Escape to Ikaria Page 16

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve never spoken a premeditated word in my life – oh, except once, when I gave that talk to the WI in Bontnewydd. Do you remember?’

  I should have known that the last person to arrive would be Datsun Jim, walking into the taverna with a goat on a rope. A kid to be precise, browny-black in colour; it refused to walk so he dragged it over to me.

  ‘This is for you, to make your birthday happy.’

  ‘Jim, that is kind of you, and efkharisto very much, but I cannot have a goat.’

  ‘Of course, for the garden, and then you kill it.’

  ‘Dad, let’s keep it. Please. I’ll look after it,’ pleaded Lysta.

  ‘No. I’m sorry, but the last thing we want is a pet goat.’

  ‘You cannot say no, I give it to you as a friend.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll feed it every day,’ said Sam.

  ‘It doesn’t need to be fed, we’ve got half of Ikaria growing in our back garden,’ I said. ‘And besides, it’s a billy goat and not much bigger than a rabbit, and with everything so overgrown we wouldn’t even see it.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll make sure it’s looked after,’ said Ros, knowing she’d be the one who would have to carry water to it every day.

  ‘Jim, where is Thekla? Why is she not with you?’

  ‘An accident. It is sad, she has twisted her foot, you know, very swollen.’

  ‘You should go back and be with her.’

  ‘Not now. Let’s eat and dance.’

  Then, as if on call, the musicians from Christos arrived and to start the dancing Ilias took Maria by the hand and began the slow traditional dance of Ikaria in the candlelit shadows. If that wasn’t theatrical enough, a full moon had risen over the Aegean and, like a spotlight, enhanced the scene. Maria moved gracefully, bending her knees, stretching a leg out in front of her, clapping her hands above her head. It was remarkable for someone of her age and it was romantic.

  I was fascinated by their sense of timing; it seemed to be an irregular beat that I couldn’t tap my foot to, and yet they knew exactly when to take each coordinated step. Ilias was plainly a master, with elegance and a proud look, one moment back on his heels, clicking his fingers, the next suddenly lunging forward, swirling his whole body round, then slapping the ground with the palm of his hand. They danced as a couple and yet were separate, each absorbed in their own graceful movements. Then we all joined them and became Ikarians and danced in a large circle beneath the eucalyptus trees, arms on each other’s shoulders, gently swaying.

  As I sat down to finish what remained in my carafe of red wine, Ros asked me whether I was really going to unload the potato boat. It was already eleven o’clock.

  ‘I must. We need the money.’

  ‘I’ve got forty drachma,’ said Sam, overhearing our conversation.

  ‘That’s my forty drachma, actually,’ said Lysta. ‘You lost a bet that I wouldn’t dare eat an anchovy.’

  ‘But you didn’t eat it, you spat it out.’

  ‘Mum, tell him, please.’

  ‘Hey, man, when are we going?’ asked Gregory.

  ‘Let me start saying goodnight to everyone, then we should head off.’

  The last thing I saw of my birthday party, as Gregory and I left the taverna, was Sarah and Ilias dancing the tango. It was nearly midnight, but I knew the boat wouldn’t be on time; I just didn’t know how late it would be. We weren’t in any hurry, so Gregory produced a joint from his pocket and lit it, and in the warm starry night we smoked and chatted all the way into town. We’d always found it easy to talk to each other and so I told him that I thought Lottie could be easily hurt in the affairs of the heart.

  ‘What are you trying to say to me?’

  ‘I’ve got to know Lottie, that’s all, and she’s very fond of you. Don’t forget she came here to recover from a broken heart. It would be cruel if she had to leave with it broken again.’

  ‘I know that, and you’re right. We’ll talk . . . So what are you and Ros going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know. We’ve no plans to leave. I’ve never seen Ros so happy.’

  Twelve thirty, and no sign of the potato boat, just as I had expected. Adonis was asleep in his lorry, a radio playing some Greek music that sounded like Nana Mouskouri.

  A few yards further up the quayside under a flickering street lamp a group of teenagers were drinking, laughing and chasing one another. Amongst them I recognised Theo, revving up a motorbike with a girl sitting behind him, arms around his waist.

  At one o’clock the overladen potato boat, deep in the water, spluttered into the harbour. Adonis woke up and came over and I introduced him to Greg.

  ‘We work as before, Adonis.’

  ‘Ne, with bollocks.’

  Gregory had volunteered without realising just what he had let himself in for. He was flagging after half an hour, given the job of passing me the fifty kilo sacks, which I then lifted up on to the quayside. Sweat was pouring off him, dripping from his face, while the bearded skipper slept, as always, leaning back against the mast, this time without finishing his ouzo.

  ‘I’ve got to take a break, man, I’m not as fit as you,’ panted Gregory, who couldn’t straighten himself up.

  ‘Korastika,’ I said.

  ‘I’m knackered,’ he said.

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  And all the while Adonis had kept up with us, running each sack on a trolley up a ramp into the back of the lorry.

  Three fifteen, and we’d unloaded about half the cargo, Gregory asleep amongst the sacks. Theo and his crowd were still on the quayside, blasting out music on a cassette player, racing their motorbikes past us. If Stelios had seen his brother now there would have been a fight. At last Adonis stopped to take a break, pouring a bottle of water over his head then drinking another one. He looked at Gregory, lost to the world.

  ‘No balls,’ he said.

  At a quarter to six I lifted the last sack on to Adonis’s trolley. The day was already bright, and fishing boats were leaving the harbour. Gregory stirred as the sun met his sleeping eyes. I’d had to roll him on to the deck to get to the last few sacks he’d been sleeping on.

  ‘Man, I don’t know how you do it.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Such backbreaking work.’

  ‘Come on, let’s have a coffee and go for a swim.’

  14

  The Toula Hotel

  It had been a long time since I’d spoken to Stamati, but this time I couldn’t avoid him. I was sitting in a café in Aghios Kirikos when I saw him coming towards me, carrying a tray of baklava fresh from the bakery. I really didn’t want to have to explain why I hadn’t been to see him or visit his ageing mother, and I certainly didn’t want to listen to all the unjustified, sickly stuff about how I had hurt him. But I knew he’d have the answers to some of my questions, so I waited while he put down his tray of baklava and pulled up a chair beside me.

  ‘You know, I have given up on you now. My friendship is worth nothing to you.’

  ‘You’re right, Stamati, and your friendship is worth nothing to me,’ I said dismissively. I wondered why I hadn’t said it before. Then I asked him what I wanted to know: what was going on with Stelios? He looked visibly shaken by what I’d just said, but he told me Stelios was only fishing one day a week. The rest of the time he was taking tourists out to remote beaches, where they could swim and sunbathe. He was often at the nudist beach where the Germans liked to go and play naked badminton.

  ‘But now he has a girl he’s crazy about. She is from New Zealand, the other side of the world. And they try to keep it secret. She swims from the boat to Lefkada, not Aghios Kirikos, so no one will see them together. Then he is out with her in the evenings, taking her on his motorbike into the hills, and soon his wife will know everything. You cannot keep a secret for long in Aghios Kirikos.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘Because I am his friend, and you are too, he has told me this. He is her
e today. Talk some sense into him.’

  Now I knew why we were not fishing together any more. I was about to thank Stamati and be on my way before he could bring up his mother, but he had other ideas.

  ‘I know you are working at the monastery for the sister, yes? And for this man Petros at the Toula Hotel?’

  ‘You seem to know everything, Stamati.’

  ‘This is a small island with many tongues, and I tell you to be careful of this man. He is trouble. There are many here who do not like him.’

  ‘I’ll remember that, but now I must go and find Stelios.’

  It was obvious that the girl from New Zealand Stelios was crazy about was Julia. I had seen how well they got on when we went out that day with Theo. Although Sarah and Julia still shared a room at Lefkada, I hadn’t seen a lot of them recently and they only occasionally joined us for supper.

  It was late July and Aghios Kirikos was busy, very different from how it was on that cold February day when we first arrived. Greek-Americans who had houses on the island, and now Athenians too, were here with their families, the cafés nearly full of tourists. Children were fighting over ice creams from the freezer outside the kiosk, while old Ikarian men sat in their jackets and flat caps staring out to sea. Some fiddled with their komboloi, puffing on cigarettes hanging from their mouths. Others played tavli, oblivious of what was going on around them. It was the first time I had seen cars blocking the roads into the square. Donkeys weaved between them, bringing fruit in from the countryside, pulling carts full of karpuzi. Everywhere there were mopeds misfiring, waiters running in white aprons, carrying trays of drinks to the tables along the harbour front.

  It appeared my hopes of being a fisherman were fading away. I had tasted it and wanted it back. Everything I felt out in the Aegean had added a richness to my life. I was thinking about this as I walked towards the harbour, trying to understand what allowed a man to be swept away by his emotions. For that was what had happened to Stelios, capsized, you could say, by his love for Julia. And now he was being paid to take tourists out for the day instead of earning his living from doing what was in his blood, like his father and his grandfather before him.

  Stelios was flat out, fast asleep on the boat, his head lying on a coil of rope, a denim cap pulled over his forehead. What you would have thought was a picture of contented peace. A lone seagull squawking on the mast did not disturb him. The boat was scrubbed clean with no nets or buckets in sight, none of the polystyrene floats that normally lay scattered around the deck. I got the impression that this cleanliness was the result of a woman’s touch. When I jumped down and stood next to him, he stirred and propped himself up on his elbows, pushing his cap back on to his head.

  The sun was fierce in his eyes, and as he clambered to his feet he yawned and leant over the side to scoop up handfuls of water to throw on his face.

  ‘Ah, my English friend, how good it is to see you.’

  ‘Stelios, what plans do you have?’ I asked, skipping the niceties and not wanting to hear the excuses he’d make for not having told me where I stood.

  ‘I am not fishing, my friend. I have other things to do, tourists to take out. Sometimes I make three thousand drachma a day. It is easy money, and for what? To lie on the beach with them, to swim with them . . . you understand how I feel?’

  I raised my hands as a sign of acceptance. ‘OK, Stelios. Let me know if anything changes.’ There was nothing else I could say. I felt he could have shown me a little more consideration; in fact, he hadn’t shown me any. But as I turned to step up on to the quay he pulled me back.

  ‘Look, my friend,’ he almost whispered. ‘There is more to it. You know it is dangerous for me.’ He sighed, putting his head in his hands. ‘It would be better for my life to be fishing with you.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘The girl, Julia, you know her. She comes with me on the boat with the other tourists. OK, now I have told you.’

  I was glad he had revealed his secret, rather than let me hear it from Julia. Besides, how long had we spent together, talking about our lives? Hadn’t he once said to me he wouldn’t fish with a man he didn’t know? Not to tell me would have diminished everything we had gone through out on the Aegean. So I sat down on the other side of the boat and said nothing, letting my silence make the impact rather than having to trawl over his self-inflicted mess.

  ‘Well, my friend, do you think I am a fool?’

  I nearly said then what I had once said to Datsun Jim, ‘Please don’t keep calling me your friend’, but I didn’t, because I valued the time we had spent fishing together and didn’t want to tarnish it. Still, ‘friend’ was a word some Ikarians used far too lightly.

  It was Paulo and Francesca’s last night. They were going on to Samos to meet up with a friend who had organised a gathering of anarchists from all over Europe. I could imagine what it would be like, complete chaos. But they had given Sam and Lysta a lot of attention, teaching them Italian, after a fashion, so it wasn’t a total surprise when they gave me their address in Milan, wanting to keep in touch. I couldn’t give them ours, because we didn’t have one. I suddenly felt the weight of the future I was going to have to face up to.

  Lysta had often asked Francesca if she could watch her put the safety pin through her nose. That last night, sitting in the taverna, she had her wish granted, which made us all squirm, but it was Paulo who gave Sam a lasting legacy. Whenever he had trouble with his school work, he told Ros he wanted to be an anarchist.

  Lottie was now going to be working a twelve-hour day, and it made me realise just how long the taverna stayed open. Maria was up at seven, and in the summer people were still there after midnight, mostly Ikarians, who were never in a hurry to go to bed. It astonished me that Maria had the energy to keep it all going. Lottie made more money from tips than she was being paid, which showed just how good a waitress she was.

  ‘Does it still feel like a holiday?’

  ‘Yes, and Maria doesn’t mind if I disappear every so often to go for a swim. But the place is never empty and I can’t take a siesta.’

  At least she was saving money; all her meals were free and, sleeping in a tent on the beach, life was cheap.

  ‘Besides,’ she said with a smile, ‘I get to sleep with Gregory every night.’

  Whether the affair would last beyond Ikaria I had no idea. Maria adored her and gave her and Gregory what she called ‘the last supper’ at the end of every evening, after the customers had left. Maria had a soft spot for Gregory as well, because he was always willing to help her by shifting crates of beer, unloading the drinks truck, and stacking bottles of Coke and Fanta by the kitchen door.

  It was just as well I had been able to choose the hours I worked on the building site that would eventually become the Toula Hotel. When I’d done my stint, I’d go for a swim and wash the cement powder off me. Then, after a short break, I’d walk on to the monastery and reclaim my peaceful composure.

  I had never seen Datsun Jim work so hard. He often shouted out ‘Korastika!’ to me, which made me laugh.

  It was because of Zenas, the stocky, stubbled foreman, an unkempt individual who walked around the site with a whistle in his mouth. He blew it for the slightest reason, even a vehicle reversing nearby, though the warning seemed unnecessary as nothing moved at more than two miles an hour. We had found out he was a cousin of Petros, so had a vested interest in working us so hard. There was no let-up until we were allowed a fifteen-minute break at eleven o’clock, when everyone lit a cigarette, spat on the ground and rubbed the dust out of their eyes. It was like working in a chain gang; Zenas counted down the seconds, then blasted on his whistle when our time was up. Some of the bricklayers liked to take off their boots, and if they hadn’t got them back on in the allotted time he gave them another blast.

  He understood little English, so I could get away with being rude to him. When I said, ‘Did you enjoy your last job as a prison guard?’ he just looked at me vacantly. It ma
de me feel better, until I realised he was watching me more closely than ever, seeing me as trouble.

  Greek housing bricks were not as heavy as the ones back home, enabling the labourers to carry eight under each arm, climbing up ladders, stacking them in piles behind the bricklayers moving along the scaffolding boards. All the houses on the island would have been finished in a month if the Ikarians worked at this rate. But most of the workforce was from other islands, trying to make some money to send home.

  There were many things we had to endure building the Toula Hotel, such as the wind that swept in from the Aegean swirling the dust, sticking our tongues to the roofs of our mouths. The only water supply came from a standpipe. It was unpleasantly warm to drink, so I just sipped enough to stop me getting dehydrated.

  Petros always turned up at some time during the day in his BMW, overdressed and looking like a member of the Mafia. Zenas greeted him and the two of them strolled around with their hands behind their backs. Petros had a good command of English, and liked to show off to me. Whenever he walked past he would say something, usually carrying a hidden threat, such as ‘Zenas tells me you are not a very fast worker’.

  I just shrugged my shoulders at these remarks, rather than giving a verbal response. It was something ingrained in me from my time in the hills of Wales, when accusations were being chucked around over some dispute between neighbours. Shrugging your shoulders showed indifference. Not that I was indifferent to Petros, far from it, and I’d stand up to him if necessary. He was an arrogant businessman who didn’t give a damn about how unpopular he was, money being the only thing that mattered to him. But I also needed to keep the job.

  ‘There are more labourers coming on the ferry tomorrow,’ he told me.

  ‘Hope you’ll have enough wheelbarrows in that case,’ I replied.

  He cast a glance at Zenas, who I could tell had not thought of that, and they walked off exchanging words, Zenas scribbling something in a notebook.

  Sister Ulita greeted me in a state of anxiety, grabbing hold of my cuff, pulling me with some urgency to follow her. I had not seen her like this before and I thought something serious must have happened as we hurried across the courtyard. Maybe the goats had got out and wreaked havoc. But there they lay, quietly chewing the cud under the olive trees, getting to their feet as we passed. We hurried on, past the beehives and into the vegetable garden, up the steep slope to the sluice gate and beyond to a small hidden door in the boundary wall of the monastery, which we could only get through on our hands and knees. I got to my feet in an area I had not been to before, out in the scrub with the smell of wild thyme spicing the air.