The summer of secrets, p.8
The Summer of Secrets, page 8
I snatch my phone and take a short video of her paddling. For a crazy moment I almost expect the turtle to say, ‘Welcome to Castellorizo, Olivia.’
The town seems surreal, like a Spielberg film set with life-size dolls’ houses. An impossibly clear sea shimmers under a ridiculously blue sky. Chunky wooden boats, straight out of Uncle’s paintings, have gloss paintwork in clashing primary colours. They pose on their acrylic reflections, along the harbour’s edge.
I understand why Uncle insisted there was no point in telling me anything until I’d seen this place for myself. How could he describe the saturated colours of Castellorizo without sounding implausible?
Shaking my head, I ask the woman who comes with my coffee, ‘Is there a tourist information place nearby?’
‘What you want? I will help you,’ she says with a practised smile.
‘I need to find my grandmother’s house. My family come from here, but they left after the war.’
‘You come from Australia?’
‘No, from England.’
Her smile falters and despite the riotous clash of colours and fabrics she wears, she seems to dull a little. My uncle’s words come back: things happened.
‘Ah, you come back here in one hour, yes?’ A slight Australian accent seems strange coming from this smart, upright woman, although her strong features and dark hair pulled into a tight chignon are undoubtedly Greek.
*
I finish my drink, then drop my suitcase off at my harbourside room. Back at the café table a little later, I find the mayor waiting. After introductions, he offers to take me to the house and old distillery of my family.
The streets are lined with houses of peach, lemon and dusky pink, tall and elegant with ornate plaster finishings and shutters of wine red, blue or ochre. Not a bit like the white, sugar-cube homes of the Cyclades Islands. These two- and three-storey dwellings shimmer with colour. The geometric shapes under terracotta-pitched roofs have wide balconies that contrast with a riot of bougainvillea. The show-stopping vermillion vine climbs and intertwines from street to street like a single deep-pink satin ribbon unravelled around buildings and binding the town together. In colours that clash outrageously, clay pots burst with flamboyant lilies and geraniums.
Castellorizo’s only town, Megisti, clusters around the deep, U-shaped anchorage. Café tables crowd the pavement, centimetres from the water’s edge. Brightly painted metal ladders, like an upended J, make light of entering the crystal harbour water for a swim. I lift my phone and take photographs for Uncle.
Feeling slightly drunk on the island’s exquisiteness, I call to my guide leading the way and try to make conversation. ‘How come no one’s ever heard of Castel . . . Castel . . .’
‘Eh, what you say?’ the old man calls back over his shoulder. ‘Ah, Castellorizo. Cas-tel-lor-ree-zo! Is easy.’ Under a slick of hair that is too black to match his age, I catch his frown and an impatient tone in his voice, but it’s soon gone. ‘We is nearly here at your spíti . . . your house, lady.’
‘I can’t believe this place, I feel like Alice in Wonderland!’ I remind myself to show respect. Not all cultures understand my own country’s ways and some might misinterpret the British sense of humour as mocking. Giddy with the strange euphoria that fizzes in my head, I still find it hard to believe I’m not dreaming.
The mayor turns towards me. ‘Why you laugh, lady?’
‘I can’t believe it’s real. It’s all so amazing!’ I raise an open hand and gesture across the landscape. ‘Absolutely spectacular!’ Something about the mayor unsettles me.
‘But of course! Castellorizo is the most beautiful of all the islands.’
We stop outside a dilapidated house with crumbling walls and peeling shutters. A property abandoned for many years. Three storeys of stone covered by stucco, much of which has fallen away and lies in a drift against the front wall. A neoclassical Venetian-style building, like all the others I’ve seen so far. The balcony has gone, but support rafters protrude from the front like four fingers of an upturned hand. A few smashed terracotta roof tiles lie around my feet.
I would never have found the house on my own. A row of wide pine trunks sawn off at knee height are half hidden by clumps of common hawkweed and gripped by the searching stems of ivy. The yellow, dandelion-type flowers nod their heads as if talking about me, the stranger in their midst.
I can imagine their gossip: ‘This woman doesn’t belong.’ ‘Legally, she owns the property.’ ‘But after what happened . . .’ ‘No, everyone will have forgotten that time by now.’ ‘Not everyone. Not here.’ ‘And the Castellorizons never forgive.’
‘Madam!’ the mayor interrupts my silly daydream. ‘You want me to open this door for you?’ There is something sly about his eyes.
I nod. ‘Yes, please.’ The heavy wooden door has rotted along the bottom. Once a vivid blue, the paint has faded to a charming chalky hue. A hand-carved architrave surrounds four rectangular panels, the top two of which were once filled with glass. One has been replaced by a sun-bleached plank of ply with stencilled lemons, and a rusting, ornate, cast-iron grille is all that remains of the other.
I try to imagine some of the people who have passed through that doorway and how safe they must have felt behind such a solid portal.
The mayor tilts his chin towards the lobbed pines. ‘The locals, they cut the trees for their fires. Many people still cook with the wood oven.’
‘Why would anyone build a house behind trees when they blocked this beautiful view?’
‘Ah, the house, it needed much shadow. They make the perfume here a long time before. Also because it is hidden, the house was saved from the bombes.’
‘Oh, yes – the perfume – I’d forgotten. Granny Sofía had mentioned it.’ But what was this about bombs?
‘Your grandmother was Kyría Sofía, Mrs Sofía, yes?’
‘Yes, she was.’ I imagine Granny Sofía gazing between the trees towards the town below.
‘This spíti . . . this house, it belongs to Kyría María . . . Mrs María. You find the factory belongs to the younger sister, Kyría Sofía, at the backside.’
I hang on to a straight face – after all, his English is far better than my Greek.
‘We go to see now,’ the mayor says. ‘Here they make the famous oil for perfume, long ago.’ He sighs, glances at his watch then at me. Then he smiles his big, open, Greek smile. ‘They build the house from the rocks of houses that fell in the earthquake in . . .’ He says something in Greek that I can’t make sense of.
‘Sorry, I don’t understand.’
He reaches into his pocket for a penknife, then pulls the hefty blade out.
I step back, suddenly wanting to leave.
‘Ah, I no speak the good English.’ He scratches 1926 into the stone doorframe before he slips the knife into his pocket. With a short grunt, he untwists a length of wire threaded through the bolt and hasp.
‘You mean this wire is all that’s kept the door shut for over seventy years?’
‘Yes, is true. You are lucky. The British and the Italians steal everything from the houses . . . everything, you understand?’ He makes a clawing motion with his fingers. ‘And the big fire and the German Stuka bombs and the British bombs, too – they fall all around and destroy everything that was built after the big earthquake. But they all miss the spíti of your family because it hide behind the trees.’
‘The British? That can’t be right.’ What an alarming thought. ‘You’re not saying the British robbed the local people and bombed the island?’
He lifts his chin and peers down his nose. ‘They gathered all Castellorizons – even babies, old grandmothers – and forced them onto the big ship. They say, You go to Kaş for a few days.’ He points over the harbour to the Turkish mainland. ‘To be safe from bombs, they say.’ His anger is apparent. ‘The Castellorizons and Turks were great friends, so the Greeks feel safer with the Turks, who were not on any side, than suffering the German dive bombers, the Stukas. The English soldiers say to hurry, no lock the house, leave, quickly now! Straight away! They tell us we soon come back, no worries. Is lies to all our people.’ He lifts his chin higher and narrows his eyes. ‘The English warship – with all Castellorizo’s families, except not our strong boys, they is far away in the Greek army – set sail and then the people are told they go to Cyprus. Cyprus! What they do, lady? Is too late. They can no get off, can no leave the navy ship. The English capitanos, he no care about the grandmothers’ cries! You understand?’
I am finding all this hard to believe and promise myself to ask Uncle when I get home. ‘Can I just ask, how old were you when all this happened?’
He squints at me, hesitates, then says angrily, ‘I was three years old, but I remember everything very clearly!’
It is impossible to believe that my own countrymen would trick the island’s entire population into leaving and then rob their houses . . . surely not?
‘Are you sure the British soldiers did that?’ I ask again. ‘You know the penalty for looting is execution in the British army?’
‘Yes, they did it, madam. I know, I was here.’ He hesitates then, realising he has made a mistake. ‘But when they steal all the treasure from the Castellorizo houses, they miss this place, the family house of you, they no steal the things in here. Nobody dares even to go inside because if the big Turk, Mustafa, or one of his sons find out, then they cut the throat, ear to ear. Everyone knows this for sure.’
The mayor runs his fingertips across his neck in one swift action to ensure there is no misunderstanding. He pushes the old door until it shifts decades’ worth of grit. Golden sunlight floods the room.
I can’t believe what lies before me. ‘Oh, my goodness, look at this place . . .’ I whisper, reluctant to disturb silver cobwebs that round the corners, like old ghosts that peer back at me from the distant gloom. My thoughts go to Uncle. When did he last see the place – when he was a small boy, or was he here after the war? I peer at the floor.
‘Is there a cellar, do you think?’ I ask the mayor, imagining the floor collapsing as I step inside. ‘I mean, do you think it’s safe to walk on?’
‘Of course it’s safe,’ he cries, as if I have insulted him. ‘Go in, go in!’
I’m just about to step inside, when a man’s voice rings out behind me. ‘Stop!’
I turn to see a tall man wearing navy bib-and-brace overalls over a white vest. He has a huge beard, a loaded toolbelt slung around his narrow hips and a concerned look on what I can see of his face.
‘Don’t go in, it’s not safe!’ he shouts as he approaches. He turns to the mayor and a big argument takes place with raised voices and lots of arm waving. The stranger turns his attention back to me. ‘You speak English?’ I nod. ‘Is not safe in there,’ he repeats. ‘The beams have rot, there’s a big hole in the roof. Please, talk to the builder first.’
‘Thank you. I appreciate your help. I’m Olivia, the granddaughter of Sofía Konstantinidis.’
He reaches to shake my hand. ‘I am Gregoris, the local electrician. Pleased to meet you.’
I wonder if Gregoris is Greek for gorgeous, because from what I can see, he is. The man has an open, honest face above his enormous beard and, oh goodness, the most amazing, deep brown eyes. Tall for a Greek, with the arms of a weightlifter, a broad chest, flat stomach and narrow hips, it’s difficult not to stare.
‘According to the mayor, the house hasn’t seen another human cross the threshold for seventy years,’ I say. ‘So how do you know about the hole in the roof?’
‘You can see it if you look down from the cliff path’
‘Right. I’m just going to call my uncle. He owns the property.’
I speed dial Uncle. He picks up on the third ring.
‘It’s me, Olivia,’ I say. ‘How are you? Where are you? Ah, at home . . . social services looking after you? That’s good to hear. I’m here at your house. I’m with the mayor.’ I look into the mayor’s face. ‘I’m talking to my uncle, Yeorgos Konstantinidis,’ I say.
The mayor’s eyes widen and he blinks rapidly. ‘Yeorgos Konstantinidis is alive?’ He stares, disbelievingly.
CHAPTER 12
SOFIA
Castellorizo, Greece, 1941
SOFÍA TOOK THE NEWBORN FROM Mustafa, then crossed herself and the baby as she entered the house. She screwed her sensitive nose at the cloying odour of childbirth, laid the infant next to her sister and then hurried to fling open the windows. Gathering the rubber sheet and soiled bedding discarded next to the bed, she dropped them into the dolly-tub outside. Back in the room, she took a natural sponge from a pail of cold water and wiped her sister’s face.
‘How do you feel, María?’ You must be exhausted by bravo for giving us another boy!’
‘I’m weary, Sofía. But he’s beautiful, isn’t he?’ She opened one eye and a hint of mischief passed between the sisters before she closed it again, leaving nothing but a fading smile.
‘Then sleep,’ Sofía said. ‘I’ll see to the children.’ She lifted the newborn from her sister’s breast and held it against her own chest. ‘Do we have a name?’ she asked, laying the infant in the baby hammock that hung from the canopy above María.
‘He’s Christos,’ María murmured.
‘Christos! I’m surprised Mustafa allowed that.’
‘He doesn’t know.’ Her smile widened. ‘He thinks the baby’s name’s Emre, after the great Turkish poet. The Papas is coming to bless the little one at six o’clock. If you can make sure Mustafa’s occupied elsewhere for an hour, I’d appreciate it.’
‘’Course I will. Don’t worry about a thing. Four boys in as many years: Christos, Panayiotis, Fevzi and Zafiro, well done you!’
Still smiling about the conspiracy, Sofía stepped outside and raked the tiny leathery leaves from a stalk of myrtle. She crushed the greenery in her palms then returned to scatter the leaves over the bed. ‘There, that should help you sleep,’ she whispered as the sweet liquorice scent drifted over her fatigued sister.
Outside, she challenged Mustafa. ‘What food do you plan to give the children?’ Her heart thudded, yet she felt indignant, knowing he would not have thought about anyone’s sustenance.
He shrugged. ‘I’ve just arrived back, how can I know? Mamá told me she’s made fish stew in the pot and there’s bread and oil.’ He grinned, clearly pleased with himself. ‘Aren’t you going to congratulate me? You have another fine nephew and I’m a very happy father.’
‘No, I am not going to congratulate you! The doctor’s right, my sister’s half dead from childbearing and my mother and I give up our lives to take care of you and yours. You do nothing to help!’
‘The cockerel doesn’t care for the chicks, Sofía. I earn plenty of money for this family, I work for six months without one day off. You only see me relax for a few days, but this is not how I spend my time away from here. There are pirates out there—’ he nodded towards the sea, ‘and storms that could sink my ship and drown my men. Also, I miss my beautiful and loving wife every day. I do my best in the things at which I am expert and I leave the rest to you. You know what a family needs to eat and drink and what clothes need buying. All I can do is hand over money. You don’t see me wasting it in the bars or gambling houses, do you? What more you expect me to do, little one?’
Her shoulders dropped and the tension left her voice. ‘Do you think we ever get a day off, Mustafa? It would be amazing if you could help in the upkeep of your family. Can’t you at least organise their food for a few days.’
Mustafa’s green eyes flashed as he delved into his baggy breeches and pulled out a fat roll of Italian lira. He shoved it into her hand, keeping hold of her wrist. For a moment, she sensed the great strength of him and fear gripped her stomach.
‘Here, Sofía, you do it.’ He looked her up and down. ‘You look tired, get something nice for yourself, while you’re about it. You’re growing into a beauty. Make yourself look pretty.’
Angry that he demonstrated his power over her, she protested. ‘Mustafa! Let go of me, or I’ll tell María!’ she hissed.
‘It’s time to betroth you,’ he said in a kindly way. ‘I was only a year or two older than you when I first met your sister.’
Feeling bullied, she snarled, ‘I’m not getting married!’ Her heart thudded. It wasn’t her norm to answer people back. ‘I’m not ending up like my sister with too many babies. It’s horrible, you treat her like a slave!’
Mustafa laughed. ‘Of course I do, she’s my wife,’ he joked, glancing around the forecourt crowded with his children. ‘Ayeleen!’ he called. ‘Give your aunty a hand while your mother rests. I’m going to eat and sleep on the ship while I’m here, this time.’
Ayeleen sometimes worked in the perfumery behind the house while her two younger sisters, Rosa and Popi, took care of the toddlers. With only a few years between Sofía and her niece, they were the best of friends.
Ayeleen shifted the weight of the twelve-month-old toddler on her back and looked up from the sheep she was milking. ‘Yes, Father.’
The late-afternoon sun caught her beautiful face; her full lips and large, heavily lashed eyes were so like her father’s. There wasn’t a young man on earth that wouldn’t want Ayeleen for his wife in a few years. She was beautiful, hard-working and possessed the wide, child-bearing hips that promised a fertile womb. Mustafa was protective of every youth that laid eyes on his girls. He loved and guarded his children and wouldn’t allow any boy near his precious daughters.
*
Reluctant to go the long way around to enter the distillery from the outside, Sofía ducked behind the half-woven carpet that hung from the beam-loom at the back of the room, then passed through the hidden door. In the hot, damp workshop, she checked the latest batch of oils, extracting by steam distillation. Three copper stills filled the centre of the workshop. A mattress lay at one end to accommodate those who had to work through the night when Mustafa telegrammed with too many orders. A mound of myrtle leaves, gathered fresh to distil that day, filled the square pit in the floor, another bank was heaped against the wall. Myrtle oil had so many uses it was their best and most profitable product.
