who owned the kafenion, Despina, came out to the front of the café and leaned against the doorway. She had heard the taxi and assumed it meant business. Clearly its passenger was not yet going to come her way. The old men shrugged and Despina retreated into the bar. Perhaps he would return later.
A thin stray of a dog had stirred as the man passed and now got up to follow him. The animal’s emaciated condition made him little threat and after a hundred yards or so the man dropped the stone that he had picked up to scare away this wasted mongrel.
Walking purposefully down to the end of the street, his fingers pressed against the smooth, cool contours of a key.
One of the old men looked up from the backgammon board.
‘Maria,’ he said quietly to the others. ‘Maria Makrakis.’
There was a muttering among them.
The man was aware of being observed and could feel the eyes of the village’s residents upon him, but he did not turn. He needed to find something and only then would he return to speak to them. The two-roomed house was at the end of the street and the door, once painted deep blue, was now back to the bare wood with only the odd patch of its original colour.
His hand sweated a little as he grasped the key. Now he was turning it in the lock, marvelling at the way this door, even after ten years or more without use, still opened. The mechanism seemed miraculously to clunk and turn and soon he was pushing open the door to be enveloped by the smell of the past.
In the gloaming he struggled to see his way across the room and flicked a cigarette lighter to guide his way. The shadows of a room untouched by time leaped about him and his memories were stirred to life by the shapes of a table, chairs and even the icons on the walls, though curiously he had never been inside this house.
The truth was that nobody at all had been inside this home for the decade since its owner had passed away. There had been no one to tidy her things, to air the room upstairs or to fold away the sheets that still lay askew across the bed. Though devout, she had been despised and unloved, her spinster statemaking her an object of suspicion and derision. She had not grown up in the village and though she had lived there for nearly fifty years had always been regarded as a newcomer. This was how it had been in those days. No one could recall her having any visitors, or any friends; she was the outsider and the island’s famous hospitality had not even once been extended to her. The place smelled of abandonment and dust.
The man had been watched entering the house but no one stirred. They did not feel protective towards it. Their concern was no greater than it had been for the woman who had lived there, who had existed in the shadow of rumours that she could never dispel.
The men were whispering among themselves and the women too, though the two groups still kept their distance.
‘What’s he in there for?’ they asked each other. ‘How did he get a key?’
By now the stranger had looked in the bedside cabinet and underneath the bed itself and was going through every drawer in a small chest in the corner of the downstairs room. They were all empty except for the last, which contained a small prayer book. Opening the cover, he held up the small flame to read the inscription:
‘To Sofia Taraviras with love’
It was what he had been looking for.
He slipped the book into his pocket and emerged once again into the gloom of the street, carefully locking the door behind him.
Now he approached the kafenion and nodded his greeting.None of the men smiled. No one spoke. Despina was waiting for him. The man was much older than he had at first appeared. The dusky light had obscured the silver greyness of his hair and the deep lines on his face. He was no younger than the men who sat outside, but he was a city type, a businessman, obviously wealthy.
‘What do you want?’ she said. The brusqueness of the question surprised him.
‘What do
A thin stray of a dog had stirred as the man passed and now got up to follow him. The animal’s emaciated condition made him little threat and after a hundred yards or so the man dropped the stone that he had picked up to scare away this wasted mongrel.
Walking purposefully down to the end of the street, his fingers pressed against the smooth, cool contours of a key.
One of the old men looked up from the backgammon board.
‘Maria,’ he said quietly to the others. ‘Maria Makrakis.’
There was a muttering among them.
The man was aware of being observed and could feel the eyes of the village’s residents upon him, but he did not turn. He needed to find something and only then would he return to speak to them. The two-roomed house was at the end of the street and the door, once painted deep blue, was now back to the bare wood with only the odd patch of its original colour.
His hand sweated a little as he grasped the key. Now he was turning it in the lock, marvelling at the way this door, even after ten years or more without use, still opened. The mechanism seemed miraculously to clunk and turn and soon he was pushing open the door to be enveloped by the smell of the past.
In the gloaming he struggled to see his way across the room and flicked a cigarette lighter to guide his way. The shadows of a room untouched by time leaped about him and his memories were stirred to life by the shapes of a table, chairs and even the icons on the walls, though curiously he had never been inside this house.
The truth was that nobody at all had been inside this home for the decade since its owner had passed away. There had been no one to tidy her things, to air the room upstairs or to fold away the sheets that still lay askew across the bed. Though devout, she had been despised and unloved, her spinster statemaking her an object of suspicion and derision. She had not grown up in the village and though she had lived there for nearly fifty years had always been regarded as a newcomer. This was how it had been in those days. No one could recall her having any visitors, or any friends; she was the outsider and the island’s famous hospitality had not even once been extended to her. The place smelled of abandonment and dust.
The man had been watched entering the house but no one stirred. They did not feel protective towards it. Their concern was no greater than it had been for the woman who had lived there, who had existed in the shadow of rumours that she could never dispel.
The men were whispering among themselves and the women too, though the two groups still kept their distance.
‘What’s he in there for?’ they asked each other. ‘How did he get a key?’
By now the stranger had looked in the bedside cabinet and underneath the bed itself and was going through every drawer in a small chest in the corner of the downstairs room. They were all empty except for the last, which contained a small prayer book. Opening the cover, he held up the small flame to read the inscription:
‘To Sofia Taraviras with love’
It was what he had been looking for.
He slipped the book into his pocket and emerged once again into the gloom of the street, carefully locking the door behind him.
Now he approached the kafenion and nodded his greeting.None of the men smiled. No one spoke. Despina was waiting for him. The man was much older than he had at first appeared. The dusky light had obscured the silver greyness of his hair and the deep lines on his face. He was no younger than the men who sat outside, but he was a city type, a businessman, obviously wealthy.
‘What do you want?’ she said. The brusqueness of the question surprised him.
‘What do
Similar Books
