The drive takes us further into the mountains where the wind grows calmer, ceasing its persistent tug. The foothills are surpisingly green, and for a moment I am reminded of my holidays with Aunt Iris is Scotland. Vast hills and emerald peaks dip and dive, and we weave our way around them on the precariously curving road. Yannick is a confident driver. He doesn’t swerve or make the tires screech, but takes each winding of the way with knowing calm. The mountains are high and on a clear, sunny day like today, they reach into the vast blue sky, their peaks exposed, with not a cloud in sight.
I recall a story of the god-king Zeus living on Mount Ida as a youth. Nearly shouting, I ask whether these here are the Psiloritis Mountains, the range Mount Ida is a part of. Jeffrey leans back to give me an answer.
"Yes, but these are really just hills. The proper mountains, like Ida, are further west." I nod, vaguely dissappointed, and he turns back to face the road.
The drive through these
hills
lasts only a few minutes, and soon we are gliding back into a valley. In the distance, I can begin to see the first signs of the city. Oh, and there it is, yes, a wide slice of the sea. I just cannot get enough of that blue!
The motor rolls down the road, and suddenly we have arrived. Yellow and cream colored houses line both sides of the street. The style I can recognize as Venetian, though I am told the longlasting Ottoman ties have also left their mark. Whatever the influence, they look charming. Small and wedged one beside the other, the structures give off a sense of community, a result perhaps of the sheer closeness of living. Interspersing these houseblocks are countless narrow alleys, some dubiously dark, others bright and illuminated by shafts of sunlight creeping in from above. We pass a man sitting at the side of the road overlooking a small square, in front of him a propped up easel. He gives us a nearly toothless grin and I smile back, at once intimidated and exhilerated in the way one feels when about to enter someplace completely unknown. There is an infinite sense of possibility, for good and for bad.
Yannick stops the car in front of the Heraklion Archaeological Museum where Jeffrey and Daniel climb out. The building is quite impressive in size and built of a pale yellow stone, with a wide set of steps leading up to an ornate doorway.
"Here we take our leave." Jeffrey grabs the document case from the floor of the car. "Shall we meet in around," he glances at his watch, "four hours, will that be all right?"
"Four hours is fine, darling," Briony leans forward and gives her husband a quick peck on the cheek.
"Good, well, we will see you then. Have fun, and take care!" Jeffrey claps a hand on the hood of the motorcar, a sign for Yannick to drive on, and Daniel raises a hand in goodbye.
"Girl’s time now" Briony turns to me with a twinkle in her eyes, and I let out a girlish giggle. It is just like old times, familiar and fun, full of excitement. She leans forward to give our driver directions. "Yannick, drive as close to the Market Street as you can, please. I want to show Evelyn the
Agora
."
"Yes, Mrs. Farnham," Yannick nods, while carefully rejoining the main traffic on the busy road.
As we head into the heart of the city, I am again surprised by how large it is. From descriptions in my cousin’s letters, I had come to expect a fair-sized town, not this metropolis. All around us people are hustling to and fro, going about their usual routine. I feel small amid all this life, a stranger, ignorant of so much that defines Cretan culture and existance. Still, I am filled with an excited energy and want the car to finally arrive at it’s destination, so my feet may touch the ground, and I can walk and explore and observe without the jerked movements of the motor jarring my vision of the surroundings.
The Delage slows and Briony’s bright voice announces, "This is us, my dear, time to stretch our legs, and our purse stings!" She climbs out of the car, waving off Yannick’s motion that he will get out and open the door for us. "No, no, you stay where you are, we can manage. Would you be a dear, and find us here in a few hours time?"
"Yes, Mrs. Farnham." Yannick is either quite shy or simply unused to the more relaxed attitude of his employers, because he barely dares to glance in our direction as we alight from the vehicle and smooth out our dresses on the pavement.
"Ta-ta!" Briony waves, but is already turning toward a sidestreet, too broad to be called an alley. Other people, mostly women, join us on our route.
"I am going to show you the
Agora
, Evie darling, I know you must be burning to see an authentic Grecian market, and
Agora
is one of the few words having thus far wormed its way into my vocabulary, so I rather enjoy visiting it." Briony tucks her hand in the crook of my elbow, leading me along. It is near mid-day and the street is cast in a warm yellow light that pours down on us from the large gaps between the buildings, and the sun is at its zenith. It is not hot, but pleasantly warm, and I enjoy the sensation of sunlight on my sun-starved skin. I hear loud voices up ahead, and though they are unintelligible to me, I know a market vendors call when I hear it. As we round the corner, a strong mixture of heady aromas washes over us like a fragrant wave. The sweet, citrusy tang of lemons and oranges mingles with the sharp scent of cinnamon, thyme, sage and other herbs and spices I cannot identify.
"Here we are. What do you think?" Briony looks at me proudly, and I feel a surge of affection for her.
"It’s wonderful!" My eyes drift over the stalls of fruit and olives, jars of honey and oil. There is even a table laden with big white rounds of cheese! I don’t know where to begin and need Briony to tug me by the arm, to let other more seasoned shoppers get on their way. We wander over to a stand where a small, stout and heavily bearded fellow is selling plump figs and juicy-looking grapes.
"Good day, my ladies," he addresses us in deeply accented English. "You would like to try my figs? Yes, they are the best figs in all of Heraklion." He takes one from a large pile and slices it in half, offering us the pieces. Obligingly I take mine, sinking my teeth into the sweet, juicy flesh. Briony shakes her head at the vendor, and he raises his eyebrows in slight confusion and pops the other half into his mouth.
"Delicious!" I declare and the man looks delighted.
"You want to buy? I give you very good price, best price in all of Heraklion."
I am about to agree when Briony tugs at my arm.
"Not today, thank you," she tells the man, and before I can protest she pulls me away.
"Why didn’t you let me buy some? They were lovely, you should have tried it."
"If you plan on buying something from every stall we pass, we will be here all day. We buy most of our food in Miklos, you know, to endear the villagers to us Brits. I still wanted you to have a look around. It’s the largest of the food markets on the island."
"All right," I shrug, already catching sight of a stand of piled nuts. "But I simply must…"
We wander all over the market for a good hour, sampling here, tasting there. As we leave,
I clutch a paper bag containing Pistachio nuts I insisted on buying, though Briony couldn’t help but roll her eyes. I made the argument that, as a tourist, I must do my bit for the economy of the island. She couldn’t argue with that!
We make our way down the lane leading away from the market. People are still hurrying in the opposite direction, though it has calmed down a fair bit, and the sounds from the shouting vendors and haggling customers fade into the distance.
When exiting the narrowing alley at a junction, as luck has it, directly opposite we spy the sign for the post office. I drag Briony and myself across the street to send the obligatory telegram to Agnes and Iris.
To: Agnes Tremaine
Arrived safely. Am well. Staying with Briony. Will write soon. Take care.
-Evelyn Carlisle
To: Iris McNally
Dear Iris. Am on Crete with Briony. All is well. Nice holiday. Will write more soon. Sending love.
-Evelyn Carlisle
A veritable weight falls from me, having completed the task. Now I can enjoy the rest of the day. We dawdle around the shops, Briony purchasing a ream of a gauzy blue fabric imprinted with a delicate floral pattern. I find an English book in a musty shop, selling second hand texts. It has the intriguing title,
Crete, Island of the Gods
, and was written by a fellow Englishman called Charles Maypother. Clutching the book in my hands, I rejoin Briony, waiting for me outside, claiming that the dust would give her a migrane. She has become quite a little madam, good old Briony.
"Where are we going next?" I glance across he road at the clocktower. "We still have at least an hour before we are set to meet Yannick."
Briony exhales loudly and lets her shoulders droop. "I could do with something cool and refreshing. Shall we sit in a café for a moment? We can watch the people going by. Do you remember, we used to love doing that in Paris."
I am not at all tired, but notice the weariness in my cousin’s manner and nod. "Of course, lead the way!" I would have liked to walk to the harbor, to get a whiff of the salty sea air without having to endure its wild temperament as I did on the ferry, but I plan on staying a while, so it will simply have to wait for another time.
Briony leads me to a small, quaint café with a few round tables set on the narrow sidewalk. There is only one table unoccupied, and we sit down quickly, pleased at our good fortune.
A waiter, no older than us, appears almost immediately and Briony orders two lemonades in an admirable effort, though not quite natural sounding Greek. She looks proud of her accomplishment, and I want to show myself suitably impressed, which I am.
"Very nice. In no time, you will fit in with the locals."
Briony looks suddenly crestfallen. I reach across the table in concern and clasp her hand.
"Briony, what on earth is the matter? Have I said something to upset you?"
At this her face crumples further and, to my shock, she is close to tears. "Oh Evie!" She pulls away her hand, holding it up and covering her face. "It is not how I expected it to be at all!" She lowers her hands onto the table, and I see they are shaking.
"I thought everything wasn’t quite right, has something happened? Jeffrey appears as devoted as ever. You’re not ill are you?" I almost whisper the last sentence, fear momentarily clutching my heart. Briony is like a sister to me, I could never bear anything bad befalling her. Before she can answer and put me out of my misery, the waiter reappears with two sweating glasses of pale yellow lemonade. I thank him, settle up, and he drifts on to another table.
"No, no I am not ill. Well …" She lets out a shuddering breath and clutches her glass, not drinking. "I am so lonely here, Evie," it pours out of her. "I try so hard to be a good wife, a good hostess for Jeffrey’s friends, but, but—" she breaks off, looking down at the scratched tabletop.
"Why didn’t you say something? If you had written earlier I would have come, you know I would have. Briony, you are not telling me everything, are you?" My tone is firmer than I had intended, and I try to soften it with a sympathetic smile. "Please, let me help." Briony shakes her head and a lone, heartbreaking tear tumbles from her eye, dripping into her lemonade with a solitary
plop
. When she speaks again, her voice is steady but low and cheerless.
"I thought we would have a family by now." Swallowing, she goes on, "I was pregnant, you see." She says it in a flat tone so unfitting to her usully bright and lively self. It startles me.
"But—" I cannot think of what to say. Fortunately, she continues before I get a chance to utter something foolish.
"I lost it. It is quite common apparently, the doctor said. I just … Oh Evie, I so wanted it!" Another tear and another.
"Briony, I am so very sorry. But you can try again, surely? It is horrible this happened to you so far from home, too. Still, surely you will have another chance."
"I hope so, but it hasn’t happened. Jeffrey and I have been here a year now, married for nearly three, and our loss was seven months ago. Seven months!" Her face crumples and her lip quivers.
"Seven months is not such a long time." I try to sound comforting to mask the fact that I have not the slightest idea what is normal in the realm of conception.
"It is long!" Briony pushes away a tear with an angry gesture. "I want a baby, Evie! When we married I thought I would have a family. I never had any siblings myself as you know, and I want a house full of children. What if it will never happen! What if I am barren? My mother had only me. What if this was my only chance! Am I to throw dinner parties for the rest of my life, while my husband is buried in some sandpit digging up old pottery shards?" She tugs at a curl of her straw-colored hair. Only moments ago she looked the picture of loveliness and now, well, she looks wretched, and I say that with love. A few passersby throw odd glances our way, and I glare right back.
"Briony," I say softly, "whatever happens, you will be a mother. There are options, you know that. And no one says you will not bear a horde of your own children. Or have you spoken to a doctor?"