The Island (14 page)
Authors: Victoria Hislop
Throughout the twelve days of Christmas, Giorgis and Eleni sprinkled a little holy water in each room of their respective houses to deter the
kallikantzari
, seasonal goblins that were said to play havoc in the home, and on 1 January, St Basil’s Day, Giorgis visited Eleni once again, bringing her presents from the children and from Savina. The ending of the old year and the beginning of the new was a watershed, a mile-stone that had been safely passed, taking the Petrakis family into a different era. Although Anna and Maria still missed their mother, they now knew that they could survive without her.
kallikantzari
, seasonal goblins that were said to play havoc in the home, and on 1 January, St Basil’s Day, Giorgis visited Eleni once again, bringing her presents from the children and from Savina. The ending of the old year and the beginning of the new was a watershed, a mile-stone that had been safely passed, taking the Petrakis family into a different era. Although Anna and Maria still missed their mother, they now knew that they could survive without her.
Chapter Six
1940
AFTER ITS BEST winter in years came Spinalonga’s most glorious spring. It was not just the carpets of wild flowers that spread across the slopes of the island’s north side and peeped out of every crack in the rocks that made it so, but also the sense of new life that had been breathed into the community.
Spinalonga’s main street, only a few months earlier a series of dilapidated buildings, was now a smart row of shops with shutters and doors freshly painted in deep blues and greens. They were now places where shopkeepers displayed their wares with pride and islanders shopped not just out of necessity but for pleasure too. For the first time, the island had its own economy. People were productive: they bartered, bought and sold, sometimes at a profit, sometimes at a loss.
The
kafenion
was flourishing too and a new taverna opened which specialised in
kakavia
, fish soup, freshly made each day. One of the busiest places in the main street was the barber. Stelios Vandis had been the top hair stylist in Rethimnon, Crete’s second city, but had abandoned his trade when he had been exiled to Spinalonga. When Papadimitriou learned that they had such a man in their midst, he insisted Vandis resume his work. The Athenian men were all peacocks. They had the swaggering vanity of the city type and in their former days had all enjoyed the ritual of the fortnightly trim to both hair and moustache, the condition and shape of which almost defined their manliness. Life took a turn for the better now that they had found someone who could make them handsome again. It was not individual style that they aspired to but identically luxurious and well-coiffed hair.
kafenion
was flourishing too and a new taverna opened which specialised in
kakavia
, fish soup, freshly made each day. One of the busiest places in the main street was the barber. Stelios Vandis had been the top hair stylist in Rethimnon, Crete’s second city, but had abandoned his trade when he had been exiled to Spinalonga. When Papadimitriou learned that they had such a man in their midst, he insisted Vandis resume his work. The Athenian men were all peacocks. They had the swaggering vanity of the city type and in their former days had all enjoyed the ritual of the fortnightly trim to both hair and moustache, the condition and shape of which almost defined their manliness. Life took a turn for the better now that they had found someone who could make them handsome again. It was not individual style that they aspired to but identically luxurious and well-coiffed hair.
‘Stelios,’ Papadimitriou would say, ‘give me your best Venizelos.’ Venizelos, the Cretan lawyer who had become prime minister of Greece, was thought to have had the most handsome moustache in the Christian world, and it was appropriate, the menfolk joked, that Papadimitriou should emulate him, since he clearly aspired to a position of leadership on the island.
As Kontomaris’s strength began to fail, the leader relied more and more on Papadimitriou, and the popularity of the Athenian grew among the islanders. The men respected him for what he had achieved in such a short time; the women were grateful too; and soon he enjoyed a sort of hero-worship, no doubt enhanced by his silver-screen looks. Like most of the Athenians he had always lived in the city, and one result of this was that he did not have the bent and grizzled appearance of the average Cretan male who had spent the best part of his life in the open air, scraping a living off the land or out of the sea. Until the past few months of manual labour, his skin had seen little sunlight and even less wind.
Although the Athenian had ambitions, he was not a ruthless man, and he would not stand for election unless Kontomaris was ready to retire.
‘Papadimitriou, I’m more than ready to give up this position, ’ the older man said one night in early March over a game of backgammon. ‘I’ve told you that a thousand times. The job needs fresh blood - and look at what you have done for the island already! My supporters will back you, there’s no question of it. Believe me, I’m just too weary now.’
Papadimitriou was unsurprised at this last comment. During the six months since his arrival he had seen Kontomaris’s condition deteriorate. The two men had been close for some time and he had known that the elderly leader was grooming him as his successor.
‘I’ll take it on if you really are ready to let go,’ he said quietly, ‘but I think you should give it a few more days’ thought.’
‘I’ve given it
months
of thought already,’ replied Petros grumpily. ‘I know I can’t go on.’
months
of thought already,’ replied Petros grumpily. ‘I know I can’t go on.’
The two men played on in a silence only broken by the clack of the counters.
‘There’s one other thing I want you to know,’ said Papadimitriou when the game finished and it was time for him to go. ‘If I do win the election, I shall not want to live in your house.’
‘But it isn’t my house,’ retorted Kontomaris. ‘It’s the leader’s house. It goes with the position and always has done.’
Papadimitriou drew on his cigarette and paused a moment as he exhaled. He decided to let the matter rest. The issue might be hypothetical in any case since the election was not entirely a fait accompli. It would be contested by two others, one of whom had been on the island for some six or seven years and had a large following; the election of Theodoros Makridakis seemed, to Papadimitriou at least, a distinct possibility. A large contingent of the population responded to Makridakis’s negativity, and although they loved to lap up the benefits of all Papadimitriou’s hard work and the dramatic changes of the past six months, they also felt that their interests could be better served by someone who was driven by anger. It was easy to believe that the fire that propelled Makridakis might help him achieve things that reason and diplomacy could not.
The annual elections in late March were the mostly hotly contested in the history of the island, and this time the results actually mattered. Spinalonga was somewhere worth governing and leadership was no longer a poisoned chalice. Three men stood: Papadimitriou, Spyros Kazakis and Theodoros Makridakis. On the day of the election every man and woman placed a vote, and even the lepers who were confined in the hospital with little chance of ever emerging again from their sickbeds were taken a ballot paper which was duly returned to the town hall in a sealed envelope.
Spyros Kazakis won a mere handful of votes and Makridakis, to Papadimitriou’s relief and surprise, gained fewer than one hundred. This left the lion’s share and the clear majority to the Athenian. The population had voted with their hearts, but also with wisdom. Makridakis’s posturing was all very well, but achievement counted for more, and for this Papadimitriou knew at last that he was recognised. It was a pivotal moment in the civilising of the island.
‘Fellow inhabitants of Spinalonga,’ he said. ‘My wishes for this island are your wishes too.’ He was speaking to the crowd gathered in the small square outside the town hall on the night following the election. The count had just been double-checked and the results announced.
‘We have already made Spinalonga a more civilised place, and in some ways it is now an even better place to live than the towns and villages that serve us.’ He waved his hand in the direction of Plaka. ‘We have electricity when Plaka does not. We have diligent medical staff and the most dedicated of teachers. On the mainland, many people are living at subsistence level, starving when we are not. Last week, some of them rowed out to us from Elounda. Rumours of our new prosperity had reached them and they came to ask
us
for food. Is that not a turnaround?’ A murmur of assent rippled through the throng. ‘No longer are we the outcasts with begging bowls crying, “Unclean! Unclean!”’ he continued. ‘Now others come to us to seek alms.’
us
for food. Is that not a turnaround?’ A murmur of assent rippled through the throng. ‘No longer are we the outcasts with begging bowls crying, “Unclean! Unclean!”’ he continued. ‘Now others come to us to seek alms.’
He paused for a moment, enough time for someone to shout out from the crowd: ‘Three cheers for Papadimitriou!’ When the cheers died down, he added one final note to his message.
‘There is one thing that binds us together. The disease of leprosy. When we have our disagreements, let us not forget there is no escape from one another. While we have life, let us make it as good as we can - this must be our common purpose.’ He raised his hand in the air, pointing his finger upwards into the sky, a sign of celebration and victory. ‘To Spinalonga!’ he shouted.
The crowd of two hundred mirrored the gesture, and with a cry that was heard across the water in Plaka they cried out in unison: ‘To Spinalonga!’
Theodoros Makridakis, unnoticed by anyone, sloped away into the shadows. He had long yearned to be the leader and his disappointment was as bitter as an unripe olive.
The next afternoon, Elpida Kontomaris began to pack her possessions. Within a day or two she and Petros would need to move out of this house and into Papadimitriou’s current accommodation. She had expected this moment for a long time but it did not lessen the feeling of dread that weighed her down so that she could scarcely summon the energy to move one foot in front of the other. She went about packing in a desultory fashion, her heavy body unwilling to do the task and her misshapen feet more painful than ever before. As she stood contemplating the prospect of tidying away the precious contents of the glass-fronted cabinet - the rows of soldiers, the tiny pieces of porcelain and the engraved silver that had been in her family for many generations - she asked herself where these valuables would go when she and Petros were no more. The two of them were the end of the line.
A gentle tap on the door interrupted her thoughts. That must be Eleni, she thought. Though busy with school and the task of motherhood, Eleni had promised to come by that afternoon to help her, and she was always true to her word. When Elpida opened the door, however, expecting to see her slim, fine-featured friend, a large, darkly dressed male figure filled the frame instead. It was Papadimitriou.
‘
Kalispera
, Kyria Kontomaris. May I come in?’ he asked gently, conscious of her surprise.
Kalispera
, Kyria Kontomaris. May I come in?’ he asked gently, conscious of her surprise.
‘Yes . . . please do,’ she answered, moving away from the door to let him in.
‘I have only one thing to say,’ he told her as they stood facing each other, surrounded by the half-filled crates of books, china and photographs. ‘There is no need for you to move out of here. I have no intention of taking this house away from you. There is no need. Petros has given so much of his life to being leader of this island that I have decided to endow him with it - call it his pension, if you like.’
‘But it’s where the leader has always lived. It’s yours now, and besides, Petros wouldn’t hear of it.’
‘I have no interest in what has happened in the past,’ replied Papadimitriou. ‘I want you to stay here, and in any case I want to live in the house I’m restoring. Please,’ he insisted. ‘It will suit all of us better this way.’
Elpida’s eyes glistened with tears. ‘It’s so kind of you,’ she said, extending both her hands towards him. ‘So very kind. I can see that you mean it, but I don’t know how we are going to persuade Petros.’
‘He has no choice,’ said Papadimitriou with determination. ‘I’m in charge now. What I want you to do is unpack all your things from these boxes and put them back exactly where they were. I’ll come back later to make sure you’ve done that.’
Elpida could see that this was no idle gesture. The man meant what he said and was used to getting what he wanted. This was why he had been elected leader, and as she repositioned the lead soldiers in their ranks she tried to analyse what it was that made Papadimitriou so hard to disagree with. It was not merely his physical stature. That on its own might simply have made him a bully. He had other, more subtle techniques. Sometimes he moved people round to his point of view simply through the modulations of his voice. On other occasions he would achieve the same end by overpowering them with the force of his logic. His lawyer’s skills were as sharp as ever, even on Spinalonga.
Before Papadimitriou went on his way, Elpida asked him to eat with them when he returned that evening. Her great talent was in the kitchen. She cooked as no one else on Spinalonga, and only a fool would ever turn down such an invitation. As soon as he had gone she went about preparing the meal, fashioning her favourite
kefethes
, meat balls in egg-lemon sauce, and measuring out the ingredients for
revani
, a sweet cake made with semolina and syrup.
kefethes
, meat balls in egg-lemon sauce, and measuring out the ingredients for
revani
, a sweet cake made with semolina and syrup.
When Kontomaris came home that evening, his duties as leader finally completed, there was a lightness in his step. As he entered his home, the fragrant smells of baking wafted over him and an apron-clad Elpida came towards him, her arms outstretched in welcome. They embraced, his head resting on her shoulder.
‘It’s all over,’ he murmured. ‘At long last it’s over.’
As he glanced up, he noticed that the room looked just as it always had. There was no sign of the half-filled crates that had been standing about the room when he had left that morning.
‘Why haven’t you packed?’ There was more than a note of irritation in his voice. He was weary and he so much wanted the next few days to be over. Wishing they were already transported to their new house, the fact that nothing seemed even vaguely ready to go upset him greatly and made him feel more exhausted than ever.
Other books
Behind the Sun by Deborah Challinor
Laws of Attraction by Diana Duncan
A Hero To Trust In Me by Marteeka Karland
Scent of Magic by Maria V. Snyder
Rescued By a Lady's Love (Lords of Honor, #3) by Christi Caldwell
Worse than Death (Anna Southwood Mysteries) by Jean Bedford
Sophie's Throughway by Jules Smith
And Now We Shall Do Manly Things by Craig Heimbuch
Cruel y extraño by Patricia Cornwell
Interfictions by Delia Sherman
