The Priest's Well (The Greek Village Collection Book 12) (3 page)

Closing the door behind him affords space for him to breathe. On the one hand, the robes he wears give him status in the world, the pride and dignity that his mama so wished for him, a credibility seldom offered to one so young. On the other hand, there is no reprieve. Instead, there is a constant demand from others, whether just for a chat or for something more intense. As a representative of God, he cannot say no. Right now, everything feels like a burden. He knows the feeling will pass once he gets used to the place. But these are the moments he misses his mama the most.

‘God, why did you have to take Mama?’ he speaks out loud. ‘And so quickly.’ These last words hang heavy in the air. At the time, it was the right thing to do to rush his ordination forward so he could make his mama proud before she was gone. But as time passes, he is realising to an increasing measure the price he will be paying!

‘Here is how it is.’ Mama’s bishop spoke quietly to him over the bed where his semi-conscious mama lay. ‘If you marry now, you can get ordained later. But if you are ordained first, you may never marry.’

‘But I have no one to marry now,’ he hissed in return.

The bishop shrugged. It was not his rule.

Mama slept on. He would be condemning himself to a lifetime of celibacy and maybe even loneliness just to please her before she died. He was finding abstinence hard in these few weeks of his personal pledge, but a vow for a lifetime? She coughed as he had these thoughts. Big hacking, skeleton-shaking coughs that had brought the nurses running, dials checked, pulse taken, a call through to the doctor. Her face grew white, the coughing subsided, eyes suddenly opening as if she was possessed, wide and startled.

‘Savvas,’ her dry lips whispered. ‘Savvas.’

‘Here, Mama. I am here.’ He held her hand and leaned in.

‘Your baba is here. Make him proud, Savvas.’

The nurse raised her eyebrows as if this kind of delusion was to be expected. But it was enough. She was dying; it was so little to ask.

‘We must do the ordination as soon as possible,’ he said to Mama’s bishop, who responded with a sad look and then he took out his diary to see when it could be done.

Now his mama is gone, he is ordained and stuck in a tiny village in Greece, unmarried and with images playing in his mind of Nefeli in the sunlight, struggling with the wet washing that stuck to her in the slight breeze. Sometimes the worldly temptations are too much.

The aroma of yesterday’s dinner lingers and the damp smell is seeping out of the bathroom. This cottage is not a fit place for a priest. The shutters are still closed but the sun must have made its way high into the sky, as slices of light now cut horizontal lines across the room. With nothing but the chair by the fireplace at the far end, the stripes of bright sunlight across the whitewashed walls and floor are accentuated. Bars of light. His own personal prison. However, with images of Nefeli floating in his head, and her only being next door, his cage is not so unpleasant. Just small.

With no conscious thought, his hand finds his loins. Catching himself, he regains self-control. He must do something active if he is to overcome his present urges. Writing his lists and letters will occupy his mind.

There is a knock on the door and then, before he has a chance to answer, it opens.

‘Papas, coffee?’ Nefeli puts her head around the door. The sun streaming in behind her, the smell of heat and jasmine, clean washing and freshly made bread. She pushes the door a little wider to reveal a loaf of bread wrapped in a clean sheet of tissue paper, straight from the bakery, no doubt. His stomach grumbles, determined not to be ignored. With no word of invitation from him, she comes in, puts the bread down on the table.

‘Er, coffee, yes, thank you.’ Her presence is not what he needs at this moment.

She takes a small
briki
, large enough for a single cup, from its nail on the wall, and then busies herself laying out a cup, saucer, the bread, and a jar of honey. Her movements are too fluid, hypnotising, seductive, and he cannot watch. The best course of action must be to vacate the room until she has finished. He lifts the latch to the bedroom, where the sun streams in through the slatted shutters here too and, once the door is firmly closed behind him, finally, he takes off his outer cassock and looks for a hanger. There are hooks inside the narrow wooden wardrobe and hooks on the back of the door. There is no choice but to lay his robe out on the bed. That will be the first thing on his list. Coat hangers.

The bureau is locked and he fingers the small bunch of keys the bishop gave him last night until he finds the only one that might fit. The flap drops down to form a writing desk, letting out a faint smell of old books and warm dust. Inside is a mess of papers, and it seems odd that no one from the church has cleared the bureau out already, gone through whatever is there, sorted out his predecessor’s personal effects. At the back are slotted compartments, stuffed full of papers, overflowing.

There are stacks of letters about official church business, a collection of newspaper cuttings and a book by the poet Yorgos Seferis. He levers this out and as he does, it falls open at a well-thumbed page. The poem is entitled ‘Denial.’ The muscle in his thumb tenses, ready to snap the book shut when he sees in faint writing, erased pencil perhaps, the name
Nefeli
. It is written beside a line of the poem that reads ‘We wrote her name.’ He starts at the top and reads the whole poem. The final verse he whispers out loud:

‘With what spirit, what heart, what desire and passion we lived our lives: a mistake. So we changed our life.’ The last line is underlined.

He exhales and snaps the book shut. That sort of thing, encouraging feelings and emotions, is exactly what leads to trouble. What sort of man was his predecessor? He drops the book in the empty bin by the bureau and focuses on sorting through the papers. The occasional noise of Nefeli readying his breakfast drifts from the other room and he concentrates with greater earnest.

The first few letters are concerned with mundane church business and tell him nothing other than that his predecessor’s first name was Sotos. There is a bill for the covering over of the well, dated eighteen years ago. Why would Sotos keep that? It joins the book in the bin. A letter from a widow informing his predecessor that she will leave all her wealth to the church if he can promise her a place in heaven. This is something he has been told is common enough, but not something he has experienced personally until now. But there is bound to be a whole generation of old people in such rural villages as this. How many confessions, repentances, and accompanying gifts could he gain for the church? He could drop the idea of leaving a portion of their wealth to the church in his after-service thoughts every now and then, keep it fresh in their minds. There are many ways in which he can make his mark in the church, and this could be an easy one. Better to leave one’s property to God, he reasons, than to squabbling relatives. All too often, disputes occur when property is passed on and it’s not unusual to see houses decay and slowly fall apart because the heirs cannot agree.

Next is a newspaper cutting, its title missing. In fact, the whole of the first column is missing, but the subject is the church. Some of the clippings have yellowed with age, but this one looks fresh. It states that the ten thousand priests and bishops are not paid for by the church but by the state. Well, he didn’t know that. He reads on. The new government is trying to alter the law that exempts the church from paying property tax, which the writer of the article declares is shameless, as the church is worth over a billion euros. In the list of properties, there is no mention made of the four hundred and fifty monasteries that were cited in a recent memorandum that was sent round within the church. Maybe that is a good thing. As his new bishop said, it is not always best for the public to know everything. But then the article does go on to say that the Church is the second largest land owner in Greece after the state and holds a significant share in the National Bank of Greece. It says something about the church looking for a billion pounds of investment to build solar farms on the land they own to capitalise on their assets. He would like to be a part of that. That kind of wheeling and dealing excites him. The article summarises that all that has been previously mentioned does not include the eighty bishoprics and their own personal assets, ‘which they enjoy with considerable independence.’

‘Eighty bishoprics and their own personal assets, which they enjoy with considerable independence,’ he reads again, muttering the words whilst hardly moving his lips.

Maybe a bishopric in Greece could suit him. It sounds as if they have more freedom here than in America.

There is a tap at the door.

‘Okay.’ Savvas lets her know he has heard. Then everything stops. The news clipping falls from his hands. His breathing quickens slightly. There it is! A rubber-stamped document that seems to be the official transfer of the grand house to two named people. The last name is Nefeli. How fortuitous it is that he has found it so easily. Mind you, there is very little else in the desk. His predecessor can’t have been very active with regards to raising funds for the church. But even so. He must take his time to read it, decipher the small print that is written in tedious legal terms. He must find out exactly how official it is and whether there is room for some manoeuvre. If he got the house back for the church, that would be a boost to his position in the church’s eyes and it would surely be an asset if he sets his course toward a bishopric. With a bounce in his step, he goes to enjoy his breakfast.

Nefeli has moved the table from up against the wall to the centre of the room and there is a vase of delicate bluey-purple flowers in the centre. She has opened the shutters and a square of sunshine highlights all she has laid out for his breakfast. There is a smell of fresh bread and toast, coffee and, again, jasmine. With grace, she steps toward the door as he sits.

‘If I might have a word before you go.’ The way she looks from under her fringe stirs him, as if she is holding back a secret—or sharing one; he is not sure. It feels intimate even though she probably wears her hair that way to keep the world out. ‘Please, take a seat.’ He notes that the coffee in his small coffee cup glistens on top with tiny bubbles, no grounds to be seen. It pleases him. She sits perched on the chair’s edge as if ready to take flight.

‘How is your mother?’ It’s a safe opening that shows the right degree of concern. He waits, but she does not answer. Maybe it is more than shyness. Perhaps she is not all there. She doesn’t twitch or flex as she sits there, motionless. The curve of her neck down into her back, nipping in at her waist, is highlighted by the sun’s rays.

‘Good, good.’ Savvas breaks the silence. ‘Have you lived here all your life?’ She flinches at this.

‘I don’t live here, I live there.’ She turns her face in the direction of the grand house.

‘No. I mean…’

‘I used to live here,’ she adds. It catches Savvas off guard. He had not expected her to speak without being prompted by a specific question.

‘Did you like it when you lived here?’ It might be a good question or it might be entirely the wrong question. What if she hated it in the cottage?

‘I used to play in the olive grove behind and around the well until I fell…’

‘Ah yes, I heard you banged your head.’

‘Down the well.’

Savvas stops buttering his toast and looks up at her.

‘Sorry.’ But he thinks he has understood. ‘You fell down the well?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good grief. Was it deep?’ He is trying to make out how badly her forehead is scarred, but too much of her dirty golden hair falls over her face. Her chin nods down and to one side and she consciously blinks. A very Greek unspoken yes.

‘Mother of God, you must have seen stars.’ He bestows a smile on her but it is not returned.

The glance she casts him is hard and cold as if he has just accused her of something. She is certainly not an easy person to talk to.

‘Well, I am glad you are alright.’ Where was he? What was he saying to her? Oh yes, trying to find out if she liked the cottage. Well, if she fell and bumped her head, maybe this is not the best tactic. He will try another.

‘Do you find the house you are in now a little big to maintain on your own?’

Her accusing looks softens and her fingers relax in her lap. Such long fingers. Like her limbs, long and graceful.

‘I am very grateful. It assures Mama a home whilst she is alive.’

The words fall like music to his ears. If she is right, the house is only theirs until her mama’s death. That could give him possibilities. God is smiling on him.

‘Yes, I am sure you are.’ Now, he mustn’t rush this. Play it carefully, first make her realise that he is looking out for her, build some trust. Then, when he has a plan, she will go along with his wishes. After all, it will be for her own good as well as for the good of the church.

‘By the way, I meant to ask, is it possible for you to do my laundry?’ Diplomatic tactics. The laundry is part of her job description but he read in some magazine, years ago, that people trust other people not through flattery and gifts but by finding that they offer to do things for them. The article said that the logic is they would not have offered to do something for someone they didn’t trust, so, therefore, they conclude they must trust the person.