were inaudible.
Mavros finished his coffee and headed for the door after paying. Putting on his sunglasses, he took in the harbour scene. The boats were bobbing jauntily in front of the beacon, the imposing bulk of Paros in the background. The scene was enough to raise the spirits even of a committed city-dweller. Then he saw a group of old men gathered in the shade of an awning. Their heads were down and their limbs loose. Mavros dismissed the faint feeling of guilt that eavesdropping always gave him and sauntered past them, one ear cocked.
‘Eh, Manoli?’ one was saying. ‘What was your grandson doing down at the end of the island?’
The man who’d been addressed was silent. As he turned slowly towards his interlocutor, Mavros saw that he had lost an arm. The stump was protruding from his short-sleeved shirt. There were plenty like him on the islands, fishermen who’d resorted to dynamite in the famine years before and after the Second World War.
‘How would I know?’ he replied in a gruff voice. ‘Yiangos could handle the trata , you all know that. What happened to him? Maybe the
gorgona
took him.’ According to the folk tales, encountering the mermaid could be fatal. The old man fixed his companion with a rheumy eye. ‘Or maybe your granddaughter took his mind off the job.’
Mavros walked past the old men towards the start of the main street, his ears ringing with the voices that had been cracked by years in the salt sea air or on the dusty fields. They were complaining, struggling against the bitter fate that had taken the young people from them, but they were not giving in to it. He was struck by their stoicism.
He headed up the narrow road past a small supermarket’s wasp-infested fruit display. There were tourist shops on both sides but their doors were closed. Anyone who wanted to buy garish pots and miniature Cycladic houses was out of luck, the storekeepers presumably involved with the preparations for the funerals or showing their respect. Moving up the slope towards the centre of the village, Mavros took in the atmosphere. If he hadn’t known about the tragedy, he’d have found the island’s tiny capital a serene and restful place. The road was paved with irregular stones, the mortar between them picked out with
asvesti
, white lime. There were few people around, the houses with their blue wooden balconies and shutters as quiet as if they’d been deserted. There was a slightly high smell about the place, the aroma of hibiscus and other plants cut with sewage gas from the cesspits.
Halfway up the street he came to an open space on his left. Behind a dusty yard surrounded by acacias and pines stood the wide single storey of the island’s primary school, a few brightly coloured swings to one side. Through the open windows Mavros could make out the avid faces of small children, eyes fixed on their teachers. He wouldn’t have volunteered to go in front of a class today and keep the youngsters’ minds off what had happened.
As he passed, a two-metre-high white marble column caught his eye. There were a couple of faded wreaths at the base and he stopped to take a closer look over the wall of the school yard. The tapering stone shaft was square and names had been inscribed on the lower part of the front face, beneath a carved olive branch and the years 1940-44. Several of the surnames were repeated—Glinos, Roussopoulos, Matsos. They were obviously some of the island’s main families.
And then he noticed something else. The lowest name on the memorial had been erased, the marble roughly chipped away. But the strange thing was that an attempt had been made to reapply the letters with black paint. The surface of the stone had been scrubbed, recently by the rough look of the marks from a wire brush, but a few of the letters were still visible. Mavros thought he could make out a capital ‘T’ and, farther to the right, a ‘Z’. He gave up trying to decipher the writing where a surname would
Mavros finished his coffee and headed for the door after paying. Putting on his sunglasses, he took in the harbour scene. The boats were bobbing jauntily in front of the beacon, the imposing bulk of Paros in the background. The scene was enough to raise the spirits even of a committed city-dweller. Then he saw a group of old men gathered in the shade of an awning. Their heads were down and their limbs loose. Mavros dismissed the faint feeling of guilt that eavesdropping always gave him and sauntered past them, one ear cocked.
‘Eh, Manoli?’ one was saying. ‘What was your grandson doing down at the end of the island?’
The man who’d been addressed was silent. As he turned slowly towards his interlocutor, Mavros saw that he had lost an arm. The stump was protruding from his short-sleeved shirt. There were plenty like him on the islands, fishermen who’d resorted to dynamite in the famine years before and after the Second World War.
‘How would I know?’ he replied in a gruff voice. ‘Yiangos could handle the trata , you all know that. What happened to him? Maybe the
gorgona
took him.’ According to the folk tales, encountering the mermaid could be fatal. The old man fixed his companion with a rheumy eye. ‘Or maybe your granddaughter took his mind off the job.’
Mavros walked past the old men towards the start of the main street, his ears ringing with the voices that had been cracked by years in the salt sea air or on the dusty fields. They were complaining, struggling against the bitter fate that had taken the young people from them, but they were not giving in to it. He was struck by their stoicism.
He headed up the narrow road past a small supermarket’s wasp-infested fruit display. There were tourist shops on both sides but their doors were closed. Anyone who wanted to buy garish pots and miniature Cycladic houses was out of luck, the storekeepers presumably involved with the preparations for the funerals or showing their respect. Moving up the slope towards the centre of the village, Mavros took in the atmosphere. If he hadn’t known about the tragedy, he’d have found the island’s tiny capital a serene and restful place. The road was paved with irregular stones, the mortar between them picked out with
asvesti
, white lime. There were few people around, the houses with their blue wooden balconies and shutters as quiet as if they’d been deserted. There was a slightly high smell about the place, the aroma of hibiscus and other plants cut with sewage gas from the cesspits.
Halfway up the street he came to an open space on his left. Behind a dusty yard surrounded by acacias and pines stood the wide single storey of the island’s primary school, a few brightly coloured swings to one side. Through the open windows Mavros could make out the avid faces of small children, eyes fixed on their teachers. He wouldn’t have volunteered to go in front of a class today and keep the youngsters’ minds off what had happened.
As he passed, a two-metre-high white marble column caught his eye. There were a couple of faded wreaths at the base and he stopped to take a closer look over the wall of the school yard. The tapering stone shaft was square and names had been inscribed on the lower part of the front face, beneath a carved olive branch and the years 1940-44. Several of the surnames were repeated—Glinos, Roussopoulos, Matsos. They were obviously some of the island’s main families.
And then he noticed something else. The lowest name on the memorial had been erased, the marble roughly chipped away. But the strange thing was that an attempt had been made to reapply the letters with black paint. The surface of the stone had been scrubbed, recently by the rough look of the marks from a wire brush, but a few of the letters were still visible. Mavros thought he could make out a capital ‘T’ and, farther to the right, a ‘Z’. He gave up trying to decipher the writing where a surname would
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