An Inch of Time (7 page)

Corfu Town did not look Greek to me. Most of its old buildings looked as Italian as anything I had seen in Italy. I later found out that most of these tall houses, with their frail-looking wrought-iron balconies, shuttered windows and pantiled roofs, were in fact a legacy of the Venetian occupation of the island.

There didn't seem to be many tourists. The season hadn't really started yet – this being the first week of April – and the majority of people in the street looked like locals. What struck me most as I stood on the wide pavement and tried to get my bearings were the smells. Despite the traffic in the street, here under the trees the predominant aroma travelling on the cooling air was that of freshly roasted coffee. I soon found the reason for this: there were three coffee roasters on this street alone, pumping their seductive smells on to the evening air. A little further along, a street vendor was roasting chestnuts, while next to him a man sold pasties from a heated glass box. I pointed, paid and in return received a triangular pasty on a piece of brown paper. It was hot, crumbly and delicious, filled with cheese and spinach, and didn't last long. So I went back and bought another.

Most of the traffic disappeared to the left, but I walked straight on, leaving the noise behind. Following the worn pavement, I found Lykoudis bookshop. The assistant spoke good English and sold me a map of the island, with a plan of the town on the reverse side. Nearby I found a cafe that seemed to consist of a narrow doorway and three tiny zinc tables on the pavement. Two of them were occupied by three men in their late sixties, wearing grey trousers and grey jackets over knitted jumpers, despite the heat. They sat with their backs to the wall and studied me as I sank on to a chair at the third table, profoundly grateful for the fact that I was no longer in motion across Europe. The man closest to the door called something over his shoulder and a skinny boy with a faintly stained shirt emerged and said: ‘
Oríste, ti thélete?
'

‘
Énan kafé
,' I told him.

‘
Pos ton thélete?
'

‘
Skéto.
'

‘
Amésos.
' He disappeared inside.

The whole exchange went so quickly I had to pinch myself: did I really just order a coffee in Greek? It appeared so, since the man closest to my table fired a sentence at me, obviously believing that I spoke the language. I didn't understand even a single word of what he said, which put my four-day crash course of the language back into its proper perspective. I threw up my hands in an apologetic gesture and he turned back to his friends, his suspicions confirmed –
xénos
, a foreigner. Why else would he carry a map of the island?

My
kafé
– a lighter version of Turkish coffee – arrived in a small white cup, together with a glass of very cold water. I slurped at the tiny bubbles on the surface; its taste fulfilled the promise of its fragrance. As I began to relax and stretched out my legs, I realized that it would probably take a bathtub of the stuff to keep me awake for much longer. The thought of another night in the van held little allure now and I was hoping for a bed. A decent shower, not the lukewarm dribble which was all Matilda could offer, and fresh sheets were what I was after. I reached into my jacket for my notebook and Morva's address.

It wasn't there. I went through all the pockets – nothing. I felt along the lining where things often ended up if I forgot which pockets were sound. Still nothing. I was certain I hadn't left it in the van. The last time I had taken it out had been to hand it to Kladders so he could read the address. But surely I had taken it back? I was wide awake now. One gulp finished the coffee. I paid what seemed like not very much at all and made my way back to the van where five minutes of furious searching under the disapproving eyes of the cat produced nothing. I tried to visualize the address. Morva Lennox, number fourteen
Odos
something. Something Street wasn't going to help, but Kladders had said turn left after the bookshop. I'd find it.

I bought the cat's silence with another tin of tuna and walked back. Something Street, when I found it, was a narrow lane, bridged by lines of washing stretched between the houses. It was too narrow for cars but had enough space for a mad scooter rider who beeped me impatiently out of the way. Number fourteen was a tall and ancient-looking house with peeling plaster and louvred shutters at the windows. There was a row of bells, none of which displayed any names. I pushed at the door; it was on the latch. The air inside smelled damp; the scuffed marble floor tiles were wet. On a landing above the first flight of steps, a woman with steel-grey hair twisted a mop inside a zinc bucket. She wore a drab black outfit and had bandaged calves above swollen ankles and gave me a resigned look as I walked towards her across the freshly mopped floor.

I remembered another two words from the chapter called
Asking Directions and Saying What You Want.
‘
Poo íne
Morva Lennox?'

She gave me a long answer from the chapter
Well, You Did Ask, Dear
. This time I understood at least one word: Lennox. She obviously knew the name. I told her I spoke very little Greek. She didn't stop talking, only now it was more to herself, as she came painfully down the stairs and beckoned me to follow her by making a curious clawing motion with one hand. She led me outside and along the lane to the nearest corner and made me follow her into a souvenir shop that had everything apart from customers: bundles of sandals hanging by the door frame, cassettes and CDs of Greek music, miniature replicas of classic statuary, including some extremely priapic examples, printed tee shirts, beach paraphernalia, sunhats and sunglasses. My guide called loudly for the proprietor, whose name appeared to be Alexiiiiiiii. When he materialized, she handed me over with a single sentence that contained the name Morva, then disappeared before I remembered the Greek for ‘thank you'.

The proprietor was a short man in his late twenties, with soft pale skin and nicotine-stained fingers. I introduced myself and we shook hands.

‘I am Alexis. Welcome to Corfu, Chris.' He pronounced my name ‘Crease'. ‘You are looking for Morva? She is here no more. She is moved in the country. You are a friend?'

‘Yes, an old friend. That was the last address I had for her. When did she move away?'

‘Two years.' He shrugged. ‘Maybe more.'

‘You wouldn't have her new address?'

He waggled a vague hand, then pointed to the map I was still holding. ‘I can show where.'

He unfolded the map and smoothed it out on the glass counter above a display of Rolex replicas. He waggled his head disapprovingly. ‘This map, it is shit map, it is very old.'

‘I bought it today.'

‘OK, is new shit. All Corfu maps are like this. They show you where they want you to go, not where you want to go. Here.' His finger followed the red ribbon of a road across to the other side of the island, then south to where it turned into a much thinner white ribbon that stopped at the edge of a brown patch indicating a small mountain. He pointed at the brown patch, half an inch beyond which the road ended in nothing. He picked up a biro. ‘I write in, OK?' He added a squiggle to the tail of the white road and marked the end with a cross. ‘Here. Ano Makriá. Here you find Morva Lennox. You rent a car?'

‘I brought my own.'

He pulled a painful face. ‘OK, pity. Drive careful.' He handed back the folded map and guided me out the door. ‘Tell her Alexis say “
iássu
”.'

He closed the door behind me. I heard him turn the key twice.

Not even the outskirts of Corfu managed to be all that unlovely, and as the traffic thinned I had more time to look about. Predictably, tourism seemed to be the main occupation here, though once the road detached itself from the resorts by the sea and climbed into the hilly interior it also seemed to leave most of the tourist industry behind.

Corfu was an island of trees. I had no idea how many were cut down to make way for roads, tourist villas and hotels, but there seemed to be several million left. Terrace after terrace of olive trees flew by and the sea of greenness was pierced over and over by the lances of the cypress trees. The quiet villages I drove through looked as if nothing much had changed here for decades. Most of the houses were small and simple, often whitewashed, with painted wooden or wrought-iron doors. Flowers grew in profusion, many planted into large feta tins that lined the walls. Bougainvillea framed entrances; fig trees shaded courtyards. Whatever the size of the village, there never appeared to be more than one narrow road that was negotiable by motor vehicles. I saw no tourist cars, only small tractors, well-worn pickup trucks and bikes and scooters being ridden by helmetless riders. Even though I constantly checked my mirrors, there seemed to be no sign of the blue Toyota.

Darkness crept up on me in the hills. The next two finger-posts, written in Greek with the English spelling underneath, didn't correspond to anything on my map. I had been steadily climbing on a narrow tarmacked road, with the winking lights of villages taunting me from across the mountainside above, but I never seemed to arrive anywhere. Here, away from the tourist traffic, the roads had been allowed to deteriorate. I drove carefully around the potholes to give the ancient suspension a chance. During the next half-hour of driving around I met only two other cars, both going in the opposite direction at twice my speed. I passed small stone dwellings that looked unlived-in and appeared to be attached to the many orchards around here, consisting mainly of orange and lemon groves. The road snaked steadily up the tree-clad mountain without ever seeming to lead anywhere. At the next turn, I stopped at a road sign. It had its English translation obscured with angry streaks of red spray paint, but the Greek writing seemed near enough to what I was looking at on my map. I took the turn. The potholed road narrowed and dipped back towards sea level, then suddenly the van's wheels hummed happily on a short stretch of smooth black tarmac. Lights appeared ahead and a moment later I entered the village of Neo Makriá. Derringer was complaining at me from the back of the van; his patience with the constant movement, irregular toilet breaks and erratic feeding had run out. A minute later the engine started to cough, Matilda having run out of fuel. I had plain forgotten that I had changed to ‘reserve' as I drove off the ferry. When I rattled on to the village square, the engine ran on fumes and Matilda rolled to a stop next to a young palm tree. Derringer, Matilda and I had all come to the same conclusion: enough was enough.

Neo Makriá looked as though it prospered without the aid of the tourist euro. All its houses looked freshly painted. At the edge of the square stood a bright yellow kiosk, illuminated by a crown of coloured light bulbs. The
kafénion
, a traditionally men-only cafe, as I had learned on my language tape, had three men sitting at tiny tables outside, their backs to the wall. They looked very convincingly like the three from the cafe in town, down to the knitted tops and worry beads sliding through their fingers. Only these three were drinking
ouzo
, a clear aniseed spirit that goes cloudy when mixed with water.

It was a mild evening. Children on tiny bicycles chased each other round the square, lapping a hopelessly outpaced kid pedalling furiously on a tricycle. At one end of the square some kind of ball game was in progress. Adults were going about their business, strolling, chatting in small groups and, above all, watching me.

I made for the
kafénion
. The proprietor, Dimitris, an energetic thirty-year-old with a moustache and a five o'clock shadow, spoke English.

First things first. Was there any food? He could rustle up some bread, cheese and olives. Otherwise, why didn't I try the
psistaría
? He even took me the hundred yards to the establishment.

‘Is there a guest house in the village where I can get a room for tonight?' was my next question.

‘How long do you want the room for?'

‘Just for one night. I'm going a bit further tomorrow but I have had enough of driving for today and, besides, the van's run out of fuel.'

‘We have a room. I tell my wife. Come back to the
kafénion
after your meal.'

The
psistaría
– the grill – was a simple affair with yellow Formica tables and those chairs made from painted iron hoops and multicoloured plastic bands; it was run by two young men. They were doing good trade over their battered counter in front of a long charcoal grill on which rows of tiny pork kebabs on wooden skewers were being basted and thick metal skewers held sizzling pieces of highly seasoned lamb. I knew they were highly seasoned because I watched one of the men throw extraordinary amounts of pepper and salt at them. I ordered a couple of
souvlaki pittes
and sat down at one of the yellow tables outside with a large bottle of Henninger beer and felt myself relax a little. For a while I simply sat and enjoyed the village scene in front of me, the smells of the charcoal grill, the simple flavour of the beer; stationary pleasures. The food arrived soon, morsels of grilled pork with tomatoes, onions, parsley, yoghurt and a dollop of spicy sauce, all wrapped in soft pitta bread, held together with greaseproof paper and a napkin. As soon as I had finished the first I ordered two more.

While I tackled my second lot of souvlakis, one other foreigner arrived at the grill: a broad-shouldered, silver-haired man in his fifties with a fleshy, richly veined nose.

He stopped at my table on his way in. ‘Are you here for the birds?' He had a surprisingly high voice for a man his size.

‘The birds? You mean birdwatching?'

‘Yes,' he said impatiently. ‘Aren't you? Most people who come this early are twitchers. But you're not?'

‘Not really, no.'

He gave a resigned nod. ‘That's a shame. I was going to ask you if you had seen any Egyptian vultures yet. I haven't seen one yet this year and I'm getting a bit worried. No use asking the locals; they don't seem to be interested at all.' He snorted with disapproval and disappeared inside. When he came out again with a bottle of fizzy orange, he chose a table well away from me; obviously, we had exhausted our conversational potential.