you want to drink?’ she said, this time more politely.
‘Coffee please, with sugar,’ he answered, his accent revealing that he was from Athens, not from Crete.
‘So what business did you have at Maria Makrakis’ house?’ she asked bluntly.
‘Maria Makrakis?’
‘Yes, the woman who lived in that house.’
‘I don’t know a Maria Makrakis,’ he replied. ‘My sister lived there. Her name was Sofia Taraviras.’
‘Sofia Taraviras . . .’ the woman repeated, puzzled. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Look,’ he said firmly, producing the prayer book from his pocket. He carefully opened the cover and showed the inscription. ‘Sofia Taraviras. I found it in the house. That was what I came for. It was my sister’s.’
He handed it to Despina, who stared at the pale handwriting on the page.
‘But the woman who lived in that house was called Maria Makrakis.’
‘Well, she may have called herself by that name, but she was born Sofia Taraviras and this was given to her at her baptism.’
Despina closed the small leather-bound book, well worn with age and use, its pages as fragile as butterfly wings.
‘Let’s go and sit down,’ suggested the elderly man. ‘It sounds as though there was a misunderstanding.’
Despina felt herself go pale. Maria Makrakis had lived in that house for longer than she could remember. In fact she had lived there before Despina was even born and her parents had always warned her against going too close. She had not questioned her parents. Children never did in those days.
‘All I can tell you is this. Before I was even born, my older sister Sofia brought disgrace on the family and was despatched from Athens.’
The man paused to take a sip of his coffee.
‘At the age of sixteen she had a child and my father sent her away. As far away as possible. To Crete.’
‘But the woman in that house had always lived there. As long as anyone could remember. We were told she was a witch,’ Despina said quietly. ‘We were told not to go near her. And we never did. In fact I don’t think I ever heard her voice.’
‘Well she wasn’t a witch,’ said the stranger firmly. ‘She was just a woman who had made a single mistake. She paid a high price for it, I think.’
Despina looked thoughtful. ‘So why are you here now?’
‘I only found out about her a few months ago when this came.’ He produced the key from his pocket. ‘It came from the priest. He was the only person who knew her story. She had told him everything, but being the priest he presumably never saw fit to share her secrets with the village. He had found the address of the family home. Look, it’s written here.’
He turned the first page of the prayer book and there, on the reverse of the inscription from Sofia’s godfather, was an address. It was written rather proprietorially in neat schoolgirl script. An Athens address.
Despina listened in silence.
‘There was some aunt of my father’s who had lived here in this village and so this was where she was sent,’ the man continued.
For her entire lifetime, Despina, like everyone else of her generation, had ostracised this woman without questioning why and now she felt the force of this community’s shame. This ‘Maria’, this ‘Sofia’, had been forgiven by God, but never by His people. They had never even given her a chance.
Soon after, Sofia’s brother left in the taxi. All he took was the precious prayer book. It was the only thing he had come for and he could feel its warmth in his pocket.
Early the next evening, as light faded, even the men who rarely stirred from the kafenion went to say prayers for the woman who had died alone. Whatever the old woman had done in her past, tonight it was they who needed absolution.
Autumn was a time of new beginnings here, not a time of melancholy endings, and the following day, Despina went in to Sofia’s house. The shutters were thrown open and the light flooded in.
The Pine Tree
S NOW FELL, DEEPLY ,
‘Coffee please, with sugar,’ he answered, his accent revealing that he was from Athens, not from Crete.
‘So what business did you have at Maria Makrakis’ house?’ she asked bluntly.
‘Maria Makrakis?’
‘Yes, the woman who lived in that house.’
‘I don’t know a Maria Makrakis,’ he replied. ‘My sister lived there. Her name was Sofia Taraviras.’
‘Sofia Taraviras . . .’ the woman repeated, puzzled. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Look,’ he said firmly, producing the prayer book from his pocket. He carefully opened the cover and showed the inscription. ‘Sofia Taraviras. I found it in the house. That was what I came for. It was my sister’s.’
He handed it to Despina, who stared at the pale handwriting on the page.
‘But the woman who lived in that house was called Maria Makrakis.’
‘Well, she may have called herself by that name, but she was born Sofia Taraviras and this was given to her at her baptism.’
Despina closed the small leather-bound book, well worn with age and use, its pages as fragile as butterfly wings.
‘Let’s go and sit down,’ suggested the elderly man. ‘It sounds as though there was a misunderstanding.’
Despina felt herself go pale. Maria Makrakis had lived in that house for longer than she could remember. In fact she had lived there before Despina was even born and her parents had always warned her against going too close. She had not questioned her parents. Children never did in those days.
‘All I can tell you is this. Before I was even born, my older sister Sofia brought disgrace on the family and was despatched from Athens.’
The man paused to take a sip of his coffee.
‘At the age of sixteen she had a child and my father sent her away. As far away as possible. To Crete.’
‘But the woman in that house had always lived there. As long as anyone could remember. We were told she was a witch,’ Despina said quietly. ‘We were told not to go near her. And we never did. In fact I don’t think I ever heard her voice.’
‘Well she wasn’t a witch,’ said the stranger firmly. ‘She was just a woman who had made a single mistake. She paid a high price for it, I think.’
Despina looked thoughtful. ‘So why are you here now?’
‘I only found out about her a few months ago when this came.’ He produced the key from his pocket. ‘It came from the priest. He was the only person who knew her story. She had told him everything, but being the priest he presumably never saw fit to share her secrets with the village. He had found the address of the family home. Look, it’s written here.’
He turned the first page of the prayer book and there, on the reverse of the inscription from Sofia’s godfather, was an address. It was written rather proprietorially in neat schoolgirl script. An Athens address.
Despina listened in silence.
‘There was some aunt of my father’s who had lived here in this village and so this was where she was sent,’ the man continued.
For her entire lifetime, Despina, like everyone else of her generation, had ostracised this woman without questioning why and now she felt the force of this community’s shame. This ‘Maria’, this ‘Sofia’, had been forgiven by God, but never by His people. They had never even given her a chance.
Soon after, Sofia’s brother left in the taxi. All he took was the precious prayer book. It was the only thing he had come for and he could feel its warmth in his pocket.
Early the next evening, as light faded, even the men who rarely stirred from the kafenion went to say prayers for the woman who had died alone. Whatever the old woman had done in her past, tonight it was they who needed absolution.
Autumn was a time of new beginnings here, not a time of melancholy endings, and the following day, Despina went in to Sofia’s house. The shutters were thrown open and the light flooded in.
The Pine Tree
S NOW FELL, DEEPLY ,
Similar Books
