Watching the Wind Blow (The Greek Village Collection Book 9) (12 page)

Lost in the feelings her story evokes in her, she doesn’t move, lying there enjoying all the wonders of Petta, all he has done for her just by breathing, just by being alive, just by loving her. What was possible was love, and it was his love that healed so many of her wounds, all except the ones that were too much for him to bear to hear, or ones she thought were too harsh to tell. But even without knowing everything, he has pulled her from her melancholy into a way to live life without sadness and for that, not only does she love him but she is grateful. He saved her.

She turns to look at Sam.

In its stifling temperature the room is more like a greenhouse than an office. The geranium on top of Demosthene’s filing cabinet bears testimony to this with its many lofty blooms and bushy undergrowth. They should get a better air conditioning unit, or a separate one specifically for the Commander’s office. But then if they never keep the windows anything but wide open how is the air meant to stay cool?

Captain Yorgo’s nicotine stained finger hooks under the neckline of his t-shirt and pulls but there is no breeze to circulate. He should be on board Artemis now, the wind in his face, the discordant cadence of the sea beneath the hull soothing his soul. That and with several hundred euros in his pocket. The air rasps through his lungs as he sighs.

The party booked in today have two teenage girls amongst them. He may be of maturing age but he is not beyond appreciating beauty. By now their fresh, young bodies would be laying on his deck, exposed in bikinis as they bathe in the sun’s tanning rays. As captain he would be at the wheel. In fact it would be his duty to be master of the helm, keeping watch for their course, looking down the length of his boat, their tanning bodies ever in his field of view. The sigh repeats itself but this time catches and he hacks out a cough, curling a fist over his mouth, his frame heaving.

Maybe if this is such a big international incident he can find someone to cover at last his loss of earnings. With a big enough outcry perhaps he could even get public support. Maybe he can sell his story to the news people?

A flotilla is coming into moor. Six boats, all of them badly positioned trying to work out which of them should go first. One is dropping its anchor even though it is close the harbour wall and the chain will just hang uselessly, straight down into the water. The crew, who are all in swim suits seem more interested in looking at Saros town, with one arm raised, their hands shielding the sun from their eyes. A Greek man from what must be the lead boat is shouting instructions to them but they seem not to be listening. Yorgos looks away. He has seen it so many times before. What was once amusing is now just boring. As long as they keep away from his spot they can do what they like.

Short of Artemis being sunk he can think of no reason why she will not be returned to him. If she is sunk then, after the insurance pays out, it is just a question of starting again to make all those little changes to make a new yacht useful for his purposes. He would need a better depth gauge for a start, and a frame for a tarpaulin shade over the cockpit. Why those does not come as standard is beyond him. The steps to go below are always difficult to remove to get at the engine so they would need adapting. He had solved this problem in Artemis with some steps he fashioned himself, that fold up flat. They do sometimes drop down instead, and have caused him to fall once or twice, but on the whole his design is a great improvement.

The thought of all he will have to do to make a new boat as comfortable as Artemis exhausts him. But he must look on the bright side, there is no reason for her to be sunk. She will be returned and when she is at least she will be spotlessly clean. Irini has had hours to do a really good job. Maybe if he calls her he could remind her to do the bilges as well, oh and inside the wardrobe in his cabin where a bottle of
tsipouro
fell over last week. It is very sticky in there now. In fact he should make her clean his cabin more often, weekly maybe, although it just doesn't feel comfortable knowing she is in there, in his own personal private space. He would find it hard to sleep in there with the knowledge that someone has been poking around. Getting the sheets changed is one thing, she is in and out in a couple of seconds, but spending time cleaning, it just feels exposing somehow.

He takes out his cigarettes and flips open the top to find the pack empty. Looking over Demosthene’s desk he can see papers, a letter opener, a desk lighter, a carved African figure, two small coffee cups on saucers and a full ashtray but no cigarettes. The men in the main part of the office, all of whom look to young to be in the Port Police, as they scurry about in their pressed white shirts, have the clean scrubbed look of non-smokers. He is going to have to endure walking to the kiosk in the main square. He can already feel his legs complaining at the thought.

At the top of the steps he takes a firm hold of the handrail but stops to listen. One of the port police is on the phone, and the person on the other end is talking loud enough for him to hear. It is a producer from Ant-1, they have heard about the situation and they are sending a camera team down. They want to interview Commander Demosthenes for national television.

'No, I will have to ask him, but I don't think he will want to do a television interview. He is not in the office at the moment. I suggest you call back in half an hour.' The lieutenant puts the phone down.

Yorgos begins his descent. His left leg is worse. One at a time. He should do a deal with the kiosk, they would deliver his cigarettes if he bought them in bulk and then he wouldn't have to walk. Not that that would be any use right now, he is just glad that there is nothing of value aboard the boat. Just the boat itself.

At the bottom of the stairs Demosthenes is taking his leave of Marina and Petta, his foot on the bottom step ready to go up. Petta looks like he is about to return with him but Marina is faced away and beginning to walk.

'Are you sure you don't want me to go Mama?' Petta asks.

Demosthenes nods at Yorgos as they pass on the bottom step.

Marina shakes her head, fanning herself with a newspaper. 'No
agapi mou,
a little walk to the kiosk will be nice for me. Do you want anything, a bottle of water, ice-cream?' She smiles but there anxiety in her face.

'No Mama, you could get a packet of pistachios. I don't feel hungry but I must be.' Petta’s smile is sad, and when he turns to go up the stairs he recoils as if surprised to see Yorgos standing there. With the sun on Petta's face his brown eye are a firey amber. It occurs to Yorgos that many of these so called 'mild' mannered people have unexpected dangerous, passions. He steps to one side to let Petta pass. The sun is directly overhead and he pulls his peaked, black felt captain’s hat further down over his brow to shield his eyes.

The streets between the old stone mansions on the harbour front are not really wide enough for modern cars and although they have not been designated pedestrian many of the tavernas have spread tables and chairs across the roads. The one beneath the port police are setting up huge square umbrellas to offer shaded lunches. The waiters have their names embroidered onto their white shirts and one of them, Spiros, acknowledges Yorgos. He eats there occasionally, usually on a client’s invitation.

The upstairs of these grand cut-stone mansions are still residential, but gone are the days of grand living. Paying homage to Venetian influence the footprint of each of them is square, a narrow road running parallel to each side. Time and damp have reduced these beautiful buildings to cheap rented accommodation. The shutter’s paint peels, the wrought iron balconies appear unsafe, the red tiled roofs are all in need of some attention.

'Marina,' he calls, but his legs will not hurry after her. Each step is a torment. She turns. 'I am going to the kiosk. We will walk together,' he calls. Marina’s eyebrows are lifted, creasing the centre of her forehead into deep lines. This worried look does not lessen when he speaks but she does wait for his slow step.

'What's wrong with your legs then?' she asks directly, the tension in her face not easing.

'Ah, well, life at sea is hard,' he says, avoiding the question.

'No, really, what’s wrong with them?'

The last thing he wants to do is come across as an invalid, if he is to woo her.

'Nothing, nothing, just a temporary bit of inflammation. Young things like you would not understand the little aches and pains that come with age, especially when you have had a life as full as mine.' He attempts a sexy smile but a searing pain shoots through his knee and he winces.

'I doubt we have any gap of years between us, Captain.' Marina says. There is a lethargy to her voice.

'You are too kind Marina, you flatter me.'

She is walking too fast for him.

'Now, let's not be running, let us give the Port Police the time they need to do their duty and whilst they do it we can distract ourselves by turning our walk to the kiosk into a little amble.' This speech does not have the desired affect for although she slows her pace, when she turns her face towards him her mouth forms a hard line. 'And fear not,' he adds with intentional pomposity in his voice. 'They know their job and they do it well.' But this does nothing to raise a smile.

He stops where one back street meets the next at a crossroads. There is a shop on the opposite corner. If he can get to that he can use it as an excuse to stop for a moment, but sitting down would be the best option right now, just to take some pressure off for a moment.

The shop sells African art. An identical carving to the one on Demosthene’s desk is displayed in the window. The other pieces are spindly figures of women with exaggerated chests, chin and lips in a very dark wood. He finds it hard to pretend he is interested. The window sill is wide, this he cannot resist and he turns his back on the tourist produce and sits. He catches the flash of a frown on Marina's face in her incomprehension.

'You know we rush about so much in this world that we very rarely take the time just to sit and look.' He rests his feet on their heels and lifting up his toes he curls and uncurls them inside his shapeless deck shoes. It feels good.

'I had a psychiatrist on my boat once, from America, and she said the difference between being on holiday and just a normal day was that when we are on holiday we tend to look up more.' He looks up, 'and taking the time to sit here I can appreciate that bougainvillea.' He jerks his chin up and Marina looks down the street. Spanning the road, strung from first floor balconies is a bougainvillea of the most startling, shocking pink. Saros is festooned with these plants and even though they are to be seen on every street this one is large enough to shake the senses.

Marina is staring at it, her eyes travelling across the road and down its thick stem.

'You think they water it?' she asks.

This is something that has never occurred to him. Maybe they do. Marina is a woman interested in the detail of life. That is a good thing. Maybe she has a garden of her own that he will be enjoying soon.

'You have a garden?' he asks. She begins to walk away so he is forced to stand and continue. It is a little easier.

'I have a courtyard. No bougainvillea, but I do have a very thirsty wisteria.'

'Ah, yes.' He tries to sound knowledgeable but he is not even sure he knows what a wisteria is.

They walk in silence. He tries not to wheeze too loudly.

'If you walked more it would get easier,' Marina states. She is nothing if not straight. Maybe even a little too bold.

'Can you cook?'

'Sorry?'

'I mean, do you enjoy cooking, rather than it being just something you have to do?' Yorgos covers himself.

'Oh, I see. I never really thought of it in those terms. Cooking is like washing, or cleaning. I think I get a satisfaction from cooking for my family, although Rini is a great cook and Petta, he likes to cook once in a while too.'

'Really?' Yorgos blurts out. Marina's head turns to look at him quickly. His exclamation was too much. 'That's a good skill to have,' he mumbles. They have made it to the square. Maybe he will find an excuse to walk back alone. The pain courses down each leg as the blood is pumped and it is too much to continue. He feels very red in the face and he would be a lot happier ingratiating himself to her sitting down. More at ease.

Marina goes to the side of the kiosk and lifts up the public phone there.

The man in the kiosk has already taken down his brand of cigarette, from the stacks that line the inside of his little wooden hut, and placed it on the wooden serving ledge that also accommodates chewing gum, mints in little transparent plastic boxes, packets of biscuits, an army of multicoloured lighters that stand on end in there cut-out cardboard tray and a small jar of olives with a ribbon tied around its lid.

Yorgo’s wallet is worn and the stitching is frayed in several places. He takes it from his pocket with care lest anything fall out. With half an ear he is listening to Marina who seems to be on the phone to someone who is taking care of her shop for her. This suggests to the Capatian that the shop is a serious business and as he looks diagonally though the kiosk’s front window all the way through the side window he can see her face. It is a very pleasant face, which he will not mind waking up to at all.

'And a tin of those wafer chocolate biscuits,' he says to the waiting kiosk man who totals his purchases and asks for the money.

'Are you sure?' Yorgos says, picking up the tin of biscuits and turning it over in his hands to see the price on the bottom. 'Oh I see.' It is very tempting to put them back but with another glance though to Marina he pays the price. A little bit of something sweet to pave the way.