The summer of secrets, p.5
The Summer of Secrets, page 5
‘How big, did you say?’
He grins, grey eyes bright with pride. ‘You heard!’
After contemplating for a moment he continues. ‘Olivia, have you looked through this album already?’
‘Not at all. I’ve not had a spare moment really.’
‘I haven’t set foot in my homeland for more than half a century and now, I’m too old to tackle the pilgrimage alone. Just the thought of returning to Castellorizo warms my bones. Thank you for the tickets, they mean a lot.’ He closes his eyes and smiles. ‘I’ll sip an ouzo with my friends on the quayside one last time and watch fishermen gut the biggest fish in the area, the beautiful Bonito.’
‘What is that?’
The eighty-four-year-old smiles wistfully and tugs on an imaginary fishing rod. ‘Twenty kilos of fighting muscle caught for the restaurants. Lakerda the Greeks call it, though some sell it as fresh tuna. The bones and innards are tossed into the water, a treat for the local turtles.’
‘Turtles?’
His grin widens showing strong, even teeth. Delighted he’s managed to shock me, he continues.
‘Yes, huge turtles, over a metre long; seals too and every once in a while, dolphins.’ His eyes sparkle and a flush of excitement brightens his cheeks. ‘I can take you around the island in my caïque.’ He nods at one of his acrylics hanging near the window. ‘I wonder if my little boat’s still in good shape. It was my father’s, you know. Babá and Uncle Kuríllos built it before I was born.’
Uncle’s personal possessions returned from Norfolk with him. Around the walls hang several of his paintings, most are of his traditional Greek fishing boat with its lucky eye painted on the prow to ward off the devil.
‘Would you like one of my paintings, dear girl? Here – take this one home with you, a gift from your great-uncle. I’ve painted it so many times. Usually it’s moored outside my friend’s taverna.’ He lifts the painting down with such reverence and I understand it is a great part of his dream: to sit in his boat again. He pops it into a Tesco bag and thrusts it towards me. ‘Please . . .’ he says when I murmur protests. ‘I paint at least one every year, but am running out of room now. Perhaps it’s an omen.’
‘An omen?’ I blink at him, hoping he isn’t going to say what I fear.
‘Well, who knows? Perhaps I’ll take you fishing in Sofía-María one of these days. We’ll catch the biggest bonito of all. The boat’s named after my sisters, of course. Sofía loved fishing and she was good too. María was always busy with her babies – so many babies it’s a wonder she remembered all their names! One was simply called the Baby for the first two years of its life, because nobody could decide what to call it.’
I meet his eyes and see a lonely old gentleman with many stories, but nobody left to tell them to. He’s lived the last chapter of his life and is now writing the metaphorical epilogue.
‘You’re wondering why I’m still painting them?’ he asks. ‘It’s not the pictures that please me, but the memories of Castellorizo that come back while I paint.’ He looks right through me, visits that distant place and time, then returns to now. ‘Yes, it’s essential we go, Olivia, and we must fish. I haven’t been fishing since . . .’ He sighs, worn out by his own active imagination. With his eyes closed, he rocks contentedly in his chair. ‘I was with my sister, Sofía. I remember it so well. Sitting in the brightly coloured wooden boat, bobbing about on a warm, crystal sea.’
‘Ca-ee-kee,’ I practise the Greek word for this sturdy wooden vessel, knowing I’ll want to go out in it.
*
Three weeks before departure, I find Uncle grey-faced, staring out of his bay window at a rain-flattened sea. He clutches his arm and mutters apologies for not being too hospitable. ‘Chest pains,’ he says as my fear rises. ‘I wasn’t doing anything energetic, just writing the answers to your questions. Unfortunately, I got a little upset, remembering it all.’
Two hours later, I sit in a chair beside my lovely uncle. He peers at me from his hospital bed having just completed a series of medical tests. His hand is smooth and warm in mine.
‘I swear if they take any more blood, my arm will be empty,’ he jokes. Screens and monitors behind his bed squeak and blip a language only known to medical science. My uncle’s voice sounds dry and his eyes are weary. ‘A mild heart attack, they say. Blocked artery, so they’re going to fit a stent. I’m so sorry, Olivia, but it’s no flying for ten days. The specialist said, taking my age into account, it will be safer to wait two or even three weeks before I take a holiday abroad.’
‘I’ll postpone the tickets, put them back a couple of weeks, you’ll be fine by then, Uncle.’
‘No, go without me. I’ll be with you in spirit,’ he whispers, gently squeezing my hand as his lids slide down over dull, life-tired eyes. ‘It will mean so much to me. There’s no time to waste. Tell them about me. Listen to their stories.’ His eyes flash open and he gazes at the ceiling for a moment. ‘In Sofía’s sewing stool is a white linen table runner made by one of your great-great-grandmothers. It was part of Sofía’s dowry linen. Take it to Castellorizo and give it in to Eleni’s taverna. Eleni’s mother and Sofía were good friends and I believe she would want her to have it.’ He pauses thoughtfully.
‘You know, things happened there – things you can’t imagine. Keep a journal so you don’t forget anything, dear girl. Come back to me with video messages from my old friends, Demetriou, Stamatou and Chalkitis. We were the gang of four, chasing girls and annoying the Italians when we were boys, but we lost touch. So, take plenty of photographs and please go without me. Give me something to look forward to . . . something to live for.’
*
The past fortnight has flown by without a moment to spare. Uncle grows stronger each day, but is still not able to leave with me. If I hadn’t kept pushing him to tell me the secrets that divided our family, would he have had that heart attack? I promise myself I’ll never pressure him again.
‘A few more tests they say, but I’m well on the mend, Olivia,’ he assures me when I pay a final visit. ‘Don’t forget to take that table runner for Eleni.’
CHAPTER 8
SOFIA
Castellorizo, Greece, 1937
AFTER ELEVEN YEARS OF SEWING and crocheting, the two grandmothers finished the last and most grand piece of linen for Sofía’s dowry chest. A crocheted table runner with pointed ends and panels of intricate detail.
‘At last it’s complete,’ Mikró Yiayá squeaked. ‘We can throw out the crochet hooks and straighten our fingers.’
‘No, we have to start on María’s child’s linen, God have mercy! As if we haven’t done enough. What’s her name?’
‘Ayeleen.’
‘Ay?’ Megáli Yiayá yelled.
‘Aye-leen! Deaf ears, her name’s Ayeleen!’
‘No need to shout. Why don’t we talk María into selling her child to the convent, then we won’t need to make all the dowry linen.’ Her plump cheeks jigged as she tried to quieten her laughter.
‘You wicked old crow. Because there’s half a dozen girls after Ayeleen, so we don’t stand a chance.’
‘I’ll never get to play the piano. I’ve always wanted to learn. I can see myself playing all the favourite tunes and people singing and dancing in the street. It’s my dream.’
‘First I’ve heard. Apart from your great age, what’s stopping you?’
‘No piano.’
*
Mamá tied the white scarf of the virgin girls around Sofía’s head to hide every strand of her glossy dark hair. She had begun her first bleed the day before, at the tender age of eleven.
‘You are a woman now, Sofía, this means you may not scramble onto the knees of Babá or Uncle Kuríllos or fling your arms around their necks the way you do. Your dowry chest is ready, so from now on, you must behave like a lady and beware of men until you are safely married. Do you understand?’
Sofía thought about her two most favourite people and felt herself punished for something of which she was innocent. She pulled off the scarf and held it in her lap. ‘Mamá, this isn’t fair, they’re my father and uncle!’
‘Don’t answer me back, child.’ Mamá took the girl in her arms. ‘And don’t get so upset. When you’re old and ugly – with wild bushy eyebrows and a moustache – your sons and cousins will hug you and kiss your cheeks with great affection. Until then, you must hide your irresistible beauty away for the sake of those you love.’
Sofía didn’t want to be old and ugly; she intended to stay as she was now and to kiss her father’s cheeks and snuggle in her uncle’s lap to listen to his wild stories until she fell asleep.
Mamá, a woman of great beauty in her time but now faded and tired, picked up a hairbrush and ran it through her daughter’s mane. ‘Listen, Sofía. We women have terrific power that you don’t understand. This impact that we have on men is dangerous and until you learn to control it, we must keep you hidden away for your own safety. When men lay eyes on your glossy tresses, or see the beauty in your enchanting eyes, their own bodies will cause them unbearable pain and discomfort. You will steal their sleep without even knowing it and they will slowly go crazy with the desire to be with you.
‘For your own sake, keep yourself hidden. Everyone knows if a man loses control, then you will be blamed for flaunting your irresistible charms.’ She knotted the symbolic white kerchief around her daughter’s head again. ‘You will not speak to any adult male apart from your father and uncle, nor will you look any man in the eye, for even a glance. Just the sound of your voice could be deemed too alluring for a weak man to resist.’
Sofía nodded although she wasn’t sure what her mother was saying, only that it was important. Mamá’s shoulders dropped and the anguish left her for a moment.
‘I love you, Mamá. Please don’t worry about me,’ Sofía said and then smiled as her mother’s eyes welled and she hugged her tightly. Sofía knew that from now on, the only time she would appear at public occasions was at religious services and, even then, the married women would circle around her.
*
To the pride and joy of everyone in the family, especially Mustafa, María went on to have a baby every year, the first seven of whom were girls and now she had another on the way. This kept Mamá, Sofía and Ayeleen busy, taking care of infants and toddlers, while the adult men worked the distillery from dawn to dusk. Then a real miracle happened, Mamá found herself pregnant too.
Down at the kafenio, Babá and Uncle Kuríllos discussed the situation over coffee and a game of tavli. ‘Shall we make the tamatas again?’ Kuríllos asked. ‘I can start buying silver to melt down.’
Babá peered at the tavli board and decided he stood a chance of winning the game. ‘No, I’ve decided the child will probably be a girl.’ He blew on the dice in his fist and rolled them across the board. ‘We have to face it, we’re unlucky like that. How many useless girls has María got now, seven? Eight?’
Kuríllos grinned and lit his cigarillo. ‘Mustafa doesn’t mind at all. He says every child is a gift from Allah.’
*
The months passed quickly and soon the family were in the front yard, awaiting the arrival of María and Sofía’s sibling. After each groan from Mamá, everyone looked up. Eventually, a baby’s cry rang out. The two men turned their eyes to heaven and chanted, ‘Dear God, please make this one a boy!’
On the stroke of six, on that hot September evening, Babá rushed out of the house with his third child. He raised the naked baby above his head and bellowed across the town with such voice, some said they heard him a mile away, across the sea, in Turkey.
‘God blessed me; I have a son!’
Women who were walking to the bakery stopped and smiled at each other. ‘At last, the man with two daughters and seven granddaughters now has his own boy!’
The priest, Papas Luke, arrived and shook Babá’s hand. ‘I must talk to you about the christening; it is better to have it sooner than usual. Germany is itching to make war with somebody. Countries are already picking sides. There’s talk of serious conflict in Europe within the next few years unless there are drastic changes of leadership. Who will Greece side with?’
‘More importantly, who will Italy side with?’ Kuríllos asked. ‘I can’t see how it will affect us here. Nevertheless . . . only God knows what will happen.’
‘Will you have a coffee, Papas?’ Babá asked.
‘I will, thank you. Do you have a name for the infant?’
Babá nodded. ‘He will be baptised with his grandfather’s name, Yeorgos, George!’
‘At the big church – Saint George of the Well?’ the priest asked, nodding towards the magnificent cathedral on the harbour’s edge. ‘Best to be sure, with so many churches in honour of our venerable dragon slayer.’
‘Saint George of the Well it is.’
*
The years passed and Sofía grew into a teenager. On 17 September, all the Sofías in Greece celebrated their Name Day. Fourteen-year-old Sofía’s friends came around to wish her, ‘Kronia polla!’ Big year! Her former schoolfriends were betrothed now, some of the older ones already married with a child. On seeing the tired resignation of those young mothers Sofía was not motivated to join their ranks. There were more than enough children in the Konstantinidis family already.
Her loved ones brought little gifts they had made to mark the occasion. A cotton bobbin with four nails knocked in for French knitting, from María. A new crochet hook and silks from her grandmothers. From her parents, a wooden clamp for Sofía to press her wild flowers, instead of using a rock on a piece of wood. The most marvellous gift of all came from Uncle Kuríllos. A fountain pen with three spare nibs, a bottle of ink and a leather-bound notebook. She no longer had to write her history book in pencil.
Sofía broke all the rules when she rushed up to her uncle, flung her arms around his neck and kissed his cheeks. ‘It’s the most wonderful present ever, Uncle. Thank you!’
‘You have some film left in that Kodak of yours?’ Babá asked his brother. ‘It’s time for a family photo. Let’s get everyone outside.’
*
Teenager Sofía could not sit still. She helped María, now twenty-three and currently pregnant with her eighth child.
‘Why doesn’t anyone want to marry me, María?’
‘You’re wrong, my sister. They all want you. The problem is you are too good for them. You have a passion for perfume and history, you’re an expert carpet weaver and you speak three languages when most can hardly write their own names. So be proud and be patient. The right man will come along.’
‘I’m going to die a spinster,’ Sofía cried in dismay.
‘You’re so stubborn!’ María said. ‘Let me remind you: you’re in the process of writing a Greek history book, in Greek, using the Greek alphabet, which is absolutely forbidden by that mad Italian fascist, Benito Mussolini, on penalty of death. So, what do you do? You hide it under your mattress. Who would think of looking there? Your threat to come back as a ghost and haunt him will not stop you getting shot. You’re a rebel, Sofía, and the boys sense it. They all want a wife who’ll do as she’s told.’
‘I can’t change,’ Sofía said with tears in her eyes. ‘I’ve tried, but I just can’t.’
María slid her arms around her beloved sister and gave her a hug. ‘Nobody would want you to, we all love you just the way you are and one day the right man will come along and you will fall madly in love. So don’t be hasty to marry the wrong one now.’
*
‘Sofía, take these hens to the bakery and stick them in the oven once the bread’s finished,’ Mamá said, making use of the town’s free oven. The day was too hot to light the house-fire to cook. ‘The pot’s not heavy and they’re all plucked and trussed. They’ll flavour the roots and rice that will fill our bellies tonight.’
Sofía trapsed down the hill to the square, wondering about the sudden shortage of food. Just as she struggled to keep a grip on the pot and open the bakery door, it flew open and a tall, elegant woman blocked her way.
‘Ah, sorry, let me help,’ the woman said in Italian, holding the door open.
‘Thank you,’ Sofía replied, going in and placing the pot on the counter as the smell of yeast filled her senses. To her surprise, the woman followed her back into the shop.
‘Young lady, do you go to school here?’ Sofía nodded. The woman held out a slender hand. ‘Then let me introduce myself; I am Anastasia, your new teacher.’
Sofía practised her first handshake and experienced a rite of passage into the adult world.
‘Pleased to meet you, I’m Sofía,’ she said, suddenly horrified to realise she’d spoken Greek to the stranger. She momentarily placed her hand over her mouth, then quickly repeated herself in Italian while a blush burned her cheeks.
The teacher bent forward and whispered in Greek, ‘Don’t worry, I prefer Greek too.’ Then she stood tall and winked, her wide smile promising mischief and affection.
The red-faced baker shoved Sofía’s chickens into his empty brick oven. ‘This is the girl I was telling you about,’ he said to the teacher. ‘Her family own the distillery where they make precious oil for overseas.’
The teacher smiled. ‘Precious oil . . . how interesting.’
*
Later, they all ate chicken-flavoured rice while Uncle Kuríllos repeated the town gossip.
‘They say the new teacher’s a woman of Greek-Italian descent and a further anomaly is she’s both a spinster and very beautiful.’
Babá, first to finish, helped himself to more rice. ‘Listen, we know from ancient times that only men are wise enough to hold the position of teacher.’ He paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. ‘Even I, with my great wisdom, am not intelligent enough to be a teacher.’
Mamá squinted at him but kept her thoughts to herself.
Kuríllos said, ‘Anyway, teaching girls to read and write is dangerous enough, but imagine if they learned mathematics, politics or medicine. Before you know it, they’d think they’re as intelligent as men. Then we’d have nothing but trouble!’
