Black Butterflies (11 page)

One of them clicks his fingers for a waiter. ‘Excuse me,’ mouths Costas, and serves the lawyers, who are demanding and pompous. Marina smiles to herself, picturing their confusion tomorrow in the notary’s office when they recognise that the waiter who is serving them now is in fact their client …

She chuckles too at the roundabout way Costas has introduced himself. She allows herself to giggle and then giggles a little longer at the easy way her next question has been set up.

‘So, you are the very last? No girlfriends on the horizon?’ For a brief second Marina is hopeful. A millionaire son-in-law would take care of her old age.

‘
There was one, an American girl, but she took herself back to America. What can I do? Such is life.’

‘
You could go and find her?’ Marina swallows her brief disappointment.

‘
She left because she didn’t like it here. She will not return.’

‘
No, I mean you could live in America.’

‘
Panayia mou! Why would I do that and leave this piece of heaven?’ He nods at a donkey dropping its breakfast from under its tail. Then he is up again slickly sidling up to an English couple. He persuades them to sit for a pot of tea and pancakes. He offers them any chair they like and they settle in next to the Germans by the water’s edge. Costas Voulgaris the millionaire goes inside and returns with sandwiches for the Germans, who order more beer. With no sense of hurry he wanders indoors and reappears with a tray of tea things and two beer bottles gripped between his white knuckles. He only bothers to use one hand for the lot, the other swinging freely and limply by his side.

Marina is trying to think what she will say when Costas asks why she wants to know who he is, and fails to come up with anything that sounds both reasonable and discreet. As he passes her table her drops her bill and a lazy smile.

He serves the English their pancakes and then he is gone for a while. Marina waits. After half an hour she decides to wait no longer. She stands to announce she wishes to pay the bill and a young waiter approaches her.

‘
Oh, where’s Costas?’

‘
He’s playing backgammon inside. Did you need him?’

‘
Oh, no, it’s fine.’ She collects her change and wonders whether to leave a tip for the multi-millionaire. She decides not, and begins to leave but feels mean and turns and slips fifty cents under her plate, after using the table as a rest to cross his name from her list.

Evening is drawing in. A stage is being set up on the harbour front where the commercial boats come and go. From there all along the waterfront, including the steps that lead up to the cannons, access to the port has been cordoned off.

Marina wonders if she can find
… She stops to consult her list.

Aris Kranidiotis – Very naughty – his sister married the Papas from the church across on the mainland.

It’s a small island and finding people doesn’t seem to be difficult. Marina decides to ask Panos if he knows the four remaining men on the list. She walks towards the corner to turn up the narrow lane that leads to the corridor street where his stairs begin.

The lace makers are all closing their shops. There is an air of excitement which Marina presumes is for the celebrations. The little old ladies in black carefully fold their lace that has been on display outside and lay the pieces in flat boxes. Marina is interested in looking at some of the lace. The last time she had not really taken any notice but the piece she ended up buying is very pretty and she laid it as a centrepiece on her kitchen table.

Marina picks up a piece the lady has not yet folded and holds it up. The lacework around the edges is very fine, the central piece of linen as smooth a satin. Marina lays it back down and is just about to pick up another piece when a movement up the lane catches her attention. Three people are coming out of the very narrow passage where Panos has his barbershop, and Marina immediately recognises her daughter’s voice. She doesn’t wait to see her face. She pulls the brim of her hat down low and turning her back she tries to disguise her walk as she scuttles around the corner back onto the port side.

Once there, she does her best to run a few steps before stopping at a sunglasses shop, and in pretence of looking at glasses sidles around the rack so she can watch the end of the lane she has just come from. She doesn
’t believe the Ray-Bans are genuine, not at these prices.

Eleni comes around the corner with two girls. Marina realises the relief it would have been had she come around the corner arm in arm with her young man; then she could find out who he was and lay this whole thing to rest
– one way or another. No more deception and silly disguises.

A man approaches her to see if she intends to buy. Marina thanks him kindly and winds her way through the stands of hats, T-shirts and suncream as fast as she can away from Eleni. She reaches the turn of the harbour that takes her down to the seafront walk around to the smaller harbour. She window-shops from one glass front to another. There are a good many shops selling gold jewellery. Well, if they are all as rich as Costas Voulgaris and his American buyers then no wonder.

Marina looks at the reflection in the window. She has seen that done in a detective film once. She can see Eleni, who is still coming towards her. She is laughing and seems so relaxed. Marina watches longer than is safe, and darts into the shop as Eleni walks past. She watches through the window. It is so nice to see her daughter happy. Although her trousers are a little shapeless – that’s what happens if you bundle them wet into a bag. They need a good iron.

Marina leaves the shop as Eleni progresses along the harbour and is no longer visible through the window. Eleni
’s movements are so carefree. Marina finds she is following without having made the decision. The girls turn into a
souvlaki
fast-food shop. Marina turns to look in another window. More gold jewellery.

There is a sign in ornate gold writing on a black shiny surface sitting centrally on the velvet window display:
‘Kranidiotis – Jewellers since 1999’. Marina has to think what year it is as it seems that only yesterday was the millennium, but she calculates it is twelve years since. Still, twelve years does not seem a lot to brag about. She wonders how quickly shops come and go along the port.

She hears Eleni laugh. The girls have come out of the fast-food place, each holding a pitta bread wrap containing meat, tomatoes, onions and
tzatziki
– a yoghurt, cucumber and garlic sauce. Marina can see the
tzatziki
dripping over her daughter’s fingers. She hopes it doesn’t drip onto her clothes, and she enters the jeweller’s.

‘
Aristotelis Kranidiotis at your service, madam. How can I help you?’

‘
Oh, er, hello.’ Marina wonders why she recognises his name but watches Eleni as she passes the window. She is licking the
tzatziki
off her hand whilst trying not to spill any more from her wrap.

‘
Was it something for yourself or a loved one?’

Marina loses sight of Eleni after she has gone past the window. She turns to the man addressing her. He has an orange glow to his tan and a thick neck. He is wearing a wide orange tie which mirrors his complexion. Marina begins a giggle but puts her hand to her mouth and coughs.

‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’

‘
Aris Kranidiotis at your service. Are you looking for yourself or for a loved one?’

Aris Kranidiotis! But Marina is not all that surprised, Greece has a way of making the right people turn up at the right time. Like the Americans the day she first arrived.

‘Now if it was for a loved one,’ she says, ‘a daughter, say, twenty-eight years old – or in your case your lover of twenty-eight years old – what would you buy her?’

He laughs heartily.
‘First I would have to pay my medical bills for the injuries I would receive, and then for the divorce, if I were to deceive my wife in such a way. But to choose something for my daughter would be easy, although she is eight, not twenty-eight, but girls are girls. They are born with expensive tastes.’ He sighs and takes out an oversized handkerchief from his top pocket and wipes his brow, and rubs between his fingers.

Marina notices the yellow ends of his fingers as he replaces the cloth and scrabbles in his shirt pocket for a cigarette, the spreading damp patches under his arms showing all the more clearly for this exertion.

‘Actually, I think it’s best if I come in with her.’

The jeweller is still trying to get his lighter to work as she closes the door behind her. He succeeds as she turns towards the coast walk, and he waves farewell through the window, smiling and exhaling smoke though his nose.

Marina stops at the fast-food place and takes out her piece of paper. She makes use of one of the small high circular tables outside and puts a line through Aris’ name. Three to go. The easiest one to track will be
Apostolis (Tolis) Kaloyannis – His father owned the boatyard on the mountain village path.
She will get up very early the next morning and walk along to the boatyard.

Tonight she will watch the festival, but first she will return to her room and take a shower. She hopes she does not have sweat showing under her arms. She is glad she doesn
’t smoke.

Zoe says she has seen the festival many times and is not really keen to go out. Roula says the bangs frighten her, and besides, Three, Two, One is on in a minute.

Bobby says he would love to go and would she mind giving him a piggy-back. Zoe tells him not to be so cheeky, and Bobby mouths behind her back,
‘How’s it going?’ Marina nods an affirmative. Their attention is drawn as the large aunt, who as far as Marina has observed never moves, suddenly stands, and before Marina can see her face out of repose she has turned and slowly waddles off to an inner room, her weight rolling her like a ship in a storm.

‘
Night, Auntie,’ Roula calls. Zoe leaves the room. Apparently putting the aunt to bed is a two-person job.

Marina wishes them a good night, but Bobby has dropped off and Roula is singing the theme tune to her favourite show.

Marina is not sure where to go for a good view of the harbour. She presumes she should be down at the port. She climbs the steep steps to get to the amphitheatre of the main town at the top from where she can descend to the port. She has come to the conclusion that this way is slightly shorter than going along the coast, and it is certainly better lit by night. As she passes the corner shop at the intersection of paths she converges with a small group of people who are discussing the best vantage point for the evening’s spectacle. They agree that being in the port has its advantages, but higher up gives a panoramic view of the proceedings. They decide on the hill that separates the main harbour from the small harbour. Marina tags on behind, allowing them to lead.

The houses are left behind. The paths they take get narrower, rockier, with low-level spiky plants lining them on either side. The way is no longer lit by lamps on the sides of buildings or attached to whitewashed walls. Illumination comes only from the moon. Two of the party have brought torches and one shines forwards, one backwards. They climb to near the top of the hill and find a flat area. They each find a rock to sit on or lean against. Marina now feels she is imposing on the group and so, using the light of the moon and caution, continues past them to a small plateau on the very top of the hill. Here there are one or two people who have also made the ascent. She finds a flat rock and sits. The hill drops away sharply and she can see the port laid out below her like a map. There are, around the stage she had seen being erected earlier, bright lights. The rest of the harbour by comparison is in the dark, with only the moonlight on the water distinguishing land from sea.

She waits. Being so high up she can see both ways along the channel of water between the island and the mainland. Behind her is her favourite view to the open sea. The dotted islands are dark tears in the Prussian blue sky sitting on the vacillating sea, the shine of the moon on the dark of the sea’s own depth flitting across its surface in random interlocking feathers.

On the hill top a couple are holding hands; another intertwined couple further away still. It is too dark to make out features. The moon is behind them and they are all shadows. The couple nearest move as if they are young. The other couple are joined as one, only the silhouette of two heads giving the lovers away.

An unexpected screech of microphone feedback draws Marina’s attention back to the port. The speakers squeal painfully. She hears one of the couple nearest her on the hill curse God, and his hands go up to his head, presumably over his ears. It is too dark to tell.

The feedback stops and someone taps the microphone. He introduces himself as the Mayor and begins what Marina believes will be a very long speech, about the resilience of the people of the island. His words are distorted by an overstrained system as well as the echoes off the rocks and houses.

He is mercifully brief, and Marina crosses herself in thanks. Another voice comes over the speakers. This one is more muffled than the last but speaks in a dramatic tone. Two spotlights come on and scan independently across the town and away up onto the hill. Marina shields her eyes when in full glare, turning her head sideways. The couple next to her are briefly illuminated. It is Panos and his boyfriend. Marina feels happy for them, the cover of the night allowing them some normality in their display of affection towards one another.

The spotlight turns towards the cannon at the top of the steps guarding the entrance to the harbour, and Marina can see men with flaming torches begin a walk down to the quayside where there is a boat with flags and a canopy. The men climb in and the narrator is superseded by a triumphant piece of music by the composer Vangelis, which Marina loves. She recently heard this particular piece in a film on the television in her shop. She tries to think of the film
’s name but her mind is a blank.

The little boat full of the men is rowed slowly out of the harbour.

‘
Chariots of Fire!
’ Marina announces, and slaps a hand over her mouth at the unbeckoned sounds.

The little boat is passing the last of the harbour walls, and Marina at this point notices the red and green navigation lights of a dozen small boats out in the open waters. More are joining them as she watches, and Marina guesses every fishing boat and taxi boat on the island must be out there, waiting, in a semi-circle. Marina straightens her back and searches them to see if she can distinguish which one is her friend, the dancing captain. But the sea is dark, only the lights can be seen.

The spots, which have been tracking the little boat, split, one remaining on the boatload of torch-bearing Greek sailors, and the other scanning across the water until it falls upon what for the world looks to Marina like an old-fashioned galleon out of a black and white film, of the kind with pirates swinging from the rigging.

The music swells and fills the hollow of the town, rippling off the hills, filling Marina
’s heart. She feels excited and wishes she had a friend with whom to share this experience. She suddenly feels lonely. She wonders if the taxi boat man is single. She contemplates that as you grow older a decade or so difference in age means less than when you are young. A fifteen-year-old with a twenty-five-year-old is obscene. A seventy-year-old with an eighty-year-old, for example, is sweet. At which end of the continuum would they be?

As the little manned vessel rows closer to the old-fashioned boat Marina realises that it is not a full-sized ship but a replica with a rowing boat base. It is flying the Turkish flag, the enemy of the battle being depicted. The rowing boat shines a light to signal to the shore and the music changes to something military. The sound of cannon firing fills the watery arena, and the assembled fishing boats and water taxis put out their red and green lights and with bright flashing lights depict cannon fire aimed at the Turkish vessel. Some let off red flares as they pretend to be fired upon. Marina, loneliness forgotten, is finding it hard to sit still, the music stirring, the sights all-encompassing, the whole of the harbour below her the stage and the townspeople the players. She feels like a goddess. Hera, perhaps, like the dancing captain
’s boat’s name. Goddess of …? Marina can’t quite remember. She scans her school memories. Marriage! Oh well, sort of appropriate. She could not be called interfering if she were a goddess. Marina, goddess of marriage. She chuckles.