Hearts of Stone (28 page)

Eleni’s hand began to reach for his, but she stole it back. ‘Anything.’

‘Then take me to my father. I must see him while he still lives.’

Chapter Twenty-Four

T
he house he had grown up in looked very different to the last time he had seen it. The flowerbeds around the drive were overgrown and one of the small whitewashed pillars at the gate had been demolished and the rubble lay undisturbed. An open-topped Fiat staff car was parked outside the entrance and the driver leaned against the door smoking a cigarette. Watching from the shadows of a terrace of trees overlooking the house, Andreas felt his heart ache at the melancholy ambience of his father’s villa. He had been lying in wait for over two hours and it was now after six in the evening. Eleni had parted from him when they had reached the track above the villa. While he had gone into hiding to keep watch, she had returned to Lefkada to change from her shepherd’s garb into clothes more appropriate for visiting Andreas’s father. She had explained that it was the custom for the Italian officers billeted at the villa to drink in the town most evenings. They usually left just before dusk and returned late in the evening, usually drunk, before staggering to their rooms to sleep it off.

The enemy officers did not disappoint. As the sun dipped behind the crest of the hill at Andreas’s back, the front door opened and three men emerged. They were in shirtsleeves with bloused trousers tucked neatly into their gleaming boots. The driver instantly flicked his cigarette away and took his seat as his cheery passengers climbed aboard. A moment later the engine started and the car circled the drive and passed through the damaged gate before rattling down the road in the direction of Lefkada. Andreas felt a brief stab of anger as he realised who had been responsible for the damage to the gate pillar. Then he settled back to wait for Eleni. He wondered how his father would receive him. Much had happened since they had last faced each other and his return to the island was an extremely dangerous venture.

He recalled the advice of Lieutenant Moss that it was best to resign oneself to the prospect of not surviving the war. He understood the man’s thinking well enough. Any attempt to hold on to ambitions and dreams for the future might cause a man to hesitate when to do so could make the difference between life and death, or more importantly, between a mission’s success or its failure. But he could not make himself abandon hope of being part of the world that would be won when the evil tide of fascism had been rolled back and destroyed. Especially when Eleni might be at the heart of that world. It would be a fine thing, too, if his father came to know the full details of his experiences and was proud of him. It was a small reward in the grand scheme of things, Andreas reflected, but the respect of his father was a most valuable prize.

Half an hour after the car had departed he observed a small figure appear around the bend in the road and approach the gate. He saw at once that it was a female and that her head was covered in a black scarf. It had to be Eleni. No one else had any reason to be here at this time of day. She walked in an unhurried manner, a wicker basket on one arm, and made no attempt to glance around and look for him. She approached the villa and climbed the short flight of steps to the door and knocked. She hesitated and knocked again before letting herself in. There was a brief delay before Eleni stood on the threshold and took out a bright yellow scarf – the signal that it was safe for Andreas to enter the villa. He glanced both ways along the road before he emerged from the cover of the trees and jogged over to join her.

She took his arm gently and drew him inside, shutting the door behind them. At once the musty, slightly damp odour filled Andreas with a sense of familiarity and longing for his younger days. Nothing much seemed to have changed in the villa’s hall. Some of the smaller items of furniture were missing and the Italians had hung their jackets, coats and helmets on the pegs beside the door and the gun cabinet was empty.

‘Your father is this way.’ She turned to the small door on the left of the hall that led into the servants’ quarters. A dingy corridor stretched along the front of the building with several small storerooms and the kitchen and living quarters of the staff. Those were now empty, save for the last door at the end of the corridor which was closed. Eleni took the handle and then turned to Andreas.

‘Let me speak to him first. He doesn’t know you are back on the island. It would be better not to surprise him. Let me break the news, all right?’

Andreas nodded and she twisted the handle and entered the darkened room while he waited outside.

‘Who . . . who’s that?’ a voice called out feebly.

‘It’s Eleni. I’ve brought you some food. I’m going to make soup.’

‘Good . . . Good girl. I feared it was that Italian bastard, come to steal from me again. He took my watch . . . I complained to one of the officers, but he laughed at me.’

Eleni clicked her tongue and then crossed to the shuttered windows either side of the door leading out on to the terrace. Lifting the latches, she swung them open with a dull squeal from the rusting hinges, and evening light pierced the gloom.

‘How are you feeling today?’

‘Alive. More’s the pity.’

Eleni tutted. ‘That is no way to speak.’

‘No?’ Katerides replied absently. ‘Then pray tell me what there is to live for? My country is invaded, my house occupied by arrogant barbarians and my son . . . My son is gone . . . You are all the light that I have left in my life now, young girl. And you should not waste your time looking after me. You should be enjoying life, not ministering to the dying.’

‘You are Andreas’s father, and my friend too. I would not have it any other way. Now, will you have soup, if I make it for you?’

‘Of course.’ Katarides’s tone lightened a little. ‘I dare not refuse.’

‘Quite right.’ There was a brief pause before she continued. ‘Before I go to prepare your supper, tell me something.’

‘What is this? Must I earn my meal by answering questions? Ah, well. What is it?’

‘If it was in my power to grant you a wish, what would you want?’

‘Wishes are for fools. There are many things I might wish for, but not one of them will come true.’

‘Perhaps, but indulge me.’

‘Very well . . . An end to the pestilence of war. And a return to the way things were.’

‘I see. And what would that involve?’

‘An end to the invasion of my house. A free Greece . . . and the return of my son, Holy God willing that he still lives.’

‘He does.’

‘How can you possibly know that, child?’ Katarides demanded bitterly. ‘He has been gone for over a year and there has been no word of him. It is more than likely the war has claimed him.’

‘It has not. He lives. You have my word on it.’

‘If he lives, then I would wish to see him again with all my heart, while I still draw breath. There are things I should have told him, before it was too late.’

‘Then tell him . . . Andreas?’

He entered the room, recalling it from the days of childhood when he used to sneak into the servants’ quarters when they were absent or at work, curious to know how they lived. The room smelled of sweat and stale food. There was a simple chest of drawers and a table under one of the windows, with several books piled beside a stack of paper. A pen rested in its holder, next to a pot of ink. The only other items of furniture were two old chairs and a metal-framed bed on which his father lay. He was propped up against a worn and stained bolster and a frayed cover lay across his thin body. Andreas was shocked by his appearance. His father looked thin and delicate and his hair, once dark and lustrous, was now long, uncared for and streaked with grey. It was difficult to believe so great a change could have overcome him since the last time Andreas had returned to his home.

Katarides stared back, wide-eyed, and his jaw sagged as he muttered, ‘Holy God, it is you . . .’ He struggled up from the bolster and stretched out a hand. ‘Andreas. My Andreas. My boy.’

His son felt his throat tighten with emotion and he did not trust himself to speak, but nodded, then took one of the chairs and set it down beside the bed and stood over his father as the latter shook his head in disbelief.

‘What are you doing here? Have you come home?’

Andreas smiled. ‘Not quite. I am back on the island.’

‘Then you must stay here. There is plenty of room, even if those pasta-eating parasites have taken over the villa.’

‘I can’t. Not now, at least. I have work to do before I can come home.’

‘Work?’

Eleni patted the old man’s hand. ‘I’ll leave you to talk while I make the soup.’

Katarides nodded vaguely, his eyes still fixed on his son. She picked up her basket and left the room and the sound of her footsteps echoed lightly off the walls of the corridor before she reached the kitchen.

‘What kind of work do you mean?’ Katarides asked.

‘I cannot tell you anything, Father. It is safer for you to know nothing about it. Believe me.’ Andreas sat down and his father reached out and took his hand.

‘I understand, I think.’ Then his eyes widened. ‘But you are in danger here! If the Italians come—’

‘The officers have gone into town. If they come back early, I will see the lights of the car on the road long before they reach the villa. I am safe for now.’

‘No. You should leave! They would shoot you if you were caught. Why did you take such a risk?’

‘To see you, Father. Eleni said that you were sick. So . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Here I am. I won’t stay for long. But I just needed you to know that I am alive and well. And that you have something to look forward to when the fascists have gone.’

Katarides shook his head sadly and eased back on to his bolster. ‘And when will that be? All I hear is that they are driving the Allies back on every front. What if they should win the war? What then? A dark veil will fall over the world and all free men will be trampled under their boots. I could not live in such a world. There will be no place for poets and free thinkers.’

‘They will be defeated,’ Andreas responded firmly. ‘It may take many years, but we will be free again.’

‘Yes, a comforting thought . . . But come now, do you really believe it?’

Andreas considered a moment before replying. ‘I hope for it. If the alternative is as dreadful as you forsee, then I would give my life to fighting against it, if only because it would have no value in that world.’

Katarides nodded slowly. ‘Yes. You are right. And you are young enough and strong enough to do what I cannot. Else I would join you and the others in the mountains and fight for our freedom.’

Andreas squeezed his father’s hand affectionately. ‘And I would be honoured to fight at your side, Father. But this is a war for younger men.’

‘It always is, my son. That is the nature of war. It consumes our young, the very best of us. It destroys a generation. Even those who survive will always be scarred. There is no greater tragedy than war. I would give anything to save you from it. Even my life, if I could.’

Andreas swallowed and forced a smile. ‘The world will need poets when the war is over, Father. At that time more than ever.’

Katarides gestured towards the table by the window and sank back into his bolster. ‘I am finished. There are no more words to write . . .’

There was a brief silence during which Andreas grieved for the loss of the spirit that had animated his father for so long but had now deserted him. It was one more reason to hate the enemy. To hate the brutal nihilism of what they stood for. He cleared his throat. ‘There will be a day when we are free again. That is what I am fighting for. Eleni too. We Greeks have seen occupiers come and go across the centuries, but we are still here, and always will be. And we’ll fight to make sure of it, just as we always have. Hold that thought, Father, but you must never mention a word of this. Never let anyone know that you have seen me. Perhaps I should not have come here. I’ve put you at risk.’

‘No. I’m glad that you did. More happy than I have been for a long time.’

‘When I leave here I don’t know when I may next see you. I just needed you to know I am alive.’

‘Alive, yes. But not safe.’

‘No one is, until the war is won. Safety is something of a luxury at present. But I will not be reckless with my life, I promise you that.’

‘Good, now help me out of this bed. We’ll sit outside on the terrace.’

Katarides sat up and eased his legs over the side of the bed and reached for a pair of trousers lying folded on a small side table. Under the covers he had been wearing a loose shirt and he now tucked this into the waistband of his trousers and shuffled his feet into his slippers. Andreas went to help him up but was rebuffed with a firm hand.

‘I can do this by myself. It is the spirit that has grown weak, not so much the body.’

He rose from the bed and led the way across the small room to the door and opened it on to the terrace. Outside the island was bathed in the syrupy gold of the evening light that fell across the roofs of Lefkada and the mainland beyond. Swifts darted over and between the trees, scooping up insects in their fine beaks. For a moment Andreas felt transported back to a happier time, and then he saw the Italian flag ripple gently above the prefecture. The table where he had eaten so often as a child was now littered with the detritus of an earlier meal. Plates and cutlery, wine glasses with dregs at the bottom and the butts of cigarettes lying discarded on the ground. His father pulled out a chair at the far end and Andreas moved the remains of the Italian officers’ meal to the side of the table and then sat down. They looked out over the Ionian Sea for a moment without talking, then turned at the sound of footsteps.

‘There you are.’ Eleni smiled as she emerged from Katarides’s room with a large tray bearing three bowls of soup, some bread and a pitcher of water and glasses. She put the tray down and set out the simple meal.

‘Vegetable soup. There is little meat to be had in town.’

‘It smells good.’ Katarides smiled. ‘Thank you, Eleni.’

Andreas broke off a chunk of the bread and dipped it into the soup and ate hungrily, unconsciously scratching at his side as he did so. Then he looked up and caught Eleni’s frown. She glanced to his hand and Andreas stopped scratching, feeling ashamed.