Next morning when I woke, my mind was numb. I'd hardly slept. Throughout the night, my thoughts had drifted between dreams and a reality that seemed mapped out on the ceiling of my father's room. Faces came and went with the shadows and the light until I drifted off again.
Facing the world from the balcony that morning, everything looked bright and cheerful - thoughtlessly bright and cheerful - but it wasn't until the cock crowed that my brain cells rumbled awake and I recalled all the sadness of the day before. The annual village festival would be held in five days time and I just wasn't in the mood but if that wasn't enough, there was a special event in the afternoon of the day after next, an annual occasion usually organised every year by father as a kind of reunion for those born in the villagers and all those who had returned to their roots for the festival. Dear Auntie had decided to go ahead with it rather than cause disappointment, although I'm sure she would rather have taken some time to be alone.
The people would gather in the square in front of a taverna called Virgenia's. It was my father's favourite village restaurant. He liked the view so much he went there every day and liked to sit at the same table overlooking the sea. My father - his house, his village, his sky, his view. No wonder it was in his heart.
Suddenly I was famished. I had to find Virgenia's, but which way? Down through the lane on the right with a nod for the man blinking at the coffee in his hand, then on past cave-like shops being dressed in postcards and bric-a-brac, and others bedecked in shopping bags and skirts and hats. Through open doors and windows one or two ancients turned in and out of sight to the echo of unknown voices. Could I be the last one out of bed?
I met a lady carrying a plate of dolmades, the rolled up vine leaves like green tubes, and asked her the way, in my imperfect Greek, for Virgenia's. Recognising the rumblings of hunger on the prowl, she offered me one of the little parcels and nodded. I bit into it. Lemony herby rice and onion spilled into my mouth still hot from cooking. My taste buds got the message. I wanted more but she'd disappeared indoors. I could hear a faint, “Virr-genia,” and then she reappeared, signalled me to follow and before I could see which way, scuttled off into the ether. I looked behind into a doorway then I heard a squeak and she materialised in a nearby archway, smiling and mumbling into the headscarf drawn across her toothless mouth. Once more she signalled me to follow but this time I'd have to keep up. Agile and talkative she led me through winding streets and alleyways, turning left - then up some steps, then right - and down some more, then a little slope until at last she pointed to a restaurant nestling in the corner of a shaded square and proudly announced, “Restaurant Virrgenia.”
Virgenia's sat in a corner of a meeting of the lanes, a small quiet square lined with cans and boxes filled with the usual bright flowering plants. It may have been out of the way but it was charming and overlooked the windmills and that sea. If you craned your neck you could just see the balconies of our villa from there. All around the entrance, a huge seductive mist of purple bougainvillea leapt from a large rusty oil drum. Lightness, colour and freedom, what more could you want for breakfast?
At the entrance, a girl dozed at a table in the shade of a canopy; her head resting on her arms and her back to the shadowy room within. To my surprise, the old lady sneaked forward without making a sound until, slowly spreading her arms wide like bat and taking a deep breath she screeched, “Nana!” at the top of her voice. All at once, the startled young lady sprang to her feet, banged her head on the menu board and crashed her chair across the patio. The old lady was delighted with the farce, clapping her hands and cackling like a harridan then waving me goodbye and muttering into her scarf she made her getaway through an archway out of sight.
The girl rubbed her head, embarrassed and in pain, trying to regain some composure. Red-faced and wincing, she showed me to a table then went off into the kitchen, dabbing her head with a napkin. Then, something strange, as I reached to take the menu offered by the girl, my hands began to tremble and I felt utterly weak. It may have been the altitude, I don't know, but we both stared as though they were about to fall from my wrists. To cover my embarrassment I apologised for making her jump but she just shrugged and huffed, 'You get used to these mountain women. They're all mad. I hate it here,' then she slumped off into the kitchen leaving me to choose my meal.
I felt ready to drop. I needed food. Nana brought out a tray carrying two cups of tea, gave me one and took the other to a nearby bench in the shade, 'Have you seen the nasty men yet? They make fun of me that I am foreigner.'
'Yes, I hear they are rude to everyone.'
'In my country, we are kind to our visitors and when they are working very hard, we are even more kind. We don't make fun.'
'Hello. My name's Godfrey. You're Nana, aren't you?' She just looked at me, waiting for some quip but I simply smiled and asked her where she was from.
'Georgia is my home.'
'Ah, Russia.'
'No. No. Not Russia. Georgia is Georgia.' She huffed again, knitted her heavy black eyebrows and stared at me, shaking her head in despair. It was obvious I needed a lot more seasoning before I could call myself a traveller. I ordered two eggs with potatoes.
'Excuse me, but in England everything with chips - is true?'
'In some places, yes, but we are learning.'
She shrugged again. 'Now, you want the food for you all together?'
'Yes. Yes, please.'
She stood in front of the barbecue with a hairdryer to quicken the heat. She made me a chip omelette, serving it with bread, a flagon of iced water and great style. Everything was satisfying. Nana didn't speak much Greek so we spoke in broken English. Mine developed a Georgian accent, because I knew my place and no doubt to keep things simple. She told me she was working her holidays, 'And much, much working. Seven - cleaning hotel, finish bar - twelve. Bah. Georgia is the holiday - not here.' Before I left, she gave me a small bunch of sweet grapes. 'Maybe I come work in England. No more the slaves.'
That day the central square grew noticeably busy with visitors. To avoid them I headed back to the comparative peace of Virgenia's to spend a while longer in the shade, sipping iced coffee, chatting to Nana and listening to and watching the locals. It was to become the perfect place for me to pass the time. Nikos, husband of Virgenia, was quite tall compared with the other men of the village. They made my five feet four an average height. Nikos exhibited a fierce bush of a moustache underneath two fierce eyebrows and with his dark, shining eyes he looked a little like a jolly otter.
'Hello. English? German?'
'English, er ...'
'You are here for the festival?'
'No, the funeral, yesterday.'
'Ah, Pantelis Lambrakis. You are Mr. Godfrey, his son ... half Greek. I am pleased to meet you. I heard you were coming.'
'Thank you.'
'You are welcome. I liked your father. He came to my restaurant very often. He was my friend.'
I warmed to him right away. He was open and animated, a natural Master of Ceremonies who asked lots of questions about Britain and the Irish, the Welsh, the Scots and couldn't quite understand why everyone with the same language was not English. He compared us with Americans he had met, 'Same language - different sky. And the girls?' Nikos sniggered like a schoolboy, 'Mister, do you know why I call them Frisbees? They talk too fast. Same whine from the Frisbee when you throw it.' He seemed to think it was daring to be so disrespectful. He was funny. I asked him what he called the British but he wouldn't say. He was a simple fisherman with a good brain who wanted to appear well-travelled, although I suspect he gleaned most of his knowledge from interrogating visitors at his bar.
With his back to the wall, he sat on the ground coiling a nylon line between a big toe and the thumb of his left hand. At his side stood a fishing basket, corked round the top and studded with lethal-looking hooks. I sat a couple of feet away in the shade of an awning. His forehead glistened with sweat as he listened to every word about the Lizard and my part of Cornwall. I told him how the fishing there was not what it was and when I described the fishermen as being full of Cornish myths and legends, he slapped a hand upon my shoulder and laughed, 'The world is full of fishermen like that.'
'And where do you fish? Off Faria Island?'
'Not Faria. Faria is too dangerous, not good for anything. These days we drive our cars down to Dorini and take our boats south.'
Then, appearing from the fringe of the shadows, I became aware of a tall, dark, young woman moving into the sun. Nikos held out his arms towards her, 'Praise the gods! Alessi, you're back. Virgenia! Hey! Come and see who's here.'
Virgenia rolled out from the kitchen wiping her hands on her apron and squinting through her thick-lensed spectacles, 'It's our Alessandra come home all bright and happy. So, where's my present?'
Restrained embraces fluttered from one to the other out of respect for my loss. At first I thought she was another tourist until Nikos did the honours, 'Mr. Lambrakis, Godfrey, this is Alessandra, my essential sister, back from Athens. Alessandra, you know of this man already.'
'Mr. Lambrakis, please accept my deepest sympathy. I was shocked to hear of your father's death. No one can replace him.'
'That's very kind of you, Alessandra,' I said. 'He was a busy man.'
Nikos brought another chair and the young lady sat down. 'I hope you can stay long enough to understand a little of our village. It is a good place and Pantelis made it better. It has survived because of its children. It gave them life but there is little work and they move away as soon as they grow. It's just the way things are.'
'Oh, I'm sure something will be done. If not, we'll all be living in cities if we're not careful.'
'We need a real school, more work, better communication, not just the tourism. We have to make the children proud of Sophia and this was something Pantelis knew deeply. We used to work together for the village.'
'You are a guardian?'
'I am hoping to be. Mr. Godfrey, it would be of great assistance if I could meet with you to talk sometime. Would that be OK?'
We agreed to meet again and then she stood, made her apologies and before I could say any more she was gone, leaving me in a pool of curiosity and optimism.
The evening was soft and blue. From darkening waves and exotic echoes, the valley shadows dreamed. Over on the massif itself, the scattering of occasional lights and the tinkling of distant goat-bells filled the evening with a deep contentment. I stood at the doorway to the mayor's house and inhaled the living air.
Not twenty paces in front of me and unaware I was there, a young girl stood softly singing a tune to the chimes from the basilica bells. As the music ended, she lifted her face, closed her eyes, took a deep breath and slowly, the sun sailed smoothly from the stage to her tender applause as she breathed out. The day was gone leaving one solitary star to send a twinkle of hope.
I don't know if it was the reflections in the sea, or the lights from passing ships, or maybe the peaceful scattering of tables and chairs in the street, or even the girl, the mountains, the bells, or all of it all together, but that was the evening the spirit of the village of Sophia stood before me, showed me her face and stole me away.
The kitchen of the mayor was modest and smelled of cheese and fruit. Manolis met me on the step and showed me inside, 'The women are in the yard, talking. Please, have some water.'
He wore a wide-brimmed straw hat and his straw slippers. Around his waist he wrapped a thick woollen scarf to comfort his kidneys and hold up his trousers. 'Excuse me, Mr. Godfrey. Come, I have something to show you.' Grinning, he lifted a finger for emphasis, then rifling a drawer beneath the window at the back he produced a photograph of himself with a priest. 'That was taken by English Staff Sergeant in the war. He became my great friend. Together we lay side by side defending the roads of Athens and firing our pistols at the Nazis. He came back to Stephanos after the war and asked me to return to England with him. He was my brother.' Then in a faint whispering voice he began to sing Tipperary, the old love song from the First World War and although I could hardly hear his words, his sadness was almost overwhelming. He held onto my arm until the end, 'I will never forget' was all he said when he finished. Then he was away again, unveiling his possessions and finding little faded photographs everywhere. He was proud to show his lifetime souvenirs; they fell from books, wallets, tin boxes and jacket pockets. He gave me a tour of the photos he'd stuck on the walls in his kitchen. Some showed Maria with politicians and officers but most were old sepia tints of her with armed carpenters and farmers, moustachioed heroes from the mountains and valleys of occupied Crete.
'Yes, it was another war. She was in resistance.'
My aunt must have heard us, 'Godfrey, come here for a moment. Guess what? I'm actually beginning to look forward to Saturday afternoon after all. I think we'll enjoy it and between us, it'll be our chance to say goodbye to village friends. After that I'll be off to town for a few days. Anyway, don't let Manolis keep you, go and explore a bit more - you can't get lost - just don't forget where you live! The key's under the right hand flower pot if you want to lock your door when Alexis is not here. I'm off to play cards with Maria and Manolis' sisters. I hope they play for money.' She giggled. The woman was not giving in.
Apart from the clang of goat bells, the lowing of cattle and the barking of a distant argument, the Sophian dusk is still. Its sky is orange fading into purple night. The widest path snakes through the village before it loses interest, narrows and fades into the mountain. Moths dance around the lone light bulb; bats swoop and dive; cicadas play maracas; dogs and children howl in the dark and the villagers sit and chatter to the lengthening shadows. They tilt their heads, nod and smile in my direction. I stroll, mesmerised by the silence and the fragrance and the crunch beneath my feet, enchanted by the panoramic visions of the far-flung islets floating above the utterly violet sea in crystal clear illusion. I was home.
At the turning area in the light from an old van and a single bulb in a shed, fifteen or so fishermen crunch on the gravel, concentrating hard whilst straightening coloured nets and winding spiky lines around their baskets with bare hands. I see a solitary table and sit down. There's already a jacket over the backrest of my chair and the table is scattered with hooks, some twine and a knife. Across the way, an orange, stripey tomcat begs for food, as only tomcats do - noisily. Fishermen on a mountaintop? Who would believe it? The men see me sitting there, nod, and carry on working. I close my eyes for a moment in the perfect diamond peace. There's a rumble and it's coming closer. When I look up, I see an approaching tractor and my table is directly in its path so I stand, lift the table back a few feet and the driver passes through touching his forehead as he goes. One of the fishermen comes to the table, excuses the mess, and puts down a glass of water, 'For you. With the house.' He bows, we all enjoy some laughter, and he rejoins them, leaving the jacket on my chair.
Along the road out of town, I climb for about half an hour to where the bulldozers have scraped out the old rock to make the new road, and from there look back at the lights of Sophia, a tender pattern of sparks with a few gaps where mountain homes once stood. A frail string of lights hanging in the darkness - and such dense darkness there would be without the tender sparks.