12
It was a perfect, balmy evening, with Theo and Ben sitting at separate tables overlooking the rooftops down to the sea, listening to every word of Bob Dylan's second album, Freewheelin', sipping chilled beers adding the occasional, 'wow', and, 'jeez', at his cleverness and dry wit.
But no sign of Sally, and by nine Ben felt free to return to The Villa, rather relieved and quite content to be spending the rest of the evening with friends rather than entertaining a notion. After a while Marian went off for an evening siesta because she'd been at the disco the night before until the early moaning hours and strangely, she felt exhausted. Leon excused himself. He was off to shower and make himself ready for safari, 'the hunter is always prepared'. The younger Greeks have a phrase for it, making kamaki, - harpooning. The local males go out hunting and harpooning the female tourists all summer and spend the quiet winter nights bragging about their kamaki conquests.
Even though Leon wasn't Greek, still he could talk the hind legs off any donkey he fancied and that always helped.
Kevin and Ben went to Ilya`s Rockas Bar for another spiritual raki. It was a locals' bar with a wide view of the town and the starlit bay. Then on down to Myro's for a few nightcaps and a volta through the three streets with other strollers and diners before climbing Taverna Street and into Theo's for beers in the purple evening night.
By the time they arrived all the tables were taken but sitting at one by himself was a senior Greek chappie and when asked permission for the spare chairs, kindly he nodded and smiled.
Ben recognised him as the man who lived across the street from where The Villa was currently parked. He introduced himself as Markos and obviously liked his beer because in no time he was yattering away in a Cretan dialect only he could understand. He seemed to be saying his wife had died only a few years before and with his gaze drifting away up towards the hills at the back of the town his expression changed and he began to appear quite upset. Ben knew of a typical mountain village up there, quite a way off the trodden path, unspoilt and devoid of transient glitter. Called Melambes it seemed this was where Markos had wooed his young bride-to-be before carrying her down the mountain to wed and live in Agia Galini.
Then Markos recovered his cheer returned and it wasn't long before he was whistling at Theo to bring us a round of beers but surprisingly took to pouring beer from his own bottle into our glasses. It turned out to be an old custom meaning he regarded us as his mates until, abruptly, he stood up, bade us goodnight and left.
From the snug came the sounds of guitars being tuned and of Theo closing the terraced doors and inviting everyone inside. But Ben knew when enough was enough and it was time for his bed. He knew anymore would bring his usual mutterings of, 'Easy Money!' and, 'Rubbish!' at whoever was trying to entertain, irrespective of how musical the musicians were. No harm was meant, it's just that he don't know when to shut up and understandably the majority of folks out for a little light entertainment have a less embarrassing sense of humour. Swaying a little, he eased off his chair and staggered in an uncertain zigzag design off in the direction of The Villa, stopping only for what he hoped was a discrete pee en route.
The Villa was dark and the door was locked. Through the driver's window he could just make out the ignition keys inside and since there was no sign of Kevin, Ben presumed he was busy hypnotising some poor innocent young creature, but where might Ben have the sleep his body so desperately demanded? Twisting and swaying without moving his feet, he lifted his head and squinted at the light in a downstairs room of their new friend and neighbour, Markos. Gently, he knocked on the door.
'Kalispera, Marko,' Ben mumbled.
'Ben!' he looked pleased to see a drinking partner and proceeded to offer a choice of crassis, Amstel and rakis.
'Ochi, efharisto. No thanks. Just want to sleep. Parakalo,' he said and made the international sign where you tilt your head onto hands in prayer. Marko was watching a TV quiz show and on a little table stood a bottle of something and a glass. He signalled for Ben to follow. His house had once been a taverna or a pension or boarding house with several rooms on three floors. They climbed the stairs in silence, Marko indicating the various single rooms Ben could choose from before leaving to turn out the lights. He returned to his evening downstairs. Ben collapsed on the nearest bunk as though the effort of turning off the half-hearted bulb had simply drained the last of his energy, which it probably did. The air was warm and fragrant and Ben was snug, comfortably sinking beneath the waves of consciousness. It felt like home.
But his slumber was brutally shattered by a jolt from Marko's voice, 'Ben! Ben! Musika!' followed by something Ben could not understand and from somewhere in the background, came a gentle musical refrain.
Then again, 'Musika! Ben! Ben!'
Ben dragged himself from the cot making his way towards the balcony, on the way blundering mindlessly into the trouser heap he'd left on the floor. Markos was in the street, waving his arms and hissing, 'Musika!' jabbing the air indicating the Villa Zorbus from where someone's voice was wailing, 'She rides a Harley Davidson - cross a desert highway…'
Ben had no idea about the time but apart from the sounds from the console, the night was heavy in silence and there was no other light in the street. The console had a timer switch and he guessed he must have set in error. The sounds cut the air like a First Responder siren in an emergency. He stood there in his underwear, confused, unable to find his keys and still no sign of a Kevin. There was a flash in his head and he saw the light. Parking up close to a wall usually made it impossible to leave through the driver's door so he'd begun using the passenger door instead and often he forgot to lock the driver's door behind him.
And yes! After scraping into the tiny gap between the honeysuckled wall and the van, he could just open the door enough to allow him to eclipse the Harvest Moon, and wander back through guilty silence up to bed in the lovely, bygone taverna as though he'd lived there all his life, comfort restored.
Ben opened the shutters of his room there at the back of Marko's house. Sunny and charming and already seven. His eyes sailed over everyday lanes and everyday people. His dreams had been of Greece in a time without tourism and so he was mildly amused, if not bewildered too see it there, just as it was in his dreams.
Some days begin so perfectly you have nothing at all to do but smile. All there is, is the now; in the breeze on your skin, the crunch of your shoes, in the shapes of things you can see and smell. Don't analyse a thing, be a child, be ignorant. Being free is when we forget ourself. It's when you know there's no need to compete, you don't need labels or symbols, you have no ambition and it's just the most natural feeling in the world. You are a part of everything. And anyway, who said we had to justify our existence in the first place?
And this was such a time. Bright yellow and blue, hot, but with shadows for relief and the abstract just easing him away. Closing the front door, he wandered up to the coffee house looking forward to a mountainous helping of yoghurt and honey, or perhaps a full cooked breakfast and a couple of large, steaming cups of coffee to float him on his thoughts. He was a flat stone, skipping and flying and dancing and zinging through space and time. He wandered around the town aimlessly and happy until he bumped into Leon outside the bus station cafe. He was having the first of many coffees. He told Ben he'd left Kevin around eleven the night before, only an hour after Ben had left in a daze. So had Ben left around ten??? To Ben it had seemed much later, like two. He told Leon what had happened and just as he finished, Kevin turned up and so they were able to piece together their memories.
It seemed Ben had returned to The Villa around ten. Kevin and Leon stayed in Theo's. Ben had thought it very late and had begged a bed from Markos. Ben must have turned the music off around eleven thirty. Kevin had returned to the silent street around midnight and slept as usual in The Villa. Then up with the sun, he'd gone off for a walk, had a cooked breakfast and tried to figure out which lady Ben might be boring. So purely by chance, Ben had spent the night in a wondrous, unforgettable, old Greek deserted house and thereby made an unforgettable memory and a new friend in Mister Markos.
Their little gang was growing. Leon, Marian, Kevin and Ben had become friends and tended to make their fun as a group although they were a little disappointed when Leon told them he had to return to Amsterdam in just two days making them promise to meet and keep their arrangements open for maximum joy. As might be expected, they didn't keep to this arrangement and yet always managed to find each other at Myro's kafeneion in the square or in the bus station taverna with its curious window sign, PENT POOMS, although eventually Ben realised a Greek 'P' is our 'R'.
Marian preferred Pent Pooms to the English version.
There was an unusually strong warm wind blowing in from the south which made swimming almost impossible. It wasn't exactly the surge of the waves pushing up at the body making it hard to get down into the sea, it was more the relentless drag of the undertow as the legs tried to stand or stride out over lumpy, jagged rocks; it was rolling stones banging and crashing against elbows and ribs and shins and feet as the body floundered and slipped back up to the beach that made it hard. Reluctantly, Ben postponed further water sports and instead, kept an eye on the sky.
Time stretched, bodies relaxed and their walking pace slowed. Most mental processes were in limbo. Then the reality of reaching that point where finding work had become a nudging necessity. They hadn't showered for over ten days and seemed to be developing a fragrance similar to the familiar odour you usually smell inside an old tent at Glastonbury.
They asked Leon if they might use his shower and as far as he was concerned there was no problem but Kevin reckoned it would be prudent to check with Madame Maria first. She considered, named a price for each and Kevin offered half. She settled for a little more. He was getting into the old bartering malarkey and promised to pay later in the day.
She shrugged, 'You pay your friend.'
They climbed the staircase to his room. Leon had his shower first and Ben was next, but just as he was getting undressed, the whole town was plunged into darkness as another power cut dowsed the lights. These black-outs occurred about once or twice a week and no one admitted as to the why. They were said to compensate for the huge surge in and restaurant and tourist demand but others said it was PASOK, the Greek Panhellenic Socialist Movement, protesting in its way. Anyway, candles were flickering and Kevin lit his Zippo and showers they had each. Drying was no problem, the evening air was warm and soft and a balcony seat was more spontaneous than a towel and anyway, the town was waiting. Just as they were about to leave and Ben was checking his reflection in a mirror, making sure he had rubbed in all of the after sun and not left any of the usual tell-tale blobs on his head, when Kevin put a hand on each of his shoulders and said, 'Hold still Ben, let me part your hair for you. Won't take a second,' and gave a sharp blast onto Ben's dome saying, 'There! All done!'
Expertly coiffured Leon collapsed onto his bed holding his sides and shaking with laughter.
They never did pay Madam Maria and Ben thought it unlikely she ever remembered the bargain. They simply forgot and she didn't remember to ask Leon. Or she did remember and maybe shrugged instead. Or maybe he settled their bill as a friend.
They drifted over to their favourite taverna and sat at a table beneath the shade of the pepper tree entertaining ourselves in teasing any strolling groups of pretty girls with a long, high-pitched, drawn out, Highhhh-yaaa!, as they'd so often seen infantile adults crooning at defenceless babies in prams and which, no doubt, would be completely baffling to any group of respectable young girls out looking for the company of respectable young men.
Leon checked the time and ran off to catch up with Marian, who was exercising, meditating and doodling at the disco. Gentle Marian's self-developing sabbatical had morphed into dance mania and she was loving it while her skinned turned a dark honey hue. Ben liked her madness. She practised yoga for her back problem and had a strange belief in the power of mint incense to avert any bad vibes and to clear the air in preparation for the good. Eventually, Kevin and Ben left the pepper tree and went inside. Most people preferred the inside to gossip or to be close to the tiny smelly toilet, or to pay in private.
Sitting near the door in his check shirt and leather cap was Markos, 'Kalispera Ben. You wannadrink? Whad you wan'? Oh no! I have no more money.'
They sent over a raki to his table and he asked if we were going to Theo's. When they said we were, he looked delighted at the prospect of getting rat-arsed again and said he'd see them there. As they were leaving the sour-faced lady of the bar wished them good night with a radiant smile and it confused them until it dawned on them that the riches of Markos was probably common knowledge.
On the terrace at Theo's sat Pauline excited at finally making satisfactory progress with Mayor George about using the old school as a premises for her play-school. It was just beginning to sound interesting when Markos could be seen down below slowly making his way up the last few steps of the slope towards the entrance.
He plopped down next to Ben and Kevin. He whistled loudly and rudely for Theo who came over in a flash like a personal servant. Again he ordered three beers. When Theo returned with the drinks, Markos offered a Lotto ticket in payment and said it was a sure winner, winking at Ben but keeping his face straight. His belly was prominent, swelling over a big shiny buckled belt. It shook and wobbled whenever he broke into raucous laughter. His hands were plump with fingers like sausages but his grip was like winter. The more drunk he became, the more bawdy he became and his general body language became more lewd and suggestive. From across the bar, Theo discretely caught Ben's eye and shook his fist, landing his embarrassment squarely on Ben's shoulders.
Ben nodded, mouthing 'Sorry'.
Markos set his hat at various tilts and jaunty angles as he eyed two innocent lady tourists completely ignorant of the fact they were the subject of his attacks.
He leaned in, 'You know my frenns, I no like the flat-chested women and if ever I end up with one, I haff to confess it to my priest.'
This man was deeply unpleasant. Ben offered to pay for the bed he gave but he would accept nothing. Ben referred to the loud music coming from The Zorbus but he either didn't remember or pretended not to understand. Ben tried, 'Boom! Boom! Musika!' and for a second the face of Markos darkened.
'Boom! Boom? What Boom-boom?'
'The musika the other night!'
Markos just shrugged and went on making songs and ordering drinks. Once Ben had enjoyed one or two drinks, he liked to wander about the room chatting to fellow visitors, and this is how he came to be deep in conversation with some when he became aware of Markos impatiently shouting his name and whistling in his direction. Ben explained to Pauline how the wife of Markos had died three years earlier and beneath all his noisiness, he seemed rather a sad old man.
'And he should be. His wife just didn't pass away, he shot her in the head because she was constantly nagging him, and he was found innocent on the excuse it was considered, an act of passion. He is one of the richest men in a region of extremely wealthy people.'
Ben was appalled. Astonished. Markos watched them whispering and even if he didn't understand all the words, the talkative Pauline mimed her way through her story with hand signals and two fingers pointing at her temple whenever she mentioned the shooting. Markos got the message.
Kevin came over, 'Markos is really furious at your rudeness and says you're full of wind.' But by then Ben was viewing Markos in a different light, or perhaps shadow, and his comments did not surprise anyone, no doubt intended to dispel any rumours circulating amongst his latest gullibles.
Eventually Markos stood to go. Loudly, wishing everyone a good night, he turned to where Ben was sitting and as he left he shook his open palm shouting, 'Not Ben! Ben Ochi! Not Ben!' wagging a finger then and pointing. Ben was shunned and probably cursed and must have broken a respected rule of Greek etiquette or perhaps Markos was enraged by what he knew to be the subject of their conversation. Kevin was shocked to hear Pauline's story and disappointed their evening ended with them more pissed-off than pissed.
Leon's last day was simple enough, just a pleasant round of farewells for him and several rounds of pleasant drinks to go with them. By mid-afternoon the gang had arrived at the last-but-one-stop, Myro's, where Leon had another couple of drinks. Next to them at the bar stood a jolly holiday couple; an English guy in the loudest purple shirt ever seen and his German girlfriend wearing as little as possible. Without a scintilla of concern, Leon turned to the innocents and said, 'Thank you for bringing your wife to my party', and went off to collect his passport from Madame Maria leaving Marian, Kevin and Ben struggling under the very heavy weight of embarrassment. The girl looked at the man and he looked at her then they turned and looked at Kevin, then Ben, but before it could develop into anything else Marian placed her hand on his, gave her friendly giggle and came to the straight to the point, 'He's Dutch – like me.' And we left, following Leon to Madame Maria's.
But Madame Maria had gone to see her new grandchild in Rethymnon and was not due to return for another couple of hours or at least until well after the connecting airport bus had departed. What to do? Being a little drunk seemed to dilute Leon's anxiety and the others weren't really concerned because at the last resort, Ben would have taken him to Iraklion himself but Bacchus smiled on Leon, and Madame Maria returned early. She gave Leon his passport and the merry dance was over. Leon said he was ver,ver hungary, and the safest thing to do was to bring him back to the Villa for a last supper in Agia Galini.
Climbing into the van, he dropped his passport and Kevin picked it up. 'Here, you might need this', but just before Leon could put it away, Kevin began flicking through the pages until he came to the serious looking portrait of Leon staring aggressively out at whoever was scrutinizing his passport.
Kevin was curious, 'Leon, I realise you are rancid with lust but why the angry expression, old chum?'
'It is because a Dutch passport is expensive. And now I believe when a baby is registered at birth, a passport should be issued free along with a dole card because you have to emigrate to find work. There are no jobs in Holland anymore either,' Leon was serious.
Marian gave him a hug, 'Leon, we will meet up when I get back. I have your number. Don't be down. It's always a little sad when you wave away new friends, people you've met on holiday, just when you are about to return to the humdrum. It's because it only reminds you of your own transience.'
Leon looked completely confused, winced then gave Ben a hug saying, 'Benny, Benny, Ben. How many times can we stand to say goodbye?'
He looked at Kevin, 'Kevin, thank you for teaching me to argue. I didn't know it could be such fun.' And then he was gone.
One thing was clear, they felt a deep affection for the flying Dutchman and knew they would all meet again sometime.
Just before it grew dark they rang him at his home in Amsterdam only to yell down the phone when he answered, 'Highhh-yaaa! See-yaaa!', hanging up before he could speak but the moment they did they fell still and thoughtful in the silence.
One evening, busily entertaining Marian over dinner at The Villa, they heard someone knocking at the door and to their surprise, it was a policeman. 'You can no longer stay in the street. Please, move to the camping.' He was polite and not in the least pushy but they could see he meant business, and anyway he was armed. They simply agreed.
When he had gone, the quizzing began from Marian, 'But why? Who had complained?'
'Was it Stephan with his jokey threat of eviction?'
'Hardly,' said Kevin. 'Because the other Brits he knows would have taken a dim view of such intolerance.'
'Well, was it the neighbours, the villagers and residents?'
'No, unlikely because they're all friendly and like to say hello.'
'Was it the owners of the posh hotels round the corner who maybe took offence at me relieving myself when I was caught short after our heavy drinking session? Oh, excuse me, Marian.'
'Possibly,' said Kevin. 'But much more likely it was the offended Markos getting revenge for being made to look foolish in an English bar by an outsider he had befriended and even accommodated only a couple of nights earlier. Yes. It was Markos. We find him guilty.'
After dinner, they packed away any left overs and taking Marian's advice, parked in an isolated plot behind a wire fence near the local cemetery overlooking the Kolpos Mesaras, the distant lights of Timbaki, Pisidia and the one-time hippy capital of Matala.
'Well, from here must be the best view in town,' said Kevin nodding in the direction of the tombstones. Matala was mentioned by poetic folk singer and composer and guitar genius Joni Mitchell in her seventies song, Carey.
'Oh, Carey get out your cane, I'll put on my finest silver, go to the Mermaid cafe have fun tonight.'
In fact, the last time they were in Crete, Kevin and Ben had made a pilgrimage down to Matala and scoured the village searching for any sign of the Mermaid Cafe of the song. But there was no sign of it anywhere and they searched high and low. Had they missed it? Surely, their Joni wouldn't make it up? Or would she? They were severely disappointed in her and felt not a little conned, even vowing to write to her and complain. But eventually they simply caved in and surrendered to the heat. A shady old kafeneion beckoned from the edge of Matala village square and it was there they flopped beneath the canopy in a gentle daze. The beer didn't stand a chance and just as Kevin was draining the last of his bottle, head tilted back for the dregs when he began jabbing at the air, pointing in the direction of the super-market across the way, speechless. Above the new glitzy sign over the entrance they could just make out some faded wording barely legible beneath the latest paint job. It read, The Mermaid.
They cheered, ordered another round and raised their glasses to Ms. Mitchell as they sat and sipped and grinned at the fading Mermaid sign across the square. They should have known Joni wouldn't let them down.
Leon was home and they were too. After Marian went off to dance for a few days, or whatever she was doing, Kevin and Ben spent a little time one day making The Villa happy cleaning windows and wipers, shaking carpets and scrubbing themselves clean while listening to Van Morrison and Phoebe Snow before heading back into town for a little relaxation.
That evening they began chatting to the jolly holiday chap in the loud purple shirt. It transpired his name was Steve Broughton and he had a twelve-piece band in London. There was an elder brother called Edgar and the name jingled something in Kevin's memory. Edgar Broughton had been quite a celebrity and achieved a certain amount of national credibility some years earlier as an offbeat musician.
During the chitchat, Steve mentioned the band originally were from Leamington in the West Midlands. At this Kevin mentioned their good friend Charlie who was from that neck of the woods although he'd been living in living in Darwin, northern Australia for the past dozen years. Charlie had mentioned how he used to play maracas in the Edgar Broughton band but, of course, no one had believed him. The Steve bloke gasped and slapped his forehead. 'During my school days my best friend had been a Charlie Butler but I lost touch with him at least twenty-five years ago.'
In between the wow-ing and the gosh-ing Steve said, 'Charlie's sister did tell me Charlie was in Australia but she wasn't sure where.' At this Ben promised Steve to get him Charlie's address before he and his girlfriend left for Britain next day. And the drinks continued to flow amid flights of nostalgia concerning Steve and Charlie, and Kevin and Ben and Charlie, only to be interrupted with barks of startled surprise once it hit home they had this mutual friend.
And there was more to tell. Ben and Kevin had each been best man for Charlie but at separate weddings. Kevin had done the honours at Charlie's second marriage which was assumed to be more a marriage of convenience because it allowed him an Australian passport and Wendy, his bride, an English one. Sadly, the crunch came when they returned to Australia and she went her way and Charlie went his, only for him to realise he had fallen in love with her but she hadn't fallen in love with him – and such is life.