Authors: Ekaterine Nikas
I
gazed up at the darkening sky and sighed.
"No."
*
*
*
The
Bella Roma
is a small outdoor restaurant clinging to the cliffs which
overlook the sea near Kassiopi.
Though the decor has a distinctly Italian feel, the specialty of the
house is
sofrito
, that most Corfiote of dishes.
"It serves the best on the
island," Geoffrey assured me, after I'd asked why we needed to drive so
far for dinner when there were so many places to eat right there in town.
It was a little after nine when we
arrived, and the restaurant was not yet crowded.
Geoffrey led the way to a small table near the railing at
the cliff's edge, and soon after we sat down, a short, strongly-built man
wearing a red polo shirt and jeans appeared at our table and greeted Geoffrey
with a grin.
"Hello,
stranger,” Geoffrey said.
Ti
kanete
?"
"Not
bad.
Not bad at all.
The old man's out with a bad back, so
I've been running things solo, but I can't complain."
I
must have been staring, because Geoffrey laughed.
"George, this is Christine Stewart.
Christine, this is George Dinatakis.
He and his father own the
Bella Roma
."
"Pleased
to meet ya," George said, thrusting his right hand forward.
I
took it.
"Pleased to meet
you, too," I echoed faintly, trying not to wince at his strong grip.
"You're from New York?"
"South
Bronx, born and raised.
My dad
grew up here on the island, but emigrated to the States in '52.
Twelve years ago he got homesick and
decided to come back and start a restaurant."
George shrugged.
"I came, too."
"Don't
you ever get homesick yourself?" I asked.
"Sometimes.
But life here has its
compensations."
Just then a moped
swerved to a stop on the gravel of the
Bela Roma
's parking lot, and
George's gaze swivelled to follow the two attractive blondes who climbed off
the Vesta and slowly strolled in.
"Excuse
me --" he murmured, hurrying off to offer the women a table.
"You'll
have to forgive George," Geoffrey commented, his lips twitching.
"I'm afraid he has a weakness for
Scandinavian women."
"How
do you know they're Scandinavian?"
"George's
reaction, of course.
He has an
uncanny intuition for such things, rather like an overgrown bloodhound."
"He
did look a bit like a dog going on point," I agreed with a smile, but the
smile faded abruptly as I became conscious of the sound of waves crashing on
the rocks far below us.
For a
moment I had actually forgotten what had happened that afternoon, but now
memory came rushing back like the incoming sea.
I
gazed out at the blackness: the black sea, the black sky, the black, barely
discernible silhouette of the Albanian coast only a mile or two away.
Where had the moonlight gone?
"Christine?"
I
looked across the table at him.
In
the romantically dim light, it was difficult to read his expression.
The candle on the table cast flickering
shadows across the surprisingly jagged planes of his face, and I realized how
tense he was, like a taut wire ready to snap.
I could imagine running a finger along the curve of his jaw
and feeling it vibrate.
"A
penny for them," he said sharply.
"For
what?"
"Your
thoughts.
You seem quite lost in
them.
You've scarcely spoken a
word in five minutes."
"Since
you didn't speak to me the entire drive up here, I don't think you're in a
position to complain.
I spent the
whole time staring out the window at scenery it was too dark to see."
"I'm
sorry," he said stiffly.
"I was lost in some unpleasant thoughts of my own.
But you'll find me quite attentive
now."
"I
suppose you were thinking about Michael?"
He
shook his head, but remained silent.
"Hmmm,
you pique my curiosity," I said, twirling the stem of my empty wine
glass.
"Now let's see.
You weren't thinking about your
accident-prone nephew.
Perhaps you
were thinking about the strange coincidence that he almost got himself drowned
the very day of your return?”
I
paused, then added, “Of course, you'll be quite in the clear with Lieutenant
Mavros this time, won't you?
Since
you were safely in the air when it all happened.
Though speaking of coincidences, I could swear I saw a man
who looked exactly like you getting off the ferry from Brindisi
yesterday."
The
wire seemed to snap, but the only change in Geoffrey's expression was that his
mouth curved into a slightly bitter smile.
"Actually, my thoughts were focused on a matter of
considerably less consequence," he said quietly.
"I was merely reflecting that tonight might be the last
time I ever see you."
I
stared at him, my lips forming a silent "oh".
Suddenly
George appeared with our dinners.
"Here ya go," he said cheerfully, sliding the heaping plates
in front of us.
He seemed
blissfully unaware of the charged atmosphere at the table.
"
Bon appetit
, you two!
I'll be right back with your
wine."
After
George had gone I said in an uneven voice, "You haven't bothered to deny
it."
"Deny
what?" he replied coolly.
"That
you lied to me!
You came back
yesterday, not today, and by ferry, not by plane."
A
gust of wind caused the candle flame to sputter and then flare, illuminating
his face.
"Yes."
A
sudden knot in my stomach tightened.
"So I guess I have to ask: where were you this afternoon,
Geoffrey?"
He
looked as if I'd slapped him.
"Where do you think I was, Christine?
At
Ithaki's
cove throttling Michael into
unconsciousness and leaving him to drown?"
Suddenly,
I felt rather dizzy.
George
returned, brandishing a bottle at us.
"This is from a friend's private cellar at Ypsos."
He carefully uncorked the bottle and
poured generous portions of the wine into our glasses.
Then he reached over to another table,
picked up a wineglass, and poured some for himself.
"
'Igeia sas
!" he toasted.
Reluctantly, Geoffrey and I joined in,
clinking our glasses against his.
I took a sip.
The wine
trickled down my throat like a caress.
"You
like it?" George asked.
I nodded and drank deeply.
"It's wonderful," I murmured,
setting the empty glass down on the table.
George
beamed at me and splashed more wine into my glass, setting the bottle down
within easy reach.
"This girl
of yours has good taste, Geoff, at least in wine, that is!"
He slapped Geoffrey on the back.
"Shouldn't
you be seeing to your Scandinavians?" Geoffrey inquired tensely.
George
cast a quick glance over his shoulder and saw that the the two ladies were
indeed looking put out at his neglect.
"Pays to keep the customers satisfied," he said with a wink.
“Geoff, Christine, enjoy!”
Happy
to oblige him, I drank up, wondering fleetingly how much of the delicious wine
I'd have to drink to forget that Geoffrey couldn't know Michael had been
rendered unconscious by being throttled unless -- I emptied my glass a second
time -- unless he'd been the one doing the throttling.
"George
must really like you to serve you this," I said, setting my glass down a
bit unsteadily and splashing more of the lovely crimson wine into it.
"I wonder why?"
Geoffrey
plucked the bottle out of reach.
"I think you'd best go easy on that until you get something else in
your stomach."
He pushed my
plate toward me.
"I'm
not hungry."
He
said more gently.
"Christine,
I'm sorry I lied to you, but please believe me, I have a good reason for not
wanting it known that I returned yesterday, rather than today."
He reached across the table and placed
his hand on mine.
"But
you're not going to tell me what that reason is, are you?"
He
shook his head.
"I'm afraid I
can't."
"You
mean won't!" I corrected him angrily.
"Strange, I thought we were in this together, that we
were on the same side."
"We
are!
I owe you a great deal, you
know.
You were right about Michael
needing someone on the spot to protect him.
My God, if you hadn't been there this afternoon
--"
His hand tightened convulsively
on mine.
The
emotion in his voice sounded genuine.
I wanted to believe him.
Needing time to think and a safe place to look, I pulled my hand away
and began absently slicing away at my
sofrito
.
"You
know," he continued in that same gentle and persuasive voice,
"I haven't yet heard the whole
story of what happened.
Would you
mind telling it to me, from the beginning?"
I
hesitated for a moment, then I told him.
When I'd finished, I looked up to find him staring out at the
blackness.
The moon was rising
over the sea, casting threads of light on the rippling water, but none of the
light was reflected in his eyes.
They were dark and stormy and . . . dangerous.
He turned to me and said in a voice no longer gentle,
"When do you leave tomorrow?"
"My
flight's scheduled for eleven, but --"
"You
should be at the airport by nine."
"But
I'm not going."
His
eyes grew stormier.
"Christine, I want you on that plane tomorrow.
I want you thousands of miles from this
bloody mess as soon as possible."
"I'm
afraid that what you want doesn't matter.
Lieutenant Mavros is finally taking this thing seriously, and he seems
to consider me one of his prime suspects.
I have been warned, as they say in all the B-movies, not to leave
town."
"He
has no evidence to charge you, and no authority to keep you.
There's no reason why you can't be on
that flight."
"Why
so anxious to get rid of me?" I demanded, the wine loosening my
tongue.
"Afraid I may tell
someone about your early return to the island?"
He
slammed his fist down, rattling the silverware, and reached across the table to
seize my wrist.
"You must
give me your word you'll say nothing about that to anyone,
especially
the good Lieutenant."
"Why?"
"Your
word, Christine!"