One Cretan Evening and Other Stories (8 page)

On the shelf behind his grandfather there was a row of framed photographs. Most of them were of himself, or his cousins in America, but there were also wedding pictures – his parents’, and his aunt and uncle’s too. And one other framed photograph, a very formal portrait of his grandparents.
It was impossible to tell how old they had been when it was taken.

‘We must wait for your grandmother before we begin,’ Dimitri said.

‘Yes, of course. It’s
Yia-yia
who would forego a sack of diamonds to live here, isn’t it? She seemed so angry at the thought of ever leaving. I didn’t mean to offend her!’

‘You didn’t offend her,’ said his grandfather. ‘She just feels very strongly, that’s all.’

Soon enough Katerina came into the room, suffused with the aroma of the slowly baking vegetables. Removing her apron she sat down on the sofa and smiled at both her Dimitris.

‘You have waited for me, haven’t you?’

‘Of course,’ replied her husband lovingly. ‘It’s your story as much as mine.’

And in the dim filtered light of the apartment, where it could have been dawn or dusk, they began.

Thessaloniki, May 1917

T
HROUGH A PALE
gossamer haze, the sea shimmered. Onshore, the most vibrant and cosmopolitan city in Greece went about its business. Thessaloniki was a place of dazzling cultural variety, where an almost evenly balanced population of Christians, Muslims and Jews coexisted and complemented each other like the interwoven threads of an oriental rug. Five years earlier, Thessaloniki had ceased to be part of the Ottoman Empire and become part of Greece but it remained a place of diversity and tolerance.

The colour and contrast of its rich ethnic meze was reflected in the variety of outfits paraded in the streets: there were men in fezzes, fedoras, trilbies and turbans. Jewish women wore traditional fur-lined jackets and Muslim men their long robes. Wealthy Greek ladies in tailored suits with a hint of Parisian
haute couture
were in striking contrast to peasants in richly embroidered aprons and headscarves, who had come in from the surrounding rural areas to sell their produce. The upper town tended to be dominated by Muslims, the area nearest to the sea by the Jews, with Greeks occupying the
city’s outer edges, but there was no segregation and in every area people from all three cultures mixed together.

Rising up the hillside behind a huge semicircular arc of coastline, Thessaloniki was like a giant’s amphitheatre. High up on the hill, at the furthest point from the sea, an ancient wall marked the boundary of the city. Looking down from this height the landmarks of religion dominated: dozens of minarets rose into the air like needles in a pincushion, red-tiled domes of churches and pale synagogues dotted the cityscape in its great sweep down towards the Gulf. Along with the evidence of the three religions that all thrived here were remains from Roman times: triumphal arches, sections of ancient wall and the occasional open space where pillars stood like sentries.

The city had improved in the past few decades, with the laying down of some broad boulevards, which contrasted with the ancient pattern of winding lanes that snaked like the serpents of the Medusa’s hair up the steep gradient towards the upper town. A handful of large stores had appeared but the majority of retailing was still carried out from small shops no bigger than kiosks, family run, thousands of them, all vying with each other for business and squeezed into the narrow streets. As well as the hundreds of traditional kafenions, there were European-style cafés serving Viennese beer, and clubs where people discussed literature and philosophy.

There was a density about this city. The volume of its inhabitants, and their containment in a space enclosed by walls and water gave it a concentration of strong smells, vivid colours, and continuous noise. The calls of the ice-seller, the milk-seller, the fruit-seller, the yogurt-seller, all had their own distinctive pitch, but together made a pleasing chord.

Night and day, there was never a pause in the continual music of the city. Many languages were spoken here: not just Greek, Turkish and Ladino, the language of the Sephardic Jews, but French, Armenian and Bulgarian were also commonly heard on the streets. The rattle of a tram, the cries of the street vendors, the clashing calls to prayer from dozens of muezzin, the clank of chains as ships came in to the dock, the rough voices of the stevedores as they unloaded cargos of necessities and luxuries to satisfy the appetites of rich and poor – all of these combined to make the city’s endless tune.

The smells of the city were sometimes not as sweet as its sounds. A pungent stench of urine wafted from the tanneries, and sewerage and rotting household waste still flowed down into the harbour from some of the poorer areas. And when the women gutted the previous night’s catch, they left the steaming, odorous debris to be devoured by cats.

In the centre was a flower market, where the fragrance of blooms still hung in the air for many hours after the stall-holders had packed up and gone home; and in the long streets orange trees in blossom provided not only shade, but the most intoxicating aroma of all. There were many houses where jasmine rampaged around the doors, its aromatic white petals carpeting the road like snow. At all times of day, the smell of cooking suffused the atmosphere, along with wafts of roasted coffee made on small stoves and carried through the streets. In the markets colourful savoury spices such as turmeric, paprika and cinnamon were shaped by the seller into small mountain peaks, and plumes of aromatic smoke curled up from narghiles, smoked outside the cafés.

Thessaloniki was currently home to a provisional
government led by the former Prime Minister, Eleftherios Venizelos. There was a deep division in the country – known as the National Schism – between those who supported the pro-German monarch, King Constantine, and supporters of the liberal Venizelos. As a consequence of the latter’s control over northern Greece, Allied troops were currently encamped outside the city in readiness for operations against Bulgaria. In spite of these distant rumblings, most people’s lives were untouched by the world war. For some, it even brought additional wealth and opportunity.

One such person was Konstantinos Komninos and, on this perfect May morning, he strode in his usual purposeful manner across the cobbled dockyard. He had gone to check on the arrival of a shipment of cloth, and porters, beggars and boys with handcarts steered out of his path as he took his straight course towards the exit. He was not known for his patience with people who got in his way.

His shoes were dusty and some fresh mule dung clung stubbornly to his heel so when Komninos stopped at his usual boot-black, one of a row kept busy next to the customs house, the man had at least ten minutes’ work to do.

Well into his seventies, his skin was as dark and leathery as the footwear he polished, and he had been cleaning shoes for Konstantinos Komninos for three decades. They nodded a mutual greeting but neither of them spoke. This was typical of Komninos: all his routines were carried out without conversation. The old man worked at the leather until it gleamed, polishing both of the expensive brogues simultaneously, applying the polish, working it into the leather and finally brushing with sweeping strokes, ambidextrously, his arms flying
left and right, crossing over, up and down, side to side, as though he were conducting an orchestra.

Even before the job was finished, he heard the tinkle of a coin dropped into his tray. It was always the same, never more, never less.

Today, as every day, Komninos wore a dark suit and, in spite of the rising temperature, kept his jacket on. Such habits were an indication of social standing. Going about one’s business in shirtsleeves was as unthinkable as taking off armour before a battle. The language of formal dress for both men and women was one he understood, and one that had made him rich. Suits lent a man both status and dignity, and well-cut clothes in the European style gave a woman elegance and chic.

The cloth merchant caught sight of himself in the gleaming window of one of the new department stores and the shadowy glimpse was enough to remind him that he was due a visit to the barber. He took a detour into one of the side streets away from the seafront and was soon comfortably seated, his face lathered and every inch except his moustache closely shaved. Then his hair was meticulously clipped so that the space between the top of his collar and his hairline was precisely two millimetres. Komninos was annoyed to see that there were hints of silver in the specks of hair that the barber blew from his clippers.

Finally, before making his way to his showroom, he sat for a while at a small circular table and a waiter brought him coffee as well as his favourite newspaper, the right-wing
Apoyevmatini.
He dispensed with the news quickly, catching up on the latest political intrigues in Greece before giving the headlines on
military developments in France a cursory glance. Finally, he ran his finger down the share prices.

The war was good for Komninos. He had opened a second warehouse near the port to help deal with his new business – the supply of fabric for military uniforms. With tens of thousands being called up for military service, this was a huge enterprise. He could not employ too many people, or deliver the orders fast enough. Additional quantities seemed to be required on a daily basis.

He drank his coffee in a single sip and rose to go. Each day he experienced a profound sense of satisfaction from having been awake and working since seven in the morning. Today he enjoyed the idea that he still had another eight hours in his office before leaving for Constantinople. He had important paperwork to do before his departure.

That afternoon, his wife, Olga Komninos, looked out from their mansion in Niki Street and gazed at Mount Olympus, just visible through a haze. The heat had been building up and she opened one of the floor-to-ceiling windows to let in some air. There was not a breath of wind, and sounds carried easily. She heard calls to prayer mixing with the clatter of hoofs and carriage wheels in the street below, and a ship sounding its horn to signal its approach.

Olga sat down again and put her feet up on a chaise longue, which had been moved closer to the window to catch the breeze. Since they had never been worn outside, there was no need for her to remove her dainty, low-heeled shoes. Being an almost identical match, her silk dress seemed to vanish into the pale green of the upholstery, and the blue-black of her
braided hair accentuated the pallor of her skin. She could not get comfortable on this languid day, and drank glass after glass of lemonade, poured from a jug that her devoted housekeeper regularly appeared to replenish.

‘Can I bring you anything else, Kyria Olga? Perhaps something to eat? You haven’t had anything at all today,’ she said, with gentle concern.

‘Thank you, Pavlina, but I just don’t feel like eating. I know I should, but today I simply . . . can’t.’

‘Are you sure I shouldn’t fetch the doctor?’

‘It’s just the heat, I think.’

Olga sank back on to the cushions, her temples beaded with sweat. Her head throbbed and she held the icy glass against it to try to relieve the pain.

‘Well, if you still haven’t eaten anything later, I will have to tell Kyrios Konstantinos.’

‘There’s no need to do that, Pavlina. And besides, he is going away this evening. I don’t want to worry him.’

‘They say the weather is going to turn this evening. It’s going to get a bit cooler. So that should help you a little.’

‘I hope they are right,’ Olga replied. ‘It feels as though there might be a storm.’

Both of them heard something like a clap of thunder, but then realised it was the sound of the front door banging shut. It was followed by the rhythmic beat of footsteps on the broad wooden staircase. Olga recognised her husband’s business-like pace and counted the standard twenty crochet beats before the door swung open.

‘Hello, dearest. How are you today?’ he asked briskly, walking over to where she lay, and addressing her as though he was
a doctor speaking to a simple-minded patient. ‘You’re not finding it too hot, are you?’

Komninos now removed his jacket and carefully hung it over the back of a chair. His shirt was transparent with sweat.

‘I’ve just come back to pack a suitcase. Then I’ll be going back to the showroom for a few hours before the ship leaves. The doctor will come if you need him. Is Pavlina looking after you? Have you eaten anything since last night?’ Komninos’ statements and questions blended together without pause.

‘Make sure you take good care of her while I am away,’ he said, directing a final comment at the housekeeper.

He smiled at his resting wife but she had looked away. Her eyes fixed on the sparkling sea, which she could see through the open window. Both sea and sky had now darkened and one of the French windows was banging against the frame. The wind had changed and she sighed with relief as a breeze caressed her face.

She put down her glass on the side-table and rested both hands on her swollen belly. The dress had been perfectly tailored to conceal her pregnancy but, in the final few months, the darts would be pulled to straining point.

‘I’ll be back in a fortnight,’ Komninos said, kissing her lightly on the top of her head. ‘You’ll look after yourself, won’t you? And the baby.’

They both looked in the same direction, out of the window towards the sea, where the rain now lashed in against the curtain. A streak of lightning cut across the sky.

‘Send me a telegram if you need me desperately. But I’m sure you won’t.’

She said nothing. Nor did she get up.

‘I will bring some lovely things back for you,’ he finished, as though he was talking to a child.

As well as a ship full of silk, he planned to return with jewellery for his wife, something even better than the emerald necklace and matching earrings that he had brought last time. With her jet-black hair, he preferred her in red and would probably buy rubies. Just as with tailored clothes, gems were a way of showing your status and his wife had always been a perfect model for everything he wanted to display.