Black Butterflies

Sara Alexi

BLACK BUTTERFLIES

oneiro

Published by Oneiro Press 2012

Copyright © Sara Alexi 2012

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental

Across the water the island looks harmless. From this distance it is a misty blue, undefined, drifting above the horizon. Floating like a mirage in the heat. The water is smooth, its shallow facets glinting in the sun, beckoning with beauty, giving the illusion that she can swim there. The sun shines without a care, lazy, hot. No sounds are heard except the lap of the water and the snuffle of a stray dog.

‘You are coming, lady? Time to go,’ the man says, rope in hand. The brown sleek-coated dog with floppy dugs and ears sniffs around his polished shoes. He flicks the end of the rope at it and the mongrel sidesteps and turns its attention to the woman on the bench.

Marina falters, refocusing her eyes on the young man. The island fades behind him.

‘Sorry?’ She slips her arm through the handle of her old leather cargo bag, anticipating his reply.

‘
Let’s go.’ He nods his head at the boat which he has hold of with one hand, one foot on board, one on the shore, the strength of his inner thighs keeping it from drifting. He releases the mooring line from the quay’s solitary rusting iron bollard in readiness to be under way.

Marina plants her feet firmly, shoulder-width apart, and leans her upper body weight forward over her shins, her black skirt taut in the effort as she slowly straightens. Her back isn
’t so bad at the moment. Perhaps she needs to lose a kilo or two, but all day long in the shop with sweets, crisps, biscuits, and often there seems little point in cooking for one …

Her black bag, now firmly hooked in the crook of her elbow, slides from the bench as she stands, the weight jerking her slightly to one side. The approaching dog is startled by the movement and retreats a few paces before returning to cautiously sniff at the corners of her holdall as she crosses the small pier to the boat.

She is glad she has not worn her new shoes. The concrete is pitted and crumbling. She struggles to reach across the sea-filled gap for the handrail by the opening into the boat. The patient captain helps by taking her bag, slipping it up his own arm and steadying her descent into the small craft. It lurches with her weight and rocks as it stabilises.

It has been a long time since Marina has been on one of these boats. She blinks back a silent tear. Now they have engines and covers. But it is still a basic wooden fishing boat, just like all those years ago. The red
plastic-covered foam cushions on the box seats and the plastic windows in the plywood cabin walls are a thin veneer of modern life; the solidity of the wooden hull a reminder of the years of use, the slow evolution of a fishing boat; layers of paint a testimony to its service.

In the prow of the boat facing the buckled, sea-etched windows and the tiny ship
’s wheel is a big leather bucket seat on a thick chrome stanchion. The captain trots down the steps into the vessel. He grabs the back of this perch and eases himself into it, causing the stanchion to demonstrate that not only can it rotate, but that it also has an internal shock absorber and is quite happy to bob up and down against the waves once loaded with the weight of a man. Marina’s mirth escapes as an audible giggle. It is a seat for a serious office, on a pillar of chrome suitable for a late-night bar. She admires the inventiveness.

The man settles into his throne and carefully arranges his coffee mug, cigarettes and lighter around him. Marina, giggles forgotten, realises that she is at the point of no return. She swallows hard and decides that perhaps the journey is not such a good idea. She takes hold of her bag and, planting her feet on the floor, she eases her weight forward. Unaware, the captain flicks a switch and the revving engine rocks Marina back into her seat, the deep throb of diesel drowning out her half-hearted protests. His attention is now on the sea. Edging the throttle forward, he swings his taxi boat away from the pier, leaving Marina to come to terms with the decision she has not quite made. She quells her fears by ignoring them and looks out at the blue.

Even though the sea is flat-calm and silky-smooth, once some speed has been gained the hull begins an irregular bounce against the water, booming in the plywood cabin. The spray from the bow blows in through the open doorways spasmodically, like indecisive rain. The man sits on his pedestal, bouncing to its rhythm, throttle full forward. He leans to his right and flicks another switch on a small home-made plywood box. The craft fills with the sounds of eighties pop music and the captain sings along, the words distorted by the accent of his Greek mother tongue. His brown polished shoes tap out the rhythm on the worn wooden floor. Marina cannot help but think more practical shoes would be better suited to the job. But his open-necked shirt is clean and his jeans have an ironed crease down the centre. It is nice to see a well turned-out young man.

Her attention is drawn back to the island, but as it does not seem to be getting any bigger Marina ignores it and turns to look back towards the mainland and watches the wake of the boat rising and curling upon itself. Plumes of spray create rainbows. Beyond, she can see the mainland disappearing. The dog is still on the pier, sniffing around the bench where she sat. The shore on either side of the pier is rough and pebbly. There are no tourists here; it is just a port, a place of comings and goings. Not much has changed, the farmhouse just as she remembers it from all that time ago. There are more cars parked now than when she was a girl. But there were fewer people everywhere in those days. Everyone knew everyone back then. That was why Aunt Efi had taken her to the island. Marina crosses herself three times and blesses the memory of Aunt Efi.

A new song bubbles from the speakers. Marina looks at the back of the man bobbing in his chair. He is whistling along to the music and his chair bounces in rhythm as his foot pushes the beat into the floor. Some wisps of his hair are blowing in the wind that curls through the two forward doors. He becomes aware of Marina’s stare and raises a hand to slick back the stray strands, but no sooner has he smoothed his mane than the wind regains its wild control. The captain pauses his singing and grooming to light a cigarette. He catches Marina’s eye as he turns from the wind to still the lighter flame and smiles cheerfully, nodding to the island to indicate their advance.

Marina can see the town now. The long streak of an island is broken in the middle by what looks, from this distance, more like a tumble of white rocks. She can make out a vague indentation, indicating the harbour opening. She puts a hand to her stomach and wishes she had eaten more for breakfast, or less. The island had seemed bigger back then, but her nerves felt the same.

The land is now fast approaching, the houses cascading down to the port from the pine trees on the ridge. Red-tiled roofs atop dazzling whitewashed walls. Small, contained, as ancient as Greece itself.

They are approaching with speed. Now she can clearly see the high stone wall to the left of the port entrance, capped with dots of black, a line of old cannons. She looks to the right to make out the lower wall, also sporting rusted cannons, to complete the defence. She watched a documentary about the island on television one night when business was quiet in her corner shop. It had been a wealthy port full of boat owners, shipping magnates, at one time. Pirates had invaded, so the islanders slung a chain across the harbour entrance, from cannon to cannon. The heavy chain dipped beneath the waves to catch on the keels of the invading boats, giving the islanders time to load and fire the cannons at will.

Marina half-wishes the chain were in place now so that their keel might be caught, ensuring their return to the mainland. She thinks about her shop, with familiar faces coming and going, and routines that seldom vary. Childhood friends who became parents, who now come in with their grandchildren. Time standing still until you look in the mirror.

The captain is singing Queen
’s ‘Fat Bottomed Girls’ at the top of his voice. He has slid from his elevation and is all but dancing as he steers. He lets go of the wheel for a full spin before slicking his hair back and continuing towards the port.

Marina laughs, her eyes sparkling. The man turns to smile at her and offers his hand for a dance. She waves him away. He grins.

She hears voices, an American twang, and looks about her through the salt-streaked plastic windows. A sailing yacht with crew on deck in bright swimwear, with pasty white limbs. They wave and laugh and the captain sounds his compressed-air horn in one loud, rude blast, and he sings all the louder. The day-trippers laugh and wave more vigorously. The captain smooths his hair.

The cannons are nearly above them now. They have reached the entrance to the harbour. The captain shuts down the engine and their speed drops to a lulling chug. The bouncing becomes wallowing, everything calm. Only Marina
’s stomach churns.

To Marina
’s excitement she can see, in the entrance to the harbour, the long blue water boat that featured in the documentary. The programme said the island has no water of its own, so it is shipped in every day in a big blue tanker. They interviewed some of the crew. When it is full, Marina recalls, it sits so low in the water that the decks are awash, but when it is empty it bobs like a cork. She surveys the low deck to see if she can see the men who were interviewed, but the ship is unmanned. Her straining neck relaxes and her body slumps a little as her attention wanes. The boat doesn’t look as exciting at it had on the television.

She expected the harbour would not have changed much but she is surprised by mayhem, shouts, tangled anchors and the cluster of vessels, some of them huge. Million-dollar yachts tied to the quay next to tiny speedboats, chartered sailing yachts next to private gin palaces. The harbour is heaving. The early birds have moored themselves in stern-first, up against the port wall; the late-comers bow-first, nuzzling in between those that are safely harboured, adding a line where they can, tying one to another, three vessels deep in some places. There is scarcely any room left to manoeuvre in the middle of the port.

With the engine idling, Marina can hear some Athenians on their day-sailing yacht asking permission to cross an expensive-looking schooner, to make their way to shore. There is no response to their Greek request, and they speak again in a strong, accented English. The Asian in uniform on the schooner waves them across, the sea their joint pleasure, and mutual fear, levelling all social boundaries. The sound these calls make, Marina decides, is a happy one, and she smiles.

It is just possible for Marina to see the island
’s fishing boats, tiny traditional wooden crafts, double-ended, tightly squeezed into a corner. An arch through the high pier gives them access to the sea, allowing them to bypass the hordes of pleasure boats.

Marina and her captain have all but stopped, and he is manoeuvring them carefully alongside the area reserved for taxi boats and the commercial hydrofoils, the
‘Flying Dolphins’. Once lined up, he jumps onto the land and makes fast to an iron ring set into the stone quayside before descending to help Marina with her bag. Marina hesitates and struggles to gain her balance. She toys with the idea of paying double and returning immediately, but feels this would be foolish.

‘
Next time, I will play only Greek music and we will stop halfway across and dance,’ the captain laughs.

Marina hauls herself onto shore and rummages in her big bag to find a smaller bag from which she takes her purse.

‘You will do no such thing!’ Marina pays him, with a grin.

‘
When we are halfway across, who will stop us?’

Marina giggles and the years drop away, their age difference suspended. The man smiles and jumps back aboard his boat to answer a radio call. Seat bobbing, he revs the engine and is away with a wink and a wave.

Marina puts her purse away, takes a deep breath and looks up, her smile fading. The town is all still there, just as it was then. The stumpy clock tower, the impressive Venetian mansions. She tries to claim her thoughts by recalling what the documentary said about the ship owners bringing such wealth to the island, but the facts won’t be recalled. The port has changed in some respects since her last visit. The wide walkway around the port is now a mass of cafés, with chairs and tables to the water’s edge. Where she is standing is very busy, every chair taken, the spaces between full of suitcases, as people, yawning at this early hour, wait to move on.

‘
Marina?’

Marina turns to the sea of people, a smile of habitual response brightening her face.

‘Marina, over here!’

Marina sees a woman, waving, who looks vaguely familiar.

‘Marina, do you remember me?’

‘
Hello!’ Marina smiles as she recalls the woman’s face; she had come into her shop in the village one day, a while ago, not this summer anyway. Now, what had she bought? Ah yes! Two bottles of wine (in glass, mind you, not the local stuff in plastic bottles), bread and eggs, before declaring that she and her husband were lost. They had stayed for ages chatting, her husband interpreting. Wasn’t this the American couple? She had brought in chairs from the back to make them more comfortable. Lovely people. Yes, they chatted so long that when they left she forgot to ask them to pay. He was called Bill … but what was her name?

‘
I cannot believe you are here! I mean, what are the odds? Do you know, we were trying to work out if we could pass by your shop this time around, but I am not sure we even remember where it is. We felt so bad. Did you realise we forgot to pay?’ She looks expectantly at Marina.