One Cretan Evening
T HE TOURIST INVASION was over now. The shop that made its living through sales of pink lilos and cheap bikinis from Taiwan was now shut until spring, its windows firmly boarded up. Roadside tables now groaned beneath mountains of grapes, and olives steadily ripened, ready for harvesting in December. The passing of summer brought new fruits, welcome rain and, for local people, this was the loveliest of seasons. They were alone again and the clear, sweet air allowed them to breathe.
The real machinery of this Cretan village continued to run well beyond the departure of the foreigners. The zacharo-plasteion still baked its daily quantities of sweet pastries and the best of the tavernas remained open even though the owners of the others had now gone to their winter homes. The priest conducted his services in the tiny chapel on the water’s edge.
Life resumed its quiet, ordered ways. Widows in black dresses, their fabric as densely ebony as the day they had begun to mourn, sat on their doorsteps, away from the men, who entertained themselves with backgammon. Dice gently tick-tacked against the side of the board as the players whiledaway the hours, moving counters from one triangular space to the next. Counters clicked together in conversation, more talkative than the men themselves.
Their knowledge of each other’s lives went so far back into earliest memory that these septuagenarians had little to say to one another. They almost breathed in unison. They would discuss some piece of local news, perhaps the election of a new deputy mayor or a birth or death, but the wider events of the world at large, a crisis in the money markets or an earthquake in Peru, did not touch them even for a moment. Their universe was this small seaside village, this square, the same one where their fathers and grandfathers had sat before them.
Only the elderly lived here now. Most young people had long since deserted, escaping to the bright lights of the island’s capital or Athens and only returning with the tourists for a week or two during August to remind themselves of where their ancestors had once lived.
Even now, with night falling, the men carried on playing and drinking their raki. There was a stillness in this moment. All day long, shadows of trees had danced against the pale faded walls and now the curtain had been drawn across their stage. Afternoon became night, as though a candle had been snuffed.
For the men outside the kafenion the transition of daytime into night went unnoticed. The tossing of dice, the refilling of small tumblers of the clear, syrupy fire water, the silent communication between them continued as before. Light or dark. It was all the same to them.
In spite of its almost noiseless arrival they were all immediately aware of the arrival of the taxi. For a moment their game of tavli ceased and they turned to stare as it passed.More lovingly cared for than a millionaire’s limousine, the vehicle’s polished chrome wing mirrors reflected the gleam of the dim street lamps.
It was not a number plate they recognised. All the drivers from the nearest big town were known to them, but this one was from further afield, from Heraklion.
When it drew up further down the street, they watched as the door of the passenger seat opened and a man got out. He was incongruously dressed, as though for a funeral or wedding, a slim figure in a dark suit, and they could just make out the neat shape of his hair. More than that, they could not see. He was a figure in silhouette.
After summer, the arrival of a stranger was relatively rare. In July and August, tourists came and went leaving behind them their money and, less desirably, their carelessly discarded rubbish. Now, only the very occasional outsider appeared, wanting to experience some of the island’s legendary hospitality. By coming out of season they hoped to be welcomed in for raki, to be offered new olives and even invited to play backgammon.
The woman
T HE TOURIST INVASION was over now. The shop that made its living through sales of pink lilos and cheap bikinis from Taiwan was now shut until spring, its windows firmly boarded up. Roadside tables now groaned beneath mountains of grapes, and olives steadily ripened, ready for harvesting in December. The passing of summer brought new fruits, welcome rain and, for local people, this was the loveliest of seasons. They were alone again and the clear, sweet air allowed them to breathe.
The real machinery of this Cretan village continued to run well beyond the departure of the foreigners. The zacharo-plasteion still baked its daily quantities of sweet pastries and the best of the tavernas remained open even though the owners of the others had now gone to their winter homes. The priest conducted his services in the tiny chapel on the water’s edge.
Life resumed its quiet, ordered ways. Widows in black dresses, their fabric as densely ebony as the day they had begun to mourn, sat on their doorsteps, away from the men, who entertained themselves with backgammon. Dice gently tick-tacked against the side of the board as the players whiledaway the hours, moving counters from one triangular space to the next. Counters clicked together in conversation, more talkative than the men themselves.
Their knowledge of each other’s lives went so far back into earliest memory that these septuagenarians had little to say to one another. They almost breathed in unison. They would discuss some piece of local news, perhaps the election of a new deputy mayor or a birth or death, but the wider events of the world at large, a crisis in the money markets or an earthquake in Peru, did not touch them even for a moment. Their universe was this small seaside village, this square, the same one where their fathers and grandfathers had sat before them.
Only the elderly lived here now. Most young people had long since deserted, escaping to the bright lights of the island’s capital or Athens and only returning with the tourists for a week or two during August to remind themselves of where their ancestors had once lived.
Even now, with night falling, the men carried on playing and drinking their raki. There was a stillness in this moment. All day long, shadows of trees had danced against the pale faded walls and now the curtain had been drawn across their stage. Afternoon became night, as though a candle had been snuffed.
For the men outside the kafenion the transition of daytime into night went unnoticed. The tossing of dice, the refilling of small tumblers of the clear, syrupy fire water, the silent communication between them continued as before. Light or dark. It was all the same to them.
In spite of its almost noiseless arrival they were all immediately aware of the arrival of the taxi. For a moment their game of tavli ceased and they turned to stare as it passed.More lovingly cared for than a millionaire’s limousine, the vehicle’s polished chrome wing mirrors reflected the gleam of the dim street lamps.
It was not a number plate they recognised. All the drivers from the nearest big town were known to them, but this one was from further afield, from Heraklion.
When it drew up further down the street, they watched as the door of the passenger seat opened and a man got out. He was incongruously dressed, as though for a funeral or wedding, a slim figure in a dark suit, and they could just make out the neat shape of his hair. More than that, they could not see. He was a figure in silhouette.
After summer, the arrival of a stranger was relatively rare. In July and August, tourists came and went leaving behind them their money and, less desirably, their carelessly discarded rubbish. Now, only the very occasional outsider appeared, wanting to experience some of the island’s legendary hospitality. By coming out of season they hoped to be welcomed in for raki, to be offered new olives and even invited to play backgammon.
The woman
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