A Bridge Of Magpies (2 page)

'I hear you are very good now with the old vases and things. One of these days Professor Cacouris will let you help with the frescos.'

'You hear
a lot,
Gin.'

'It is a bar. People talk.'

'It's pretty empty tonight?

'Don't you want to be alone with me?'

'Not in your present mood.'

'I am a woman.'

'You're needling me into getting drunk.'

'You could have done that on your boat'

'I never drink at sea.'

'You drink on land, though.'

'Sweet Jesus! Can't you stop bitching and leave me to drink in peace?'

'It's not peace you're after–it's passing out,

'Then you can put the body aboard the
Orga.'

'Another horrid name?

'When I get bored by my lady tourists
I
call her the
Orgasm.
Scares 'em off or lures 'em on. Depends. Actually It's the name of the village in Cyprus where she was built.'

'Cyprus! Who's taking my homeland's name in vain?'

Relieved to get away from Gigi's
needling,
I
swung
round on my stool to greet the newcomer. Byron, the Greek – a needle-sharp, devious, sophisticated ex-tanker officer who (if you believed his stories) had been washed by many waters, from the Persian Gulf to Piraeus. His long coal-black hair and lush sideburns against a tanned skin (also visible past swelling chest-muscles nearly to navel level through an open mauve shirt) would have made him the envy of any male model. And he
knew
it. Women couldn't stay away from him: he knew that, too, and bore the burden stoically. He sailed a bigger boat than mine. What his cargoes were was anyone's guess. Mine
was
that they were arms and anununition. He had a
pied-à-terre
the uncharitable would have called it a 14

funkhole–in the town of Them, eight hundred steps up the
cliff
from the bar. We often drank together. He was witty and entertaining; the most delightful liar I've met.

'Byron! Come and help me get the taste of Gigi out of my mouth.'

He grinned and said something to her in Greek which sent
her
sulking to the far end of the bar.

'I thought Gigi's was the most likely place to find you.'

He splashed himself a liberal dose of the Skaros. 'There are three people in Thera looking for you tonight' '

Three?'

'Myself, Ari, and the postmaster, old Tsaras. He'd fall apart at the seams if he tried the steps'

'You've found me.'

'But Ari has the telegram. He talked Tsaras into letting him deliver it to you at the excavation site.'

'Ad knew damn well
I
was away in Athens.'

Ari was an urchin, about ten years old, who attached himself to me whenever I came ashore.
He
was an orphan and lived in a hovel in Theta. Perhaps the strength of the proprietary feeling about me was in direct proportion to my liberal tips.

'Knowing Ari I'd say he was touching some sucker of a tourist for the fare to the site, and then hoping to double up by what you gave him'

I laughed. 'You bloody Greeks
are
all the same at heart–from the cradle onwards,'

'Aren't you interested in the telegram?'

'Why should I be?'

'The typical beach-comber syndrome.'"

'Where'd you learn that fine phrase, Byron? It sounds like
the exit
line of one of your women.'

He grinned, 'She was American. We met on an intellectual level.'

I looked him over. 'And you couldn't bear all that beau& ful body going to waste.'

'The telegram is something special Old Tsaras was all steamed up about it.'

Gigi came over and joined us. 'Maybe it's from Athens, about the vases you took.'

'Never. Athens wouldn't bother about me. They'd get in touch direct with the Prof.'

15

Byron spreading his hands in the deprecating, sympathetic way that only a Greek can, asked, 'Home?'

'No one gives a damn.'

'Old Tsaras said something about
its
being long-distance.' I refilled our glasses. 'Long may the home fires burn. And burn. And burn.'

Byron gave me a penetrating glance and said something to Gigi.

She replied in English. 'He's been in this mood all evening.' `

Listen, you two,' I said. 'I don't want any sympathy and
I
don't want any tears; I don't need 'em. Santarin's my life.
I'm
here by my own choice and I like it the way it is.' `That's why you're not interested in your telegram–maybe

from the Cape?'

'Who said the Cape?'

No one. But that's where you're from.'

'Know the Cape, Byron?'

'I've sailed round it times enough.'

'Fine. Then you'll understand what I'm going to tell you, being a tanker man yourself. Ever hear of the
Walewska?'

'What tanker man hasn't? Ripped herself open on a reef off South West Africa, carrying a full load of 150,000 tons. In these days of shortages! Then some trigger-happy sonofabitch commanding
a
frigate sent her to the bottom without even waiting to see .

'I didn't send her to the bottom. I blew her sky-high.'

A charge of plastic explosive under the seat of his pants couldn't have lifted him quicker off his stool.

'Christ! You! You?'

'Yes. Me. Mel'

Without being able to shift his eyes from me, he said to Gigi, 'Get me some of that whisky you keep stashed away for Americans.'

She gave us both a startled glance and scuttled away. Byron said slowly, holding out his right hand, 'I want to shake the hand that threw away a million
dollars
in a flash of flame–pool ! Like that.'

Cut it out,' I replied. 'Don't get

melodramatic. I had enough drama from the Press at the official inquiry into the sinking. From everyone, in fact That's why I'm here.'

`You were kicked out–cashiered?' Byron's voice was full
of awe
and admiration,

16

Gigi came back with the whisky and a light which she placed on the bar counter.

'No I wasn't. I quit. Of my own free will. The Navy
was
on my side. All the way. But there was a king-sized ruckus over the
Walewska.
The tanker company sued the. Government for millions. The court hearing went on for months and I was target number one. By the time it was finished I'

d had the lot of them. Sure, I would have got another ship but I didn't intend to be strung along for the rest of
my life
at
the end of a radio asking, "Please sir, may I do this, please sir, may I do that?" I was the captain of the frigate and I made the decision. I stand by it.'

'Fit for independent command,' murmured Byron.

'You're stuffed full of other people's cast-off phrases'

He shrugged. 'If the cap fits So, because you' don't like other people's querying your actions and decisions, you pulled

up
stakes and quit–to Santorin? An ex-Navy captain sailing aimlessly from nowhere to nowhere?'

'Just
that. I was fed to the back teeth with the whole bunch of them: inquiry, Navy, lawyers, the lot. Anyway, who the hell are you to tell me what I should or shouldn't do?'

He touched my hand wonderingly. 'A million dollars up the spout!'

'If you go on fiddling with my hand I'll begin to think
I'm
Lady Macbeth or you're a lady-boy:

'Not in front of Gigi, please Struan!'

The wine–it had that fire which seems to be at the heart of all wines from volcanic soils –started to give me a warm feeling about Gigi; and I was wondering how to get rid of Byron, who was concentrating on the whisky, when Gigi exclaimed:

'Here's Ari now!

'Telegram for you, Boss. You must hurry.' He was puffing and grinning as if he'd run all the way down Thera's eight hundred steps. He clutched
a
buff envelope Only drachmas would loosen his grip.

'How'd you know, you little bastard? – you can't read.' '

Mister Tsaras said hurry. It's from overseas,' He offered the envelope. 'Money in advance, Boss.'

'Cape,' said Byron. 'I'll bet on it.'

He was right. Although I was half ready to accept that it
might
be, I
nevertheless felt an
odd contraction
in my stomach
17

when I saw that the office of origin was Cape Town. It had been sent two days previously and read:
'Your
mother critically ill. Imperative you come at once. Groot
Schuur hospital.'

'It's my mother,' I told them. Ìt says, come at once.'
'
Where is she,
Boss?' asked Ari.

'Cape Town. It's five thousand miles away. I can get a plane direct front Athens.'

'Is she bad, Struan?'

I caught myself staring at Gigi's breast and
wondering when
I'

d see her again. For a beach-comber Santorin hadn't been a bad bit of
beach.

'Critical. That was two days ago.'

Byron said. 'First you've got to get to
Athena
It's 150 miles. It'll be a hell of a beat right into the teeth of the
meltemi.
My boat's got an engine and I'd take you except I'

ve got an appointment on the Turkish coast ...'

'Thanks all the same, Byron. I'll make out under sail. Pity Santorin doesn't run to a steamer service,'

'Does it say what's wrong with your mother?'
Gigi
persisted. `

No. I'd guess a stroke, at her age.'

'The other brothers and sisters can be with her ... in case. You needn't go.'

'There aren't any other brothers and sisters. I'm the only son.'

'And your father?'

'Killed in the war.'

'I'll
come
and help you sail the
Orga,
Boss,' Ari chipped in. 'Free. No charge.'

I looked at the pinched, pert face, surprised and touched at the generous gesture. He'd miss me–for a day or two. '

Thanks, no, Ari. You'd be left stranded in Athens after I'd gone. I can't tell how long

be away.'

Byron
assessed the
sky. 'You'll have to make a long haul towards Therasia before you'll weather the entrance to the bay, Struan.'

'Yes, the sooner I get cracking, the better. Right now . . there's nothing to keep me.'

Gigi turned the light away so that I couldn't read
her
eyes.

'No, there is nothing to keep you.' She went on, speaking almost to herself, 'I wish you'd been drunk tonight then 18

you couldn't have gone. Tomorrow, when you surfaced again, it would
have
been too late.'

I'll come back, Gigi. The Cape doesn't hold anything for me any more.'

But
she
wouldn't reply: just went and prepared some food for my trip to Athena

Gigi, Byron and Ari waded into the warm sea and pushed the
Orga clear
of the flange of rock which made the easy mooring. Ari chattered excitedly, while Byron passed on some local sailing lore; but Gigi simply stood there with the water swishing round her bare legs. When I brought the stern round and called goodbye she didn't wave or say anything. The
meltemi was
ripping directly into the great bay and I set out, as Byron had indicated, on the long pull towards Therasia Island in order to strike through the bay's entrance to the open sea.
The
business of getting sail on the clumsy old calque took time and when I looked back all I could
see
were the lights of Gigi's bar shining against the backdrop of the great cliff.

I set course for Athens–and the Cape.

19

The Boeing jumbo jet banked for the landing at Cape Town and I had a glimpse of Table Mountain through the overcast. A fine, cold rain
was
blowing off the ocean on a southwesterly gale-a typical, miserable Cape winter's day. The sight of the great mountain pitched a load of associations at me and made me depressed. The long tiring air journey - Athens, Lisbon, Las Palmas, the Bulge of Africa, Angolaadded its own quota of discouragement. I wondered if I should have come: I would probably arrive too late to find my mother alive. The rain splashed against the plane's windows, a reminder of days at sea on the bridge. I made a derisive comparison between that Cape of Storms sea -a cold,
grey,
wicked mass, throwing a punch of three thousand miles of open water behind it-and the Aegean. The
meltemi was a
woman's wind compared with a Cape buster, and the tideless waves breaking on the picture-postcard islands had no more guts than a junkie.

Maybe my contempt for the
classic
sea had showed itself by the way I had hurled my old calque into the
meltemi
after
I'd left Santorin; I used a dozen seaman's dodges to avoid the deadly tack and tack-about into the teeth of the same wind which once had blown the Greek heroes from Troy. I had finally reached Athens only a few hours before a Cape flight was due to leave. In the rush I hadn't managed to have my one thin tropical suit smartened up, and it sat crumpled and untidy on me. I hadn't a tie but had bought a black string bootlace thing off a plane steward. The other passengers' eyes told me I looked like a kinky beach-boy. After the landing, I was checking through the usual formalities. The sluicing rain on the way across the tarmac from the plane to the terminal building hadn't acted
as
the best of valet services to my suit and hair. They were soaked. I stood by while an immigration official examined my pass. port. He gave me a considering look, reverted to my photograph, regarded me
again,
then went off to an inner office. 20

Mother official appeared and also considered me. Both disappeared for some time and returned with a third man wearing a cap and plastic raincoat over his uniform.

'War is die Moeilikheid –what's
the trouble?' I asked.

`No problem,' answered the desk official. The raincoated man eyed me.

'You are Mr Struan Weddell?'