Briony points up at a St. George’s cross, made entirely of red and white carnations. "Oh my, they have gone to a lot of trouble. What a scene!"
The alley is crowded, and people are merry. Men let their little ones sit on their shoulders, and women laugh merrily, white teeth gleaming in generous mouths.
As we reach the village square, we find a large animal roasting over a spit and a five man ensemble playing a jaunty tune on a low, make-shift stage. A barrel-chested man, no taller than myself, is pouring out a song in a rich barritone, all the while tapping his feet on the wooden planks in rhythm to the music. Small groups or couples are dancing before him, black curls and colorful scarves swirling through the air.
It has grown cooler already. As I turn my body to look around, I catch sight of Laria and Nikolas not far off, talking to Paul and Rosie. Paul looms large, a protective presence as Rosie peers unblinkingly into the distance. He is holding her hand, but she doesn’t seem to notice. How hard it must be for him, and for her, if she is at all aware.
"Briony," I gesture at the group, "should we say hello?"
"Yes! Jeffrey, Daniel." She tugs at her husband’s sleeve. "We’ve found our friends. Let’s go over to them."
Jeffrey perks up ever so slightly. Probably he anticipates an opportunity to talk to Paul about the museum or some such matter. Oh well, whatever makes him smile this evening will do. Like his friend, Daniel also gravitates toward the tall Dutchman, who breaks into a toothy welcoming smile.
Laria, facing us, breaks into a smile and waves her hand. "You’ve found us! We were wondering whether we would be able to pick you out in this throng. There are more people this year than any other I can remember. Are you enjoying yourselves?"
Laria is in better spirits than the last time we met. Nikolas has lost the tightness in his features and chats amiably, breaking off occasionally to accept a kiss or an embrace from a neighbor or friend, who recognizes him in the crowd. He proves to be a popular man and a wellrespected doctor. At one point, an older woman tugs at his sleeve and gives him a creased smile, whispering some words in a raspy voice and disappearing after he gently pats her hand and whispers something back.
"Nikolas saved her grandson’s life years ago." Laria explains, more bemused than impressed, leading me to believe this story has been told many a time. "The boy had climbed onto a set of shelves to reach a jar of honey when the whole set fell on him. He might have been killed, but Nikolas was next door with a patient and was able to save him. The woman, Ilia, she always thanks Nik, every time she meets him." Laria points at a boy of about eight or nine. "There is the grandson. Hale and healthy!"
"What incredible luck to have a doctor so close by," I say, and Nikolas nods bashfully.
"It was a coincidence. I did what I could. He will always have a bit of a limp, but—"
"But he is alive." Laria squeezes his arm. He looks at her, and in that moment I see forgiveness. His rough face relaxes, and his mouth widens into a grin.
"He is alive."
"Why don’t the two of you have a dance," Briony suggests, gesturing at the growing mass of people hopping and swaying to the wild rhythm of the music. "If I can tear my husband away from Paul for a moment, we shall join you."
Nikolas gives his wife an uncertain glance. She ignores it and pulls him away into the crowd. I follow them with my eyes, hoping he also understands that she is trying. Still, one must consider, forgiveness is one matter, forgetfulness another entirely.
I turn around again, and find myself beside Dymas, almost unrecognizeable in a loose cotton shirt and casual trousers.
"Miss Carlisle, how nice to meet you here. How are you enjoying Cretan hospitality?" He pushes a dark curl behind his ear and plants his hands on his hips.
"It’s wonderful. I had not expected so many people …" I wave my hand in a sweeping gesture, "and the music and the dancing."
"Would you care for a dance?" He asks without preamble, and I answer without hesitation.
"Certainly. Though I must warn you. Slightly below my atrocious embroidery skills are my abilities as a dancer. If you value your feet, you can beg off."
He laughs, an open-mouthed laugh showing his white teeth to advantage. "I am a policeman, risk and danger are no obstacles for me."
"In that case, lead the way."
He takes my hand, dainty in his bear-paw and pulls me into a gap in front of the stage. The dance is energetic and follows no set of rules where feet ought to be placed, which works to my advantage. Dymas doesn’t even wince when I accidentally kick his shin on a lofty turn or when I step on his right foot as I am jostled forward by an even more excited dancer behind me.
It is nice to be here. Nice to be spinning, the energy and joy from the strangers pulsing around me. I sense color coming into my cheeks, the muscles in my legs springing and straining. It is nice to be alive.
Dymas is an excellent dancer. Despite his height and broad shoulders, his movements possess surprising grace as he whirls across the floor, never stepping on my feet, nor bumping into the people around us. Even Briony and Jeffery are dancing, her blond head bobbing, curls boucing. Jeffrey appears less enthusiatic, but not miserable, which is something.
I crane my head to search for Daniel and meet his eyes as he stands on the fringe of the crowd. His arms are folded across his chest, his face sternly impassive. Surely he cannot be
jealous?
No, surely not.
Dymas twirls me around again to face him, and Daniel’s woes are pushed away. Tonight is meant for laughter, dancing, and cheerful company. The musicians break, and the song ends, the singer accepting cheerful applause and a goblet of wine to moisten his throat. Dymas leads me back to the others. Laria and Briony and their husbands are flushed as they congregate near Paul, Rosie, and Daniel.
"Ah, inspector, fancy seeing you here!" Briony has a question written on her face. I shrug ever so slightly, the universal sign to ward off judgement or curiosity.
As everyone begins to chat about this and that—the smells, the sights the sounds—my eyes dart over to Daniel. He is regarding Dymas with something akin to dislike, quite unwarranted as far as I can tell. But then,
men will be men,
Aunt Agnes would say. Greater wisdom was rarely spoken.
"Look, Darius has come." Briony’s eyes widen.
"He has not been proven guilty of anything," Jeffrey comments sternly. "I would advise everyone to remember that." His point made, he strides forward, holding out his hand to the smaller man. Darius clasps it gratefully.
"Darius, we meet again," Dymas greets him with a smile, dulling the suspicious implication.
"Good to see you all." He is nervous. I have said before, my skills of perception are not impressive, but that much I can say with certainty. He is visibly tense, his narrow frame tight and his face drawn. I am still convinced he lied to Dymas about the blackmail and thus must be lying about the theft as well. Murder is such a ghastly, cruel affair … I somehow can connect him neither with such concealed villainy, nor a particular skill as an actor.
"Is your family here with you?" Briony’s training as a lady shines through.
Innocent until proven guilty.
Good manners never go amiss. Or something like that.
"Yes, my parents are here. They have lived near the village their entire lives. They are always part of these events," he speaks quickly, his tongue tripping over his words, his accent more pronounced. Somehow, I am sorry for him. He may well have stolen something, and perhaps Caspar caught him, but theft is not murder.
I offer a small, hopefully reassuring smile. "It is quite a treat, all the people, the music, the smells …"
"I am glad you are enjoying it. Yes, one would not think a small village like Miklos capable of staging such an event." He meets my eyes. Something in his gaze makes me take a tiny step back.
"I think villages are the heart of Crete, or of any place." Jeffrey chimes in, and Darius turns his head, releasing me from his stare.
"Is everything all right?" Daniel’s voice whispers behind me. I swivel around. The evening has grown into night. We are standing at the edge of this well lit square, and his face is half shadowed. There is comfort in his presence, and I am relieved for a reason I am yet to discern.
"Would you …" he swallows and glances at his shoes before tentatively looking up again, "would you care for a dance?"
The eagerness in his face pleases me enormously, and I smile in agreement.
He takes my elbow and leads me back to the dance floor where couples are spinning and swaying to the melodious sounds of the music, wafting through the night like whispy enchantments, enveloping us, pulling us closer.
This dance is over much faster than the first, I am certain, and in no time we are united with our group again. Darius has disappeared, and Paul and Rosie are standing a way off with another couple. Paul is easily found in a crowd, his gleaming blond hair standing out among the dark curls, his height making him a tree in the landscape wherever he goes. I wonder what he thinks among these groups of people, families, friends, lovers, with Rosie mute and impassive at his side. Does he want to scream at the injustice of it? Behind this open joviality, is there a man who feels trapped and alone with a partner who is no partner at all? If only I could ask these questions. Even if Aunt Agnes had not taught me manners, I know how improper such behavior would be. Nonetheless, with all these thoughts whirling about in my mind, I cannot help but wish I knew, just occasionally, what was happening inside the heads of the people around me. If I knew though, would I be disappointed or hurt or angry? We all deserve privacy; our secrets, locked in our minds, the ultimate treasure chests.
"There you are!" Briony waves and comes toward us, Jeffrey trailing behind, yawning in her wake. We cannot have been here much over an hour, and he is already yearning for the sweet silence of his home. Alas, tonight he must suffer some more. Briony looks in no mood to settle her well coiffed head on her pillow yet.
"I am starving!" Jeffrey states dramatically.
"Well, food can be had, my love," Briony rolls her eyes at me. "Let us see what they are roasting on the spit." She lowers her voice and whispers into my ear. "If he yawns one more time it will be him."
I chuckle. "But my dear, you must get used to early bedtime. Pretend Jeffrey is a child, patience is the key." She chuckles as I pull her and Daniel to a large table.
The table is set for a banquet. Mounds of pastries filled with spicy meat, spinach and cheese, cubes of lamb on wooden spikes, olives of all varieties, blocks of creamy white cheese and on and on it goes. No one needs to go hungry tonight. We make our donations. The money is intended for the repair of the church roof (church roofs, it seems, are perpetually in need of repair, a universal dilemma) and fill our plates with all sorts of delicacies. Soon Jeffrey is sated and crouches on an upturned barrel, looking like a pleased child.
The food, as I have come to expect here, is wonderful. However, I keep finding distractions all around me, before I know it, it has all gone cold. As have I, now that I think of it. My arms are covered in goosepricks.
"Briony, did I leave my jacket in the car?"
She furrows her brows. "You may have, I don’t think I saw it once we left the car."
"Is Yannick around? I am feeling a bit of a chill."
"Yes, I saw him a while ago," she glances around. "There he is!" I follow her gesture and find the pale young man at the fringe of the crowd, speaking with an older man and a boy of about sixteen.
"I will quickly dash over and ask where he left the car."
"Shall I go with you?" Daniel offers, already lowering his plate.
"No, no," I shake my head. "Stay, I will only be a moment."
I squeeze my way through the throng of people. Everyone has been gripped by a monstrous hunger and is swarming to the buffet. Still, I manage to push through and meet Yannick and his group of friends.
"Yannick," I call out as I reach them, "would you tell me where you left the car? I need my jacket."
"It is only around the corner. I will get it for you."
"You are very kind, but I will not take you away from your friends." Nodding at them, I take off before he can protest.
Get my jacket, indeed.
I am not a child, I can manage this much. Fortunately, I have dropped the habit of speaking to myself, at least in public.
CHAPTER 32
The alley is well lit, and the occasional reveller comes my way. My heels make a soft tapping sound on the cobbles, an accompaniment to the music filling the night around me. As I reach the end of the lane and turn the corner, my eyes find the hulking form of the Delage a few houses away. The street is deserted here, dipped into shadow, a contrast to it’s light and bustle during the day. I am calm, the small crouched-together houses emanating a sense of cozy comfort rather than concealed menace.
The roof of the Delage is down. Yannick probably saw little chance of rain on a clear night such as this. I tilt my head back. The sky is blue velvet with tiny diamonds twinkling in a random pattern. I never learned the constellations, I should admit, I never felt much inclined to. Now I wish I could say,
ah, there is Orion
and
isn’t Pegasus ever so bright tonight?
Even so, this natural spectacle is enough to make me pause for a moment to admire. A chill tingles down my spine as the cool evening air fills my lungs and feeds my body. How many others are looking at this sky right now, at this very moment? In England it may still be lighter; in London it will never be as clear. The sky and the sea surround this lovely strip of land, and I feel very small, enveloped in realms of blue beyond measure, which have been forever and may be forever more. My grandchildren or theirs will be looking at this same sky, at these same stars. I stand quietly for another moment, the world so large and uncontrollable around me, a force to be feared and revered. Suddenly, there is a sound farther up the road. My head snaps forward, and I am back on earth, back in a dark, empty street.