walked over my grave.
‘It’s such a special place,’ I say to Greg. ‘My Uncle George was born inside this house.’
‘Yeorgos Konstantinidis, yes, I know. He left his fishing boat with my grandfather,’ Greg says. ‘Is he coming back?’
‘I hope so, but he’s poorly right now.’
‘Poorly, you mean he is poor, he has no money? What happened? They say he was very rich when he left here . . . ten times more money than anyone else on the island.’
I laugh, but Greg’s words strike me as odd, very rich when he left the island – why was that? ‘No, it’s his health, his heart,’ I reply. ‘But he’ll soon be able to fly.’
We close up the building and walk back down to the port.
‘Thank you for your help today. I suspect you saved me from a nasty accident. If that floor had collapsed, God knows . . .’
‘No problem. Glad to help.’ He gives me another disarming smile, then leaves for the customs building where he tells me he is installing sockets.
*
I stroll around the harbour until I reach Eleni’s.
‘Hey, Livia!’ I spin around. Only Andrew calls me Livia and suddenly I realise I haven’t thought about him for two whole days. I stare about, searching for the guy I once adored, but of course he isn’t here.
‘How’s it going, mate?’ the voice continues. Recognising the Australian, I’m filled with relief, regret – and an irritating amount of disappointment.
‘Hi, sorry, you startled me.’
‘No drama, I have that effect on women,’ he says through a wide grin. I must look puzzled because his next words get me out of a predicament. ‘Rob, remember?’
‘Ah, yes. Sorry again. A lot’s happened since we last met.’
‘All good, I hope?’
I nod. ‘Pretty much. I didn’t see you on the ferry, when did you get here?’
‘Just arrived this arvo. Flew in from Rhodes. Can I get you that beer now?’
I really want to sit alone and think for a while. ‘Can we share one? A quick half before siesta will be lovely.’
‘You siesta? I didn’t think people did any more. My sleep map’s so disorientated I just go with the flow. I’m in Greece for two months, so I kind-a hope to see a few other islands.’ We sit at the first table we come to, at the water’s edge and order a large Amstel and two glasses. ‘It’s pretty here, don’t you think?’ Rob continued.
‘It’s amazing,’ I agree. ‘Have you seen the turtles yet?’
‘Turtles? No way, man! That’s so cool – no crocs, I hope.’
I laugh. ‘Definitely no crocs. You’re a bit off the beaten track for a tourist, aren’t you?’
‘True, but my grandparents are from this island and they made me promise to visit. Still, it seems half of Sydney have their roots here. They say most of the locals left after the last war and settled in Oz.’
‘My grandparents, too, but they settled in England, on the south coast. Have you heard of Brighton?’
He shakes his head, then takes a great sip of beer while I wonder if we’ll end up becoming more than friends. Probably not, definitely not, but it’s a sort-of-nice idea. The truth is, I still feel as though my heart belongs to Andrew . . . damn, that’s the second time I’ve thought about him in five minutes! What’s going on? Then clarity turns its spotlight on and I realise my problem . . . I still feel I belong to Andrew and Andrew always felt he owned me.
‘Ace!’ Rob says, lowering his glass. ‘I needed that. Anywhere you’d recommend for lunch?’ He looks up, straight into my eyes, catching me off guard and for some reason, makes my heart jump.
