9
'Welcome, welcome. It's me, Yiannis, the best taxi on Stephanos. Welcome to Greece.' He winked then wrestled my backpack from my grip and dropped it into the boot of his cab with all the panache of Odysseus coming to the rescue, ‘Sorry so late.’
Minutes earlier I'd almost climbed aboard the regular bus for the island capital but an incident with the driver had left me a little anxious and caused me to change my mind. It happened when a passenger, trying to close the luggage door by pressing it shut with his foot, bent it out of shape. This was followed by some yelling from the front and the driver appearing, unsteady and charging towards us like a runaway horse. When he saw the door, he threw a fit, ranting and waving his hands in the face of the culprit. He paced up and down, spinning round and shouting at the sky, losing the whereabouts of the accused and scarily out of control. But his nuttiness just diluted all the menace and turned it into farce. He was a big sweaty man, spluttering and stammering in his rant. I wondered how he packed that bulk into his driving seat. Anway, the passenger began to smile then covered his mouth with his hand. At this the driver reached into the cab and pulled out a hammer, cursing and sneering, and pummelled the door closed then marched out of sight. He started his engine, then came back to the door and gave it one last mighty kick and told the culprit to get off his bus. Then he glared at me, 'You! Stephanos town? Main town? Stephanos town!' He was shouting out his destination in a mood that made it sound like a threat. His fist still gripped the hammer at his side. I stared back at him, my eyes stinging from his haze of alcoholic breath.
'Um, not sure, er...,' I hesitated.
And that's when Yiannis interrupted. 'Sorry I'm late, sir. So, how do you do sir? I hope you had a good flight. One moment, please.'
'Ah! Here you are. At last,' I sighed and looked back at the glaring bus driver and spread my hands before me. 'No thanks. I'm OK now.'
And that's how crazy Yiannis saved my life. Before I could turn to thank him, he was back on the dusty forecourt finishing an impromptu game of shuttlecock with a departing tourist, and with the light fading fast, everything else could wait. Yiannis was merciless, grunting and thrashing and shouting at his opponent, but no sooner had he hammered home his death blow than he leaped aboard his chariot and licked his lips, 'OK, my friend, so you want to go to Stephanos main town, yes?'
'Well, no. I want to go to Sophia please.'
'Sophia? Sorry, you say Sophia? Sophia in daylight - not at night - too dangerous. The mountain, she is dark. Coming back would be a problem. I take you tomorrow. Tonight, you stay in Stephanos town. An hotel. No problem. Cool. Stephanos main town twenty minutes max.'
Full of blazing testosterone, a toothpick between his teeth, he revved the engine to a roar, sniffed and zipped his taxi along the coast road chuckling quietly to himself. He punched his breastbone, 'Agamemnon - invincible. Ha!'
And although his taxi had a very impressive array of icons, holy pictures, crucifixes and little religious plaques arranged around the windscreen, there was nothing to dispel my fear that at any moment we'd be sailing through the air, over the cliffs and down, down, down into the sea.
'Tomorrow, will you be staying in Sophia, sir?'
'Yes. A funeral.'
'Oh, I'm sorry. Someone close?'
'Yes, my uncle. Pantelis Lambrakis. I'm his nephew, Godfrey.'
'Mother of Zeus! No way!' He banged the dashboard with his hand, 'One moment, sir. Did you say Lambrakis? The bouzouki man? He was the most famous, all over Greece. The Rembetika King!' He passed me a beer. 'I'm sorry to hear your sad news. Mr. Lambrakis will be missed.'
'Yes. It came as quite a shock.'
With one hand on the wheel he used the other to fiddle with the dial until he found some suitably sentimental melodies that suited his voice and so began to croon. Sadly, he drove me through a door I preferred to keep closed.
Auntie and Pani had met in the theatre. At the Pigalle in Paris. He was a popular Greek musician and my aunt was a dancer from Liverpool. He was handsome and wealthy yet they moved in the same show-biz circles. From the gossip columns there'd been veiled rumours of his associations with certain criminal elements, but then I'd imagine after-show parties and nightclubs must have been brimming with suspicious characters in those days. Anyway, I suppose associations like that only served to make him more attractive to my aunt. Apparently, almost as soon as they were married she gave up the theatre and went to live with him in Greece. My only blood relative and living so far away.
After my mother died, I was placed in the care of the Carmelite Convent near Mullion until I was five and then boarded at St. Piran's School in nearby Penzance. I think I quite enjoyed those days. Not ever knowing either parent, I have to say I didn't miss them and then my aunt and uncle used to come to Cornwall for my holidays. She'd buy me gifts and sometimes he'd take me camping or exploring new places. Whatever the weather, Uncle Pantelis would insist we put up the tent, light a fire and sit inside so he could play his bousouki or read me the myths and legends in the right atmosphere. We'd cook up his island foods and he'd teach me bits of Greek. He showed me another world. It was more or less taken for granted that when my schooling was done I'd go and live with them on their island and it'd be happy holidays every day.
There was one incident that really shook me. We'd been picnicking at the local beach, watching the surfers and water-skiers riding the long, rolling waves, waiting for their perfect moment, and uncle was applauding their commitment and patience. It looked like they'd been there all night. Tents and sleeping bags encircled the remains of a fire nearby. A few were pulling on wet suits and carrying their boards down to the water. My aunt and uncle began chatting about the crazy obsession the surfers share for beach life and I knew it wouldn't be long before he'd start hinting that it was about time I learned to swim, even though we had long ago agreed that I would only go with them to a beach as long as I didn't have to go in the sea, which I never did because I hated the water, the salt and the cold, and also I hated being so thin. The last thing I wanted was to draw attention to myself in front of all these athletic beach people and the noisy kids playing in the water as though they were born there. I preferred to lay under my towel within the safety of the shore, enjoying an ice cream and watching my uncle struggle with his wet suit before he curved into the sea like a dolphin only to reappear sometime later and regale me with stories of seals, gentle basking sharks, forests of stunning pink corals and walls of bright coloured jewel anemones he said he saw on his dives. Every time we went to the beach he would suggest it was time he taught me to swim and I'd refuse to move.
'You can't live so close to the sea and never go in. Come on my boy, have courage. You'll be safe with me.'
His stories always made me feel odd and out of place but that day, after watching the surfers having so much fun, I gave in and agreed to let him give me my first lesson, as long as we stayed in the sheltered corner, away from the waves.
But uncle was very persuasive, so after nods from my aunt, we went and stood at the water's edge with the icy wetness licking my toes, and my arms clutching my body against the spray, and to hide my embarrassment. I looked out to sea, pretending to be calm although inside I was a quivering wreck. The waves were getting higher. The divers had dived. Everyone was heading for the sea, drawn by the power and the roar. With great care he took hold of my hands and walked backwards into the water, drawing me after him until the freezing sea was above my knees, 'There. You see Godfrey? No problem. Have a kick about. It's only water.” But as far as I was concerned that was enough for my first lesson and I wanted to get out. “Look, I promise, all you have to do is to take a deep breath, keep hold and bounce up and down until you get used to the water.' Then he tricked me. Rather than going back to the safety of the beach, he said I might as well take lesson number two, 'Just keep hold of my hands and fall forward, kicking as you go.'
But behind my uncle I could see a shining wall of glistening sea curving down to cover us and before I could make him understand, it hit us and he let me go. I went under, flailing about and rolling over and over. I was swallowing salty water, coughing and choking until I thought I was going to die. The next thing I remember was being swept up into the arms of my aunt and being carried onto the sand where she wrapped me in a towel and rubbed me dry. I was shaking with fear at first and angry because Uncle just stood laughing while Auntie showered me in kisses and shouted at him for failing to protect me. Some of the kids were laughing at me too and it was school all over again. For that single moment I hated him and was glad he was in trouble, and I suppose I even exaggerated my panic a little just to make Auntie tell him off and so make him feel bad and to punish him. But then he stopped laughing, and he picked me up, and hugged me, and held me close, and said he was sorry, over and over. He whispered that he loved me and would never, ever, ever cheat me again and I think I felt him sob.
Then he whispered, 'Let's go back to the water's edge and you push me in and I will go under. That'll show these silly kids.' And that's what we did and soon we were all laughing again, but because he'd upset me and then was so sincerely sorry, I felt closer to him at that moment than ever I had felt before.
'Do you know the village, Yiannis? My uncle said it has magic.'
'Sophia? Magic? I'm sorry, but I think I'd rather do time in jail or even join the army than waste my time in Sophia.' Approaching a bend he lit a cigarette, inhaled and soared, then turned and offered one to me from a little metal box on the dashboard. When I declined he grinned, 'Go on, my friend, they're, er, foreign.'
'No thanks, I'm fine at the moment. So, what's wrong with Sophia?'
He drained his beer and coughed, 'Wrong? The mountain people? Very strange. Too quiet. Peace and love and everything old. They live in the past. Spooky,' he flicked his ash on the floor. 'I live in the now. You saw Athens. Much better. Very modern. Very fast!'
Suddenly in the distance we could see rooftops, then the road winding down towards a harbour and a deep blue bay.
'Here is Stephanos main town. She is OK, but for me, I want to live in Attica. I could be rich! Attica has the best wine, the reddest soil, the most unspoiled of villages and Mother of Zeus, the women? Ha, they say they come from Hades. Now Attica has the busiest, most modern airport in Europe and named after Venizelos, the people's hero.'
'A good man?'
'A god! He was the people's Prime Minister, buried in Kriti. My father was at his funeral service.'
'So, your family is from Crete?'
'Yes, sir. Iraklio. When the ship carrying the body of Venizelos came into port it was hung all over with black cloth, and the small boats that went with it in the morning light seemed like a Venetian argosy. My father was one of the soldiers lining the road. They all stood to attention with tears streaming down their faces. It was spring, and the whole island smelled of spring. The people with cars brought lemon blossom and orange blossom from entire orchards. There was a great sadness.'
'You must be proud to have such a noble family.'
'Noble? We are not noble, we are poor. Why do you think I drive this taxi?'
'I don't think money makes you noble. One who is noble is honest and firm in their personal beliefs and of real value to their community. That is being noble.'
Yiannis coughed. A few moments later, we were nosing our way through the bustle and crush of pilgrims until he pulled to a halt in what I took to be the town square. I dried my palms on my jeans and stepped into the street.
'Mr. Godfrey, you know something? I've been thinking,' he shrugged, 'maybe you're right. Maybe I am noble!' He shook my hand. 'Thank you. And hey! Have a nice stay - and please be careful.'
'Yianni, an hotel?'
'Hotel? Oh yeah, sorry. I forget. Cool. That way. Past all the buildings.'
Following his direction, I spun round and instantly collided with the crazy bus driver in all his swaggering mass. He brushed past, expressionless. I stood still for a moment, reflecting. I was weary. Only yesterday I was at home in the village of Trevean, in Cornwall, next thing I was in Greece. I could not have imagined it. I, me, had flown and now I was in Stephanos town, right here, right now. With a few essentials stuffed in a backpack, I'd boarded the shuttle at Newquay and woken up on Pani's island.
Tables and chairs and a buzz of strange voices were all around me. The air was soft and warm. A breeze wafted in from the ancient Aegean. Right beside me, a pungent mix of ripe tomatoes, oregano, lamb cooking and childhood summers at the cottage with Auntie Agnes and Uncle Pantelis, stirred my mind. They reached out and pulled me in. Outside a taverna I sat on a rickety chair at a rickety table and needed no more.
By the time I left the taverna the sky was filling with stars and I knew the aubergines had been a happy choice. The waiter had suggested I go by ferryboat to Dorini the next day, and from there take the old bus up the mountain to Sophia.
'It takes about two hours but if you think that's slow, wait till you're in the village.'
Over my shoulder lay my ship tethered to the quay like the legendary Argos. Her name, Princess of Stephanos, scrolled across her stern. Her lights lay drifting and lapping in the gentle harbour basin on my right. She looked swift as well as sturdy, well-fitted to battle any wind or storm anywhere in the four corners of the Aegean. And that's when I decided that rather than go by bus I would sail to Dorini as in ancient times.
The evening sky was crystal clear and the air so fresh I forgot my tiredness in the romance of being in this land of my uncle and my heroes. Pin pricks of light glittered in the growing darkness, unusual clusters that had me confused until I twigged they were not stars at all but lights from mountain houses. I needed to find a cheap room for the night and the outskirts of town was not that far. After several minutes wandering in the dusk, I realised I couldn't tell a house from an hotel, and I couldn't find the courage to ask. Then I heard some children playing in a side street and took out my phrasebook. I found the word for hotel and pointed to it, 'Please. An hotel?'
The eldest, a girl about twelve, stepped forward, her friends trailing like the children of Niobe, and guided me to the door of a large grey building back on the central street. With one arm raised and her head held high, she announced in unexpected, but excellent English, 'This one is good. It's called Hotel Anessis and the name means comfort.'
Then to my complete delight she curtsied and ran away surrounded by a swarm of admiring, giggling friends.
I pushed against the door of the old hotel and stepped into a pool of feeble yellow light in the dilapidated reception area. The smell of mould and the silence got in my nose. The place seemed deserted and cold. I rang the bell but no one came and when I called into the gloom no one answered. I knocked on a door marked, 'PRIVAT', but no one came. They must be all deaf or asleep, I mumbled out loud. I listened harder. Faint tinny squeaks came from the room next to reception so I banged hard on its door, loud enough to wake the dead. The sound faded. I waited.
The door grumbled ajar to reveal a doleful, puny young guy in green stripy pyjamas standing beneath a thick mass of curly black hair. He was wearing earphones. Stubble covered his chin and one eye was bruised and swollen and had the colouring that could only have been the result of a blow from oncoming traffic. The other was bleary from too much sleep. A smouldering cigarette bobbed between his swollen lips when he spoke, 'Hi. How can I help you?'
'I was hoping you could offer me accommodation for the night.'
He looked at the book on the desk then took down a key from a row of numbered cup hooks, 'No problem,' he coughed. 'Follow me, please.'
He led me up a staircase lined with mirrors and down a quiet corridor into shadows of the past. He stopped outside a room right at the end and opened the door, waiting for me to catch up. The room was wonderful. A corner room, large and clean and dark. It smelled of warm wood, old comfort and old polish, of distant lives and memories.
'How much is it?' I asked.
He shrugged, 'Mm, not much.'
'But Euros. How many Euros for one night?'
'Well I know it's the cheapest and best in Stephanos town,' he looked unsure.
'But don't you have any idea what the tariff is?' I crackled, sour and abrasive.
'Look my friend, I arrived here myself this evening and I too am knackers. The owner is away in the north for the funeral of his friend. Take the room if you want and pay tomorrow. It's cool, trust me.'
I wanted to curl up and die. I was embarrassed and guilty. I apologised for my mistake and for disturbing him at that time of night. He just smiled, 'Hey. It is nothing.' He held out his hand, 'I am Kostas. I am come from the Mani all the way here to distant Stephanos.'
'It sounds like a long journey.'
'You have to cut the rope if you want to be free. I come to earn money from the tourists. You are English. On holiday? Hey! Welcome to my country.'
I groaned and almost fell to my knees in disgrace. I shook his hand and shook my miserable face with embarrassment, mumbling rough apologies and explanations. I had acted like a typical Englishman abroad, with ignorance and presumption. I took the room. My weariness had made me tetchy and a bad ambassador for patience and courtesy. He left me wallowing in my misery and vanished down the stairs, smoke from his cigarette hanging where he had stood not two seconds before.
My room was airless but had everything: shower room with toilet, bedside tables for the two single beds and a cupboard. Shuttered windows on one face looked down on what looked like a school. On the other, shuttered French windows leading out onto an old wrought iron balcony complete with washing line and an old wicker chair with shaky legs overlooking the street. Strands of raffia unwound from its ankles like the loose stockinged folds that hung round the legs of the old lady at the airport.
Down below, the kids were playing in the street whilst grandma looked on from the comfort of a chair in the light from their doorway. It was all so homely; I half expected to find slippers waiting under my bed. But I had to get out into the night without delay.
On the road down to the harbour with its lights and the village life, the faint strains of bouzouki floated through the air from a shop nearby. Newspapers covered its windows to stop the prying eyes. I rattled the handle and lingered, cheeky curiosity I suppose, and I didn't have long to wait. Two young men came to investigate and even through my apologies they insisted I join their little group for a drink to celebrate the finishing touches to their new sandwich and wine bar.
One poured the wine and introduced himself as Manoli as he presented with great pride his signature salad, 'This will be my first business and you are my first tourist client. You will bring me good fortune. Eat. Drink. Cheers, Meester from England.'
Later, down by the water, I sat in silence and tried to take it all in. I closed my eyes and smelled the apple smell, the elderflowers, mules and warm stone. I could smell hens and lemon trees and sea salt. It smelled of my childhood. Down there, the water had darkened to oil. Pani's island. All so wonderfully lovely. I just floated along in the dark on a cloud of night-scented honeysuckle and peace. A dog's barking echoed round the harbour. The sound of a bottle breaking on something hard. I hoped it wasn't the dog. I was happy and tired and my bed was the best place for me so with the harbour on my right, I tramped back up the street, past the party, up the stairs and once in my room, out onto the balcony and into my honest chair.
Then to my joy, a wonderful tableau of an older, more romantic Greece opened before my eyes. Four workmen, caked with the paste of cement dust and oil, were packing up for the night after a hard day's slog right across the road from my veranda. They loaded their truck with ladders, spades and planks and turned off the mixer. Then one of them produced a baglama, a tiny long-necked bouzouki, and began to play and without so much as a glance over his shoulder, his mates linked strong arms across powerful shoulders and began slow, thoughtful steps for no one but themselves. Side by side and side to side, they skipped and swept in harmony and fun. A little banter, some gentle jeering and friendly swearing as they danced. Then they stopped, holding the pose, frozen in the moment, moustaches twinkling in the leather of their faces. A sudden burst of coughing and laughter, and they collapsed onto the ground. All too soon they were gone, disappearing out of town in clouds of fumes and dust. I sat there mesmerised, as much by the theatre as I was by the dance.
I chose the bed nearest the French windows and lay down bathed in the cool of the sheets. Was I dreaming or was someone, somewhere close by, struggling with piano practice and having a hard time. I knew the tune but try as they may, they couldn't quite get London Bridge to fall down completely. I was happy. The tender sounds floated away to silence, fading in the air beneath a sky full of jewellery that danced before my eyes between the open shutters. I began to drift.