The Wednesday encounters with Dr Kyritsis were a very different matter. Maria found the doctor a little disconcerting. It was hard to disassociate him from the moment when the diagnosis had been delivered, and his words still echoed in her mind: ‘. . . leprosy is present in your body.’ He had condemned her to a living death and yet he was also the man who now held out a tenuous promise that one day she might be free of the disease. It was confusing to link him with the worst and possibly the best of all things.
‘He’s very aloof,’ she said to Fotini one day when they were chatting, sitting together on the low stone wall that surrounded one of the shade-giving trees by the quayside. ‘And a bit steely, like his hair.’
‘You make it sound as though you don’t like him,’ Fotini responded.
‘I’m not sure I do,’ answered Maria. ‘He always seems to stare at me, and yet it’s as though he’s looking through me as if I’m not really there. He seems to make my father cheerful, though, so I suppose that’s a good thing.’
It was strange, reflected Fotini, how Maria kept bringing this man into the conversation, especially if she didn’t really like him.
Within a few weeks of Kyritsis’s first visit, the two doctors had short-listed the cases that they would monitor for suitability for drug treatment. Maria’s name was among them. She was young, healthy, newly admitted and in all ways an ideal candidate, and yet for reasons that Kyritsis could not explain even to himself, he did not want her to be in the first group that they would begin to inject several months from now. He struggled against this irrationality. After years of delivering unwelcome diagnoses to people who deserved so much better, he had trained himself to limit his emotional involvement. This objectivity made him imperturbable, even expressionless sometimes. Though Dr Kyritsis cared about humankind in a general sense, people tended to find him cold.
Kyritsis decided to cut the list from twenty to fifteen and these cases he would monitor closely over a period of months to decide on dosage and suitability. He omitted Maria’s name from the final list. He did not need to justify this decision to anyone but he knew it was the first action he had taken in perhaps his entire career which was not governed by reason. He told himself it was in her best interest. Not enough was known about the side-effects of some of these drug doses and he did not want her to be in the front line of an experiment. She might not be up to it.
One morning early that summer, during the journey over from the mainland, Kyritsis asked Giorgis whether he had ever been further than the great gateway of Spinalonga.
‘Of course not,’ replied Giorgis with some surprise. ‘I’ve never even thought of it. It wouldn’t be allowed.’
‘But you could visit Maria in her own home,’ he said. ‘Almost entirely without risk.’
Kyritsis, now familiar with Maria’s symptoms, knew that the chances of Giorgis Petrakis contracting leprosy from his daughter were a million to one. There were no bacteria on the surface of Maria’s flat skin patches, and unless Giorgis came into direct contact with any broken skin there was virtually no chance at all of him being infected.
Giorgis looked thoughtful. It had never occurred to either him or Maria that they could spend any time together in Maria’s house. It would be infinitely more civilised than seeing each other on the quayside, windswept in winter and sun-scorched in summer. Nothing would be more wonderful.
‘I shall speak to Nikos Papadimitriou about it and seek Dr Lapakis’s opinion, but I see no reason why it should not happen.’
‘But what would they think back in Plaka if they knew I was going into the colony rather than just delivering goods on to the quayside?’
‘If I were you I would keep quiet about it. You know as well as I do what visions people over there have of life here. They all think leprosy is spread in a handshake, or just by being in the same room as a sufferer. If they thought that you were drinking coffee in the same house as someone with the disease I think you know what the consequences of that might be.’
Giorgis knew better than anyone that Kyritsis was right. He was all too familiar with the prejudices against lepers and for so many years had been obliged to listen to the ignorant views - even of men who called themselves his friends - on the subject. What a dream, however, to sit and share a pot of coffee or a glass of ouzo once again with his lovely daughter. Could it really happen?
That day Kyritsis spoke to the island leader and solicited the views of Lapakis. When he saw Giorgis that night he was able to give him official approval for his visits.
‘If you wish to invite yourself through that tunnel,’ he said, ‘you may.’
Giorgis could hardly believe his ears. He could not remember feeling such excitement for a very long time and was impatient to see Maria so that he could tell her what Kyritsis had suggested. That very Friday morning, as soon as he stepped off the boat, she knew something was up. Her father’s face gave it away.
‘I can come to your house!’ he blurted out. ‘You can make coffee for me.’
‘What? How? I don’t believe it . . . are you sure?’ Maria said with incredulity.
It would be such a simple thing, but so precious. Like his wife and daughter before him, Giorgis entered with trepidation the dark tunnel which led through the heavy fortified wall. When he emerged into the bright light of the leper colony it was as much of a revelation to him as it had been to them. The early June day was already warm, and though the clear light would later dissolve into a haze, the sharp colours of the scene that confronted Giorgis almost dazzled him. A profusion of crimson geraniums cascaded out of huge urns, a candy-pink oleander gave shade to a litter of tortoiseshell kittens and a deep green palm waved gently next to the sapphire door of the hardware store. Shiny silver pans hung down in a string and glinted in the sunlight. Huge pots of bright green basil stood outside almost every door ready to give flavour even to dull dishes. No, it was not as he had imagined it.
Maria was as excited as her father, but at the same time slightly nervous about his presence. She did not want him wandering too far into the leper colony, not just because he would invite stares and curiosity but because his presence could cause jealousy and resentment among the other lepers. She wanted to keep her father to herself.
‘It’s this way, Father,’ she urged, leading him off the main street and into the little square where her house was situated. She unlocked her front door and led the way in. Soon there was an aroma of coffee in the small house as it bubbled up through the percolator on the stove, and a plate of baklava stood on the table.
‘Welcome,’ Maria said.
Giorgis did not really know what he had expected, but it was not this. It was a replica of his house in Plaka. He recognised photographs, icons and pieces of china which matched his own at home. Dimly he recalled that Eleni had asked for some plates and cups from the family set so that she would be eating from the same crockery as her family. After that, those pieces had gone to Elpida, who had kept some of his wife’s possessions when she died, and now they were in Maria’s hands. He also saw the cloths and throws which Maria had spent so many months embroidering, and a wave of sadness passed over him when he thought of Manoli’s house in the olive grove where she should have been living, had things worked out as originally planned.
They sat down at the table and sipped their coffee.
‘I never thought I would sit at a table with you again, Maria,’ he said.
‘Neither did I,’ Maria answered.
‘We have Dr Kyritsis to thank for this,’ said Giorgis. ‘He’s got some rather modern views, but I like this one.’
‘What will your friends in Plaka say when you tell them that you have started coming into the colony?’
‘I shan’t tell them. You know what they’d say. They’re as stuck in their views about Spinalonga as they ever were. Even though there’s a strip of water dividing them from here, they’re convinced leprosy will be carried across on the air to infect them. If they knew I was coming into your house, they’d probably ban me from the bar!’
The last comment may have been flippant, but Maria still expressed concern.
‘It’s probably best that you keep it to yourself then. No doubt it worries them enough that you come over here as often as you do.’
‘You’re right. You know some of them even think that I somehow managed to carry germs across from here to infect you back in Plaka.’
Maria was horrified at the idea that her leprous state might be used to fuel such fears on the mainland and it alarmed her that her father might be faced with prejudice even from his oldest friends, men he had grown up with. If only they could see them now: a father and his daughter sitting at a table, eating the sweetest pastries that money could buy. Nothing could have been further from the conventional image of a leper colony. Even her irritation at the thought of all the ignorant talk on the mainland could not spoil this moment.
When they had finished their coffee, it was time for Giorgis to go.
‘Father, do you think Fotini would come one day?’
‘I am sure she would, but you can ask her when she comes on Monday.’
‘It’s just that . . . this is so like normal life. Sharing a drink with someone. I can’t tell you what it means to me.’
Maria, usually so steadfast at controlling her emotions, had a catch in her voice. Giorgis stood to go.
‘Don’t worry, Maria,’ he said. ‘I am sure she will come - and so will I.’
The two of them walked back to the boat and Maria waved him goodbye.
As soon as he returned to Plaka, Giorgis wasted no time in telling Fotini that he had been into Maria’s house, and without even hesitating, his daughter’s oldest friend asked whether she would be able to do the same. Some people would have considered this reckless, but Fotini was more enlightened about the way in which leprosy could be spread than others, and on her next visit, as soon as she got off the boat, she seized Maria’s arm.
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I want to see your home.’
A broad smile spread across Maria’s face. The two women sauntered through the tunnel and were soon at the door of Maria’s house. The coolness of the interior was welcome, and instead of strong coffee they drank
kanelada
, the chilled cinnamon drink they had both loved as children.
‘It’s so kind of you to come here to see me,’ said Maria. ‘You know, I never pictured anything but loneliness here. It makes so much difference having visitors.’
‘Well it’s much nicer than sitting on that wall in the heat,’ said Fotini. ‘And now I can picture where you really live.’
‘So what’s new? How’s little Mattheos?’
‘He’s wonderful, what more can I say? He’s eating a lot and growing very big.’
‘It’s just as well he likes his food. He does live in a restaurant after all,’ commented Maria with a smile. ‘And what’s happening in Plaka? Have you seen my sister lately?’
‘No. Not for a long time,’ Fotini said thoughtfully.
Giorgis had told Maria that Anna came to see him quite regularly, but now she wondered if that were really true. If Anna had turned up in her shiny car, Fotini would have known about it. The Vandoulakis family had been angry in the extreme when they learned of Maria’s leprosy and it had not surprised her at all that Anna had not written since she came to Spinalonga. Neither would it really surprise her if her father had lied about her sister’s visits.
Both women were silent.
‘Antonis sees her from time to time, though, when he’s working,’ Fotini said at last.
‘Does he say how she looks?’
‘Fine, I think.’
Fotini knew what Maria was really asking. Was her sister pregnant? After all those years of marriage, it was high time that Anna had a child. If not, there must be a problem. Anna was not expecting a baby, but there was something else happening in her life that Fotini had thought long and hard about telling Maria.
‘Look, I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but Antonis has seen Manoli coming and going from Anna’s house.’
‘That’s allowed, isn’t it? He is family.’
‘Yes, he is family, but even members of your family don’t need to visit every other day.’