...into The Idiot & The Oddity...
The evening was soft and blue. From darkening waves and exotic echoes, the valley shadows dreamed. Over on the massif itself, the scattering of occasional lights and the tinkling of distant goat-bells filled the evening with a deep contentment.
I stood at the doorway to the mayor's house and inhaled the living air. Not twenty paces in front of me, unaware I was there, a teenage girl stood crooning counterpoint to the chime of the basilica bells. When the music ended, she lifted her face, inhaled, and closed her eyes. To her spontaneous applause the sun bowed and made a graceful exit from the stage. The day was gone. In one smooth caress, she ran her fingers through her waist-length hair, right down her back and into the pockets of her jeans. One solitary star sent a tender twinkle of hope.
I don't know if it was the reflections in the sea, or the lights from passing ships, or maybe the peaceful scattering of tables and chairs in the street, or the girl, or the mountains, the bells, or all of it all together, but that was the evening Sophi stood before me, showed me her face and stole me away.
The mayor's kitchen was modest and smelled of cheese and fruit. Manolis met me on the step and showed me inside. "The women are in the yard, talking. Please, have some water." He wore a wide-brimmed straw hat and his straw slippers. Around his waist he wrapped a thick woollen scarf to comfort his kidneys and hold up his trousers. "Excuse me, Mr. Godfrey. Come. I have something to show you." Grinning, he lifted a finger for emphasis, then rifled a drawer beneath the window at the back until he produced a photograph of himself with a priest. "That was taken by English Staff Sergeant in the war. He became my great friend. Together we lay side by side in the roads of Athens and fired our pistols at the Nazis. He came back to Stephanos after the war and asked me to return to England with him. He was my brother." In a croaky feeble voice he began to sing something in English and although I couldn't make out what it was, his sadness was almost overwhelming. He held my arm. "I will never forget." Then he was away again, unveiling his possessions and finding little faded photographs everywhere. He was proud to show his lifetime souvenirs. They fell from books, wallets, tin boxes and jacket pockets. He gave me a tour of the photos he'd stuck on the walls in his kitchen. Some showed Maria with politicians and officers but most were old sepia tints of her with armed carpenters and farmers, moustached heroes from the mountains and valleys of occupied Crete. "Yes, it was a war. She was in resistance."
My aunt must have heard us. "Godfrey, come here for a moment. Guess what, I'm beginning to look forward to Saturday afternoon. I think you'll enjoy it and between you and me, it'll be our chance to say goodbye to village friends. After that I'll be off to the Hora for a few days. Anyway, don't let Manolis keep you. Go and explore a bit more. You can't get lost. Just don't forget where you live! The key's under the right hand flower pot if you want to lock your door when Alexis is not here. I'm going to play cards with Maria and the sisters of Manolis now. I hope they play for money." The woman was not giving in.
Apart from the clang of goat bells, the lowing of cattle and the barking of a distant argument, the Sophian dusk is still. Its sky is orange fading into purple night. The widest path snakes through the village before it loses interest, narrows and fades into sand. Moths dance around the lone light bulb. Bats swoop and dive. Cicadas play maracas. Dogs and children howl in the dark. Villagers sit and chatter in the lengthening shadows. They tilt their heads and smile in my direction. I stroll, accepted, mesmerised by the silence and the fragrance and the crunch beneath my feet, enchanted by the panoramic visions of the far-flung islets floating above the utterly violet sea in crystal clear illusion.
At the turning area in the light from an old van and a bulb in a shed, fifteen or so fishermen are concentrating hard, straightening coloured nets or winding spiky lines around their baskets with bare hands. I see a cafe table and sit down. There's a jacket on another chair and the table is scattered with hooks, some twine and a knife. Across the way, a grey Tom begs for food, as it should. Fishermen on a mountaintop? Who would believe it? The men see me sitting there and carry on working. I close my eyes for a moment in the perfect diamond peace. There's a rumble coming closer and when I look up, I see an approaching tractor. It can't get past my table so I stand, lift the table back a few feet. The driver touches his forehead, and continues. One of the fishermen comes to the table, excuses the mess, and puts down a glass of water and says, "For you. On the house." He bows, they laugh and he goes back to work.
Along the road out of town, I climb for about half an hour to where the bulldozers had scraped out the old rock to make the new road, and from there look back at the lights of Sophi - a tender pattern of sparks with gaps where mountain homes had been. But what a darkness there would be if all the lights went out.
The Idiot & The Oddity
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...reading is a wonderful way to travel...
...reading is a wonderful way to travel...
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