We dine wonderfully on fresh fish stuffed with olives and capers, a flaky triangular pastry, spanakopita, filled with spinach and a salty, creamy cheese, thick yoghurt drizzled with honey and sweet little fruits I have never before seen or tasted called
kumquats
, which have the appearance of tiny oranges with a much sweeter, sugary flavor.
Throughout our meal, Darius patiently answers my questions, not making me feel a fool for my lack of knowledge of the island and its culture, instead happy to share with someone eager to learn.
"Were you born here?" I ask, cutting a piece of my fish.
"Yes, in Miklos where my father was born, and his father before him."
"Where did you get your enthusiasm for archeology?"
"I studied in Athens. Then I joined a dig in Egypt. Most interesting." His eyes seem to glaze over for just a moment as though he is jumping back to a sandy pit in the land of the Pharaohs. "Yes, most fascinating." He smiles ruefully. "I had to return when the independence fights began."
"I have never been to Egypt. I should love to see the pyramids and the sphinx." I reply, reaching for my water.
"Oh, yes, and you must not forget Karnak or Abu Simbel, in my opinion, sites superior even to the Pyramids of Giza." He looks very serious as he explains, and the more I speak with him, the more I see a man who is passionate and devoted to his work and studies, but who seems to neglect an interest in all other aspects of life. He has not, I realize, asked me a single question about myself. Or am I simply envious of his enthusiasm? It would be nice to have something one can be so enthralled with. In time, maybe, I will be as well, I tell myself.
In 1921 I spent two years reading classics at St. Hugh’s College in Oxford, one of the few colleges admitting women. I was not awarded a degree as I had to end my studies early to be with Aunt Iris when her husband passed and she was quite unwell. Still, the grand stories of Agamemnon and Odysseus have a hold on me and the enthusiasm Darius feels for his work, exploring the reality behind such mythical tales, is an area I want to hear more about. While he may be absorbed by his own interests, he lacks the overbearing confidence of Caspar Ballantine, who, as the evening progresses and his glass is refilled and drained time and time again, grows ever louder and distinctly unpleasant. I can’t help but cringe, observing him from the corner of my eye, dip back his head again, a tiny trickle of ruby liquid dripping from the corner of his fulllipped mouth onto the left breast of his white shirt. I wish Jeffrey or Daniel would discreetly take him aside to put a stop to this before he ruins Briony’s lovely party, but neither seems keen to make a move. Unable to do anything, I direct my attention back to Darius.
He is explaining how he and a team of local diggers have found a collection of bronze masks ten miles from the town and are now busily trying to get endorsement to fund a continued excavation. Jeffrey and Paul are assisting him in this matter as well as managing the projects already underway. Much as this is all very interesting, I can’t help but allow my mind to wander a bit. I imagine myself, trowel in hand in a sandy pit, a dirty vase with dust-covered black figures pained upon its terracotta surface perched at my booted feet. Or better still, wearing a beautiful pale blue gown, draped across my body as though Michelangelo had painted it onto my form, wandering barefoot through the shallow waters. Or—
My thoughts are interrupted by a wave of laughter all around me. Someone must have made a joke. I join in half-heartedly, aware of a distinct pull in my jaw, indicating my desire to yawn. I clamp it shut and fight the urge.
When Darius and Paul begin discussing a meeting with a potential sponsor, I turn my attentions to my left where I catch Daniel Harper glancing down at his wristwatch.
"Do you have other plans tonight, Mr. Harper?" I cock my head to show my good humor.
"Pardon?" He looks momentarily startled. To his credit, he manages to recover quickly, shaking his head. "Oh, no. Just a habit, I suppose. A rude habit. I apologize, Miss Carlisle."
"No need. And please, do call me Evelyn. If we are to be living together, these formalities only get in the way."
"Absolutely, and I am Daniel as you know" He nods and grins at me. I notice a dimple in his right cheek, which in a very pleasing manner, disrupts the symmetry of his face.
“Well, Daniel. What brings you here? I myself am on the run, fleeing from London authorities of sorts.” I lower my head a little closer to him, a move that in hindsight seems more intimate than conspiratorial. Daniel blushes a little, though it would hardly be visible in the low candlelight if I weren’t so close to him, and self-consciously I withdraw a little.
“Trouble with the law. Well, I’m afraid I can’t top that. I am simply visiting an old friend who has chosen one of the loveliest places to settle down.” Daniel takes a sip of his wine, momentarily averting his gaze. His face is angular, less traditionally handsome, perhaps than that of his friend, but no less interesting for it. He has dark eyes, which I first took to be brown and have now observed to be a deep, almost pine green, changing their hue ever so slightly as the light shifts. I swirl the last of my wine in the crystal glass and continue our conversation.
“I can only agree with you on that account. Have you been to Greece before?” I ask him, starting to take an interest in the man behind this handsome veneer.
"No," he shakes his head gently, a lock of hair falling onto his forehead I almost reach out to brush it aside, but thankfully remember decorum. This wine must be getting to my head.
Daniel continues, "I’ve spent the past year traveling in Cairo and Marrakesh, and before that … Well, there was the war of course.” Lowering his head for a few seconds, he adds no more, allowing the memories their moment of silence. The war, as it is for so many of us, must be a subject he prefers to avoid. I have found that some people need to speak of it all the time, working it into nearly every conversation, while others cannot bring themselves to say the words aloud for fear of their potency and pain. He looks young, but likely old enough to have been affected by the Military Service act of 1916, which called for the conscription of all elligible men for military duty. He has no visible battle scars, though I can only see his hands and face. Often times, the ones beneath the surface are the most difficult to bear or to comprehend.
Trying to steer the conversation back to safer ground I continue, "Your travels sound fascinating. I’m afraid, I have limited experience in that arena, only Switzerland and France for my schooling.” As I say this I suddenly feel very green in the company of all these cultured, well-traveled people. Daniel smiles again.
“Not at all. Contrary to what is expected of a patriotic Englishman, I am very fond of Switzerland myself. I holidayed there many times as a child. Where did you visit?“
With this invitation, and genuine interest emanating from Daniel, I start explaining. I tell him of my time in Zurich, then of Lyon, and later Paris. He counters with stories of his travels to Cairo, the temples, the heat, the souks in Marrakesh, and his arduous sea journey here. It seems he has avoided good old England a number of years.
“…and the camel simply would not move!” Daniel’s eyes grow wide and he gestures with his hands. A sense of pride for what he has seen and experienced in his time emanates from him as he speaks, but it is different from the pride Darius feels. Daniel, as far as I may venture to say, is still looking for something, while Darius has found his vocation long ago and is keen to share it. I can’t quite decide which I prefer. Hearing Daniel’s stories, I must confess to a distinct pinch of envy.
My adventures until now have never truly gone beyond sneaking out of boarding school lodgings to go dancing in the village. I feel a bit silly exchanging these little stories for his fullfledged escapades, though Daniel never gives the impression of resenting this unbalanced bargain. He asks the right questions, laughs at the right parts, and is overall utterly charming. I must be careful not to fall in love the first night on the island! Yet despite his good humor, there is something underneath the friendly manner, the wit and intelligence. A certain shadow hidden beneath his surface, not fitting into this mold of
laissez-faire
adventurer he is letting me see.
A secret?
We all have our little mysteries, I concede in my mind, our little secrets. We all, too, have our battles with that little nagging bane, curiosity.
Before I can allow my imagination to paint some mad picture over Daniel’s façade of charme, Jeffrey clangs his dessert-spoon against his glass, a sound I have always found cheering as it reminds me of weddings and other celebrations. Everyone looks up at our host.
“Pardon my interruption, but after a few glasses of Attica’s finest, I am compelled to offer the obligatory toast, my friends." A few low laughs ensue, and Jeffrey goes on. “I am tonight very fortunate to be in the company of good friends, family, and with a belly full of this excellent food. To that I raise my glass!”
“Cheers!” Everyone clinks glasses. I take a small sip of what remains in mine, tasting the pleasant coolness of the mildly sweet and fruity wine as it runs down my throat.
“Now,” Jeffrey goes on, his brow slightly shiny and his nose slightly pink, “Perhaps you will join me on the veranda. We have a perfect cloudless night, and I have been forbidden by my lovely wife,” he smiles obligingly at the glowing face of Briony beside him, “to partake of my
après
-
dîner
cigar in the house.”
Again laughs bubble up around me. There follow a few moments of mouths being dabbed and forks being set on plates, a caucophany of scraping of chairs and smoothing of crêpe de chine before our little group follows our hosts outside. As I leave the dining room, I catch a glimpse of Niobe, the pretty maid, speaking with Caspar in an alcove leading to another room, a look of petulance marring his handsome face. I have an impulse to approach Niobe and ask whether everything is all right, but decide against it, telling myself it is none of my concern.
We step outside, onto the terracotta-tiled veranda, and I take a deep breath of the fresh, pleasantly warm air. Somewhere nearby, an owl is hooting, a strange, monotonous sound, vaguely ominous and soothing at once. Dry leaves rustle in the trees at the edges of the garden.
Nature’s music
my father called it. I remember the sounds would frighten me as a child, so he began telling me stories of the owl, singing out in owl-language, and the cicadas chatting about their day, and somehow it all became a story and not scary anymore.
There is a cast-iron table with a set of six chairs as well as a beautiful carved wooden bench along one side of the terrace. I have no desire to sit down again, and the question takes care of itself when a few members of the party make themselves comfortable to smoke and chat. There is no space left anyway. I walk across the tiled expanse toward the periphery of the garden. It is fenced off, a wise precaution, I think, daring a glance over the edge. The drop would be a mighty, bone-shattering one and if Jeffrey and Briony throw many such parties where the wine is in generous supply, someone might take a nasty tumble.
Carefully, I step back, dry grass tickling my feet as I gaze up to the sparkling, twinkling lights of countless stars in the blue-black sky. So many, more even than I have seen on my sojourns into the countryside, brilliant and steady. Standing here alone, I suddenly feel very small, a tiny speck in our constantly evolving universe. This is the same sky people on the other side of the world look up to, one true constant in a forever changing world, where nothing is ever quite safe, quite certain. The War provided gruesome evidence of that. We are so fragile, and still oddly resilient. Can we hope for lessons to have been learned? That people might treat one another with the care and respect we require to survive? I have my doubts. Almost without noticing I shake my head, willing the sad thoughts to tumble out, to leave me with the warm feeling of peace and welcome emanating from this very ground.
A cool breeze envelopes me, bringing with it the soothing, earthy scent of camomile and mint. Closing my eyes for a moment, I feel the weight of my tired eyelids. I savor my newfound feeling of freedom, in spite of uncertainty and the newness of it all. A strong desire to lie down on the cool grass, staring up and counting the stars, trying to make out the constellations overwhelms me, but I remind myself that such a course of action might not make the best first impression and may embarass Briony. Another night.
"Quite a view, isn’t it?" I turn startled by the voice intruding upon my fantasy, to find Daniel Harper only a few steps away. It takes me a moment to remember that he had gone to fetch us a drink and that the proffered glass containing a finger’s measure of clear liquid is for me.
"Yes, it is. Beautiful." There is a moment of silence between us. "You know, I don’t believe back at home in London I ever simply stood outside to look at the sky. Probably wouldn’t have seen much in the old smoke." I shrug, running a finger along the rim of the glass. "I was thinking how I’d like to lie down here and stare at the sky. I have this idea," I pause, unsure of whether it is wise to explain, but I suppose the desire to say what I am thinking wins over, and I continue," I have this idea that Zeus and Hera and his Olymp are propped up on clouds somewhere up there, and having a jolly old time." I let out a nervous chuckle." My friends, if they could hear me go on like this, would think me a little mad."