The Santorini Summer (4 page)

‘Do you know, I’m getting fed up with this situation. The clothes I brought with me are all unsuitable for this climate. And I’m sick of looking so dowdy compared to the Americans. There must be some shops in Heraklion. What about a shopping trip?’

‘I haven’t noticed any clothes shops,’ Maureen said, doubtfully.

‘The Greek women must get their clothes from somewhere. Sophia is about our age. I’ll ask her.’

Sophia, our landlord’s daughter, served breakfast and changed our beds. She spoke little English but she smiled a lot. The following morning I went looking for her, armed with pencil and paper. She was hanging washing on a line at the back of the house. With much use of mime, I explained what we wanted. Sophia obligingly drew a sketch of roads in Heraklion where we would find some clothes shops, and added the times of the local bus.

‘Are you sure you want me along?’ asked Maureen. ‘I’m not likely to be much help where clothes are concerned.’

I wanted company, not fashion advice, and I thought Maureen could only benefit from this expedition.

After lunch, we took the bus, got off at the terminus, and followed the map. We found ourselves in a district of narrow cobbled streets full of doorways which were adorned with various garments hanging, rather forlornly, from coat hangers. The interiors of the shops were dark and unwelcoming.

‘It’s not Oxford Street, is it?’ said Maureen doubtfully.

‘We’ll look for one with a youngish assistant,’ I said, sounding more confident than I felt.

So we walked along, trying to peer beyond the garment-draped doorways to judge the ages of the serving staff. When we’d exhausted all the possibilities we were back to where we’d started.

‘Oh, I don’t know. Let’s just walk into the next shop we pass.’

This proved to be a good strategy. Once inside, face to face with an assistant, we were forced to overcome our diffidence, and it became apparent that goods
were
available, just not displayed as we were used to. Our sizes were expertly judged, drawers and cupboards opened, and we were ushered into primitive fitting rooms. The clothes on offer were made of a fine, light cotton, sometimes beautifully embroidered, usually sleeveless, and altogether more wearable than our English clothes. They were also remarkably cheap. I became quite intoxicated with the freedom they promised, and made many more purchases than I’d intended. Even Maureen was won over by the Cretan fashions. Our return journey saw us both smiling with satisfaction and laden with parcels.

Naturally, that evening I wore one of my new dresses. It was white, with delicate embroidery each side of the V-shaped neckline and along the hem. The cotton was very fine and felt silky as it brushed against my bare legs. My body felt free and I felt womanly for the first time in my life.

The Greek boys peered in the window of our favourite taverna, established that we were inside, and very politely asked if they might join us. We agreed graciously, and shuffled about to make room for them, as though it were not all pre-planned. Somehow, Christos was seated beside me as he always was.

‘I think you are going native, Olivia,’ he began, mischievously, indicating my new dress. ‘You are becoming a Cretan.’

I wished I did not blush so easily. ‘I needed some cooler clothes.’

‘And it is most becoming. But I rather miss your other dresses. They seemed to pay respect to Greece.’

My lack of comprehension was written on my face.

‘Your blue and white clothes. Our national flag.’

The penny dropped and I blushed again. But I liked him teasing me. To my astonishment, he took my hand under cover of the tablecloth.

‘Forgive me, but I like to see you blushing. Oh, my Olivia, you are named after the tree of Crete – the olive tree. I think it was your destiny to come here and meet me, as it was mine to meet you.’

I was not yet used to my new status as Christos’ girlfriend, and found flirting thrilling but equally embarrassing. To cover my gaucheness I changed the subject.

‘How is the dig going, do you think? Will it ever be proved that Sir Arthur was definitely wrong?’

If he was disappointed at my choice of topic he gave no sign of it. ‘The deciphering of the Linear B tablet seems to prove that the Minoans had a civilisation separate from that of the Mycenians, so he was right about that. But I’m afraid he jumped to conclusions in declaring Knossus to be the site of Minos’ palace. And I do wish he had not reconstructed so much from his own imagination. He should have left what he found as it was, for future study.’

‘But I can understand the temptation. He so wanted others to see what he imagined.’

‘But that is not archaeology, Olivia. It is whimsical romance. And it was desecration to use modern materials. Concrete has no place here.’

‘But concrete was all he had. And if he hadn’t rebuilt where he did, many of the buildings would have collapsed. So he was only doing the best he could at the time, wasn’t he?’

This dig was just a field trip for me, a student of Ancient History, but for Christos, who was studying archaeology, it was a passion.

‘Do you know the legend of Atlantis, Olivia? A once highly civilised state which was destroyed in a great flood? Plato writes of it.’

I had to confess that my knowledge of Plato was sketchy.

‘There is a theory…An archaeologist named Marinatos has a theory that Santorini and Crete together formed the great state of Atlantis. When the major eruption occurred on Santorini a tidal wave engulfed the area.’

My blank face betrayed my ignorance, so he continued: ‘Santorini is a small island to the north of Crete. It arose as the result of volcanic activity. It is a geological fact that there was a great volcanic eruption on Santorini around 1600BC which destroyed much of the island. It must have caused a huge wave that would have affected much of the Mediterranean. The Old Palace at Knossus was destroyed by some natural disaster around that time and the remains we see today were built on top. The Santorini volcano would explain that. There is even a theory that the strange happenings written about in the book of Exodus were the result of this eruption. You know the Bible, Olivia?’

I could hold my head up here, because Religious Studies had been compulsory at the girls’ grammar school I’d attended.

‘You know the story of the plagues of Egypt?’ he asked.

I nodded, comprehension dawning. ‘Do you mean the locusts and the thunder and all the other phenomena?’

‘That’s right. Such a huge explosion must have had devastating effects all over the Mediterranean. The crater of Santorini is the largest in the world. The explosion must have been even greater than that which destroyed Krakatoa, which was the largest in the known world. It is more than likely that Crete would have been affected by the tidal wave. So the legend of Atlantis may have been based on truth. I have an ambition to go to Santorini and pursue this theory.’

‘But won’t you be doing just what Sir Arthur is accused of? Making archaeological finds fit a legend?’

‘Oh no, Olivia. We shall look for facts, and report facts. Only when there is proof would Marinatos publish his findings. But it would be a great adventure.’

His enthusiasm and integrity made me admire him more than ever, and I resolved to find an atlas and look for Santorini.

I reflected that it was easier to talk about the distant future because we didn’t want to face the fact that eventually our field trip would end. I would return to England and Christos to Athens, and then what would happen to us?

Every minute that we were together was precious, and so every day I longed for the evening when we might sit next to each other in a taverna and, without incurring the Professor’s displeasure, talk and flirt a little. We tried not to draw attention to our burgeoning relationship so it always had to be low-key and decorous, but I longed for a moment when we might be alone. I began to yearn for Christos to kiss me, to feel his lips on mine. I had very little experience of the physical pleasures of loving, but I was undeniably in love and so the absence of any sort of physical contact between us began to tantalise me. I was aware of Christos’ good manners and sensitivity towards my reputation, and admired him for his restraint, but I was also frustrated by it, and began to wonder if there was something wrong with me, or him, that we behaved so well.

Chapter Three

‘Wow, Nan, this is so incredible! Why haven’t I heard this story before?’

‘Because I have never told it before – in its entirety that is,’ I explain.

And I find myself telling it now because here I am, back in Santorini, with Alexa who looks so like Christos that it breaks my heart all over again just to look at her.

‘So this Christos, he was the love of your life, the one you would have followed anywhere?’

‘He was the only man I ever loved.’

She stares at me. ‘You mean Dad…?’

‘Your father is Christos’s son. Sadly, they never met.’

‘Oh, wow, Nan. What happened?’

‘It’s a very long story, Alexa, and I will tell you the rest of it, but not now.’

I am far too emotional, reliving it again, here in this place. I don’t want to cry in this busy restaurant. Alexa has never seen me cry. I want to be alone.

Her eyes full of curiosity, Alexa finishes her lunch. I pay the bill and we head back to the safety of the car.

*

She is waiting for me now on the terrace, silhouetted against the still-azure sky. She hears my approach, turns, smiles, and I catch my breath. She is wearing the short white tunic she bought today, with Greek-style sandals laced up her bare ankles. Her long, luxuriously curly hair is kept off her face with a brown bandeau, almost as dark as her hair, and her skin is already tanned. She is a Minoan priestess. No, she is Christos, reincarnated.

‘Nan, what’s wrong?’ Her happy smile has been replaced with a frown. ‘Are you ill?’

I can only shake my head and try to smile. She holds me at arm’s length.

‘Are you sure? Did you have your nap?’

Swallowing hard, I murmur, ‘You look beautiful.’

‘Do you like it?’ She pirouettes.

‘More of a blouse than a skirt, perhaps?’

‘Oh, Nan, it’s not that short ! All the Greek girls are wearing them.’

‘Only teasing. Let’s go and have some dinner and see the sunset.’

She tucks my arm in hers and chatters about which of the many restaurants we should patronise.

Christos, I wish you could see your granddaughter tonight. She has your eyes, your hair, your skin. She is stunning.

The shopkeepers and restaurateurs, standing on their doorsteps ready to welcome customers, eye her appreciatively before they catch my eye and lower theirs, respectfully.

If she were alone she would be besieged with offers of wonderful jewels, the finest silks, the best food in Santorini, if only she would step inside.

‘Most of what you see here is modern’, I tell her. ‘Rebuilt after the 1956 earthquake. Just occasionally you will see an untouched ruin, or a properly restored traditional house, but Oia was much less sophisticated when I first saw it. It was largely a fishing community, although it had attracted some artists even then.’

‘But it’s beautiful, Nan. And it looks so old.’

Of course it is beautiful, and picturesque. The blue of the caldera behind the whitewashed houses with their pretty courtyard gardens tumbling down the cliffside, the white marble walkway shining in the evening sun, the gorgeous merchandise artfully arranged in the boutique windows and the dazzled tourists laden with cameras, all create a picture-perfect Greek island in the sun. But it is a construction in both senses of the word, and it is not the Oia I know.

‘When I first came, there were hardly any tourists, nor any vehicles other than donkey carts. People lived very simply, by fishing or cultivating tomatoes and grapes. Most of the houses were dug-ins – facades built in front of hollowed out caves. You might have to pass through someone else’s yard to reach your house, and another person’s yard might have been built above your dug-in. Only the few rich families, descended from the Captains who’d made a fortune from sea trading in the nineteenth century, could afford a fine, stand-alone house built of stone.’

There is a small harbour below Oia, called Armeni, and it was from there that I waved Christos off on his fishing trips and welcomed him home again. I will show Alexa Armeni, but not tonight.

‘Nan? Where shall we eat? There are so many places.’

Brought back to the present by Alexa’s healthy young appetite, I decide to find a compromise between the quiet, traditional taverna set back from the main thoroughfare, which I’d prefer, and the modern, chic restaurants lining the main street, full of beautiful young people, which I know my grand-daughter will enjoy.

‘Please can it be by the sea? I can’t get enough of the view.’

And we shall have to pay for it, I think cynically, and the food will not be so good, but I can’t blame Alexa. To sit on a balcony built out over the caldera and absorb that unique view isn’t something I’ve ever tired of, and I have seen it many times.

She waits very patiently until we’ve ordered, and our bread and wine have appeared, before she broaches the subject.

‘Please tell me the rest of the story, Nan, I’m so amazed by it. Why didn’t I know about Christos?’

‘Your father was illegitimate, Alexa. People didn’t talk about such things.’

‘But, Nan, no-one minds about that these days. Lots of kids don’t have fathers, or they have two fathers, or their mother’s a lesbian.’

‘Not when I was young, Alexa. And neither your father nor my parents ever met Christos, so there was no-one to talk about him. I did think your father might have told you the facts, though. I told him those as soon as he was old enough to understand.’

‘Have you got any photos? I’d like to know what he looked like.’

‘All you have to do is look in the mirror, Alexa. You are, quite literally, the image

of him. Especially tonight, with your hair that way and your Grecian tunic.’

‘Woah, Nan! Don’t tell me he was a cross-dresser!’

‘You know very well what I mean. Why don’t we enjoy our dinner, and watch the sunset, and then perhaps I’ll tell you more.’

The food is, as I’d suspected it would be, mediocre, but they do have a very good (and expensive) Assyrtico. I drink more than I eat, but Alexa makes up for my lack of appetite. She very politely engages me in conversation about the conference I’m attending, although I know she is consumed with curiosity about Christos. Say what you like about my daughter-in-law, she has brought her children up very well.

By the time we’ve paid the bill, there is a discernible hum of activity outside as tourists begin to make their way to the ruined castle which is said to be the best place to view the sunset. I know a better spot, which the tourists don’t find, on the pathway that leads to Armeni. I say as much to Alexa, but she looks longingly at all the well-dressed, camera-laden tourists, and I know she wants to experience the sunset as part of them. So we join the throng, and Alexa finds me an almost comfortable rock to sit on, while she stands protectively behind me.

‘I think we may be lucky tonight,’ I say. ‘The sky is clear and there’s very little wind.’

‘How many times have you seen the sunset here, Nan?’

‘Dozens’.

‘Excuse me,’ comes a voice at my side. ‘Does the sun always set here?’

I turn to see an exquisitely well-dressed woman, with olive-hued skin. From her accent I can tell she is European – Italian perhaps – although her English is perfect.

‘Well, this is due west,’ I reply. ‘Of course, you need good weather. I’ve known evenings when you see nothing except clouds.’

‘And will the sun rise here tomorrow morning?’

I goggle at the woman, and I can hear Alexa stifling giggles.

‘The sun rises in the east, over there’, I say, as politely as I can.

The woman thanks me and turns to translate to her companion.

‘I’ll never criticise the English education system again’, I whisper to Alexa, who has her handkerchief over her mouth.

A hush descends as the red orb begins to paint bands of colour across the skies behind the isle of Thirassia. Gold fading to pink, pink to scarlet, and Thirassia growing ever blacker by contrast, until the sky is a striped banner of gold, red and blue and the isle has become nothing more than a silhouette. Cameras are clicking all around us. At the moment when the last discernible arc of sun finally descends behind the horizon, applause breaks out. Alexa stares around her, giggling again.

‘Why are they clapping, Nan? It’s only what the sun does every day, isn’t it?’

‘The sun isn’t doing anything at all, ’ I reply drily. ‘It’s the earth that’s turning. You know that.’

‘Come on, let’s go back. I want to hear more about your romance.’

So we begin the slow walk back to our hotel. Slow, because hundreds of tourists are all trying to make their way back to the central area along one narrow pathway.

‘Let’s sit here a while’, I say when we came to a low wall, ‘and let them all go by. And I’ll try to explain what happened next.’

*

We promised to write to each other. If I also wrote to the American girls, Christos’s letters would simply be another reply from another pen friend from another part of the world. My mother would allow pen friends, surely?

‘And you must learn more Greek, my Olivia, whilst we are apart. Then when you come to visit me in Athens my parents will see that you will make me a fine wife.’

Athens?
Wife
? This from the man who had not even kissed me yet?

‘You will be my wife, won’t you? ’

He took my hand in both of his, and kissed it. ‘You know that we are meant to be together, don’t you? We must be married and we shall become important archaeologists and have beautiful children.’

The enormity of what he was saying overwhelmed me. I had arrived in Crete a naïve schoolgirl. Was I going home to prepare to be married to a Greek and live in Athens? The contrast between this picture and my home life was a gulf which I did not know how to explain to him. But when I thought of leaving him and never seeing him again, that too was unthinkable.

The remaining days were unbearable. The evenings we spent together were full of mixed emotions – the inexplicable happiness of being together, coupled with the bitter realisation that such meetings would soon be over. Our taverna evenings were over much too soon. Our polite goodnights were prolonged as much as decorum allowed. Sleep was impossible. Maureen never asked, but hearing me toss and turn and sigh in bed every night, she knew that I had fallen in love. All the girls were tender with me, those last few evenings, offering to lend me perfume, do my hair or paint my nails, seeing a need to keep me occupied until it was time to go out for dinner and be with Christos again.

On our day of departure we were to leave early in the morning, and I knew I could not say goodbye to Christos in front of the Professor and everyone else. So I asked him to stay away, to go to the site and stay there until we’d gone. He looked hurt.

‘Are you ashamed of knowing me?’ he asked.

‘No, no, not at all. I just don’t want everyone watching …’

‘Ah, you might cry, perhaps? Will you cry to leave me, Olivia? ’

How could I stand it? How could I go back to England and carry on as if my life had not been changed forever? I leaned towards him and placed my lips on his, uncertain how to proceed, but desperate to show him how I felt. His mouth softened, moulding itself perfectly to mine, and my first kiss was the sweetest I ever knew. Then he kissed me again. And again.

He gave me a parting gift, a child’s story book. ‘You must learn to read Greek as well as speak it,’ he said.

I had no gift for him so I undid my locket, which had my grandmother’s photo inside, and gave him that.

‘When you come to Athens next year I will return this to you,’ he said. ‘And one

day you will wear it with our son’s photograph inside.’

Each part of the journey that took me further away from him – the bus to Heraklion, the ferry to Piraeus, the flight to London – was even more painful than the last. Oh, the pain of love! I pretended to be studying Greek so that I would not have to speak to the others, and Maureen engaged the Professor in discussions about the dig to keep her away from me. My misery felt physical, an actual pain in my chest.

England was covered in a thick layer of grey cloud as we landed – a perfect reflection of my current mood. My mother was waiting for me at the airport, clutching her handbag nervously as if she expected to be set upon by thieves. She hugged me, then held me away to scrutinise my appearance.

‘You look well, darling. So brown. Did you enjoy it? Was the food awful? I expect you’re longing for a cup of tea.’

I was longing for something, but it definitely wasn’t tea.

*

I had plenty of work to do to fill up the remainder of the summer vacation. There was a paper to be written about Knossus and books to be read for next term, but still the days dragged. I was impatient for the new term to begin, to get back to Cambridge and away from my mother’s suburban bubble. I needed my days filled with lectures and my evenings filled with study if I was going to cope with this crippling sadness.

The Professor was very impressed by my determination to learn Greek properly. She found me the name of a woman in town who gave lessons, and when I wasn’t attending lectures or writing papers I was learning to speak, read and write Christos’ language. When his letters arrived I would write at least one paragraph of my reply in Greek, to show him how hard I was trying.