Part 1 Chapter One

Part  1

Chapter  One

Plaka,  2001

Unfurled  from  its  mooring,  the  rope  flew  through  the  air  and  sprayed  the woman's  bare  arms  with  droplets  of  seawater.  They  soon  dried,  and  as  the  sun  beat down  on  her  from  a  cloudless  sky  she  noticed  that  her  skin  sparkled  with  intricate patterns  of  salty  crystals,  like  a  tattoo  in  diamonds.  Alexis  was  the  only  passenger  in the  small,  battered  boat,  and  as  it  chugged  away  from  the  quay  in  the  direction  of the  lonely,  unpeopled  island  ahead  of  them  she  shuddered,  as  she  thought  of  all  the men  and  women  who  had  travelled  there  before  her.  Spinalonga.  She  played  with the  word,  rolling  it  around  her  tongue  like  an  olive  stone.  The  island  lay  directly ahead,  and  as  the  boat  approached  the  great  Venetian  fortification  which  fronted the  sea,  she  felt  both  the  pull  of  its  past  and  an  overpowering  sense  of  what  it  still meant  in  the  present.  This,  she  speculated,  might  be  a  place  where  history  was  still warm,  not  stone  cold,  where  the  inhabitants  were  real  not  mythical.  How  different that  would  make  it  from  the  ancient  palaces  and  sites  she  had  spent  the  past  few weeks,  months—even  years—visiting.

Alexis  could  have  spent  another  day  clambering  over  the  ruins  of  Knossos, conjuring  up  in  her  mind  from  those  chunky  fragments  how  life  had  been  lived  there over  four  thousand  years  before.  Of  late,  however,  she  had  begun  to  feel  that  this was  a  past  so  remote  as  to  be  almost  beyond  the  reach  of  her  imagination,  and certainly  beyond  her  caring.  Though  she  had  a  degree  in  archaeology  and  a  job  in  a museum,  she  felt  her  interest  in  the  subject  waning  by  the  day.  Her  father  was  an academic  with  a  passion  for  his  subject,  and  in  a  childlike  way  she  had  simply  grown up  to  believe  she  would  follow  in  his  dusty  footsteps.  To  someone  like  Marcus Fielding  there  was  no  ancient  civilisation  too  far  in  the  past  to  arouse  his  interest, but  for  Alexis,  now  twenty-­‐five,  the  bullock  she  had  passed  on  the  road  earlier  that day  had  considerably  more  reality  and  relevance  to  her  life  than  the  Minotaur  at  the centre  of  the  legendary  Cretan  labyrinth  ever  could.

The  direction  her  career  was  taking  was  not,  currently,  the  burning  issue  in her  life.  More  pressing  was  her  dilemma  over  Ed.  All  the  while  they  soaked  up  the steady  warmth  of  the  late  summer  rays  on  their  Greek  island  holiday,  a  line  was slowly  being  drawn  under  the  era  of  a  once  promising  love  affair.  Theirs  was  a relationship  that  had  blossomed  in  the  rarefied  microcosm  of  a  university,  but  in  the outside  world  it  had  withered  and,  three  years  on,  was  like  a  sickly  cutting  that  had failed  to  survive  being  transplanted  from  greenhouse  to  border.

Ed  was  handsome.  This  was  a  matter  of  fact  rather  than  opinion.  But  it  was  his good  looks  that  sometimes  annoyed  her  as  much  as  anything  and  she  was  certain that  they  added  to  his  air  of  arrogance  and  his  sometimes  enviable  self-­‐belief.

§

They  had  gone  together,  in  an  'opposites  attract'  sort  of  way,  Alexis  with  her

pale  skin  and  dark  hair  and  eyes  and  Ed  with  his  blond,  blue-­‐eyed,  almost  Aryan looks.  Sometimes,  however,  she  felt  her  own  wilder  nature  being  bleached  out  by Ed's  need  for  discipline  and  order  and  she  knew  this  was  not  what  she  wanted;  even the  small  measure  of  spontaneity  she  craved  seemed  anathema  to  him.

Many  of  his  other  good  qualities,  most  of  them  regarded  as  assets  by  the world  at  large,  had  begun  to  madden  her.  An  unshakeable  confidence  for  a  start.  It was  the  inevitable  result  of  his  rock-­‐solid  certainty  about  what  lay  ahead  and  had always  lain  ahead  from  the  moment  of  his  birth.  Ed  was  promised  a  lifetime  job  in  a law  firm  and  the  years  would  unfold  for  him  in  a  preordained  pattern  of  career progression  and  homes  in  predictable  locations.  Alexis's  only  certainty  was  their growing  incompatibility.  As  the  holiday  progressed,  she  had  spent  more  and  more time  mulling  over  the  future  and  did  not  picture  Ed  in  it  at  all.  Even  domestically they  did  not  match.  The  toothpaste  was  being  squeezed  from  the  wrong  end.  But  it was  she  who  was  the  culprit,  not  Ed.  His  reaction  to  her  sloppiness  was  symptomatic of  his  approach  to  life  in  general,  and  she  found  his  demands  for  things  to  be shipshape  unpleasantly  controlling.  She  tried  to  appreciate  his  need  for  tidiness  but resented  the  unspoken  criticism  of  the  slightly  chaotic  way  in  which  she  lived  her life,  often  recalling  that  it  was  in  her  father's  dark,  messy  study  that  she  felt  at home,  and  that  her  parents'  bedroom,  her  mother's  choice  of  pale  walls  and  tidy surfaces,  made  her  shiver.

Everything  had  always  gone  Ed's  way.  He  was  one  of  life's  golden  boys: effortlessly  top  of  the  class  and  unchallenged  victor  ludorum  year  after  year.  The perfect  head  boy.  It  would  hurt  to  see  his  bubble  burst.  He  had  been  brought  up  to believe  that  the  world  was  his  oyster,  but  Alexis  had  begun  to  see  that  she  could  not be  enclosed  within  it.  Could  she  really  give  up  her  independence  to  go  and  live  with him,  however  obvious  it  might  seem  that  she  should?  A  slightly  tatty  rented  flat  in Crouch  End  versus  a  smart  apartment  in  Kensington—was  she  insane  to  reject  the latter?  In  spite  of  Ed's  expectations  that  she  would  be  moving  in  with  him  in  the autumn,  these  were  questions  she  had  to  ask  herself:  What  was  the  point  of  living with  him  if  their  intention  wasn't  to  marry?  And  was  he  the  man  she  would  want  as father  of  her  children,  in  any-­‐case?  Such  uncertainties  had  circled  in  her  mind  for weeks,  even  months  now,  and  sooner  or  later  she  would  have  to  be  bold  enough  to do  something  about  them.  Ed  did  so  much  of  the  talking,  the  organising  and  the managing  on  this  holiday  he  seemed  scarcely  to  notice  that  her  silences  were getting  longer  by  the  day.

How  different  this  trip  was  from  the  island-­‐hopping  holidays  she  had  taken round  the  Greek  islands  in  her  student  days  when  she  and  her  friends  were  all  free spirits  and  nothing  but  whim  dictated  the  routine  of  their  long,  suri-­‐drenched  days; decisions  on  which  bar  to  visit,  what  beach  to  bake  on  and  how  long  to  stay  on  any island  had  been  made  with  the  toss  of  a  twenty-­‐drachma  coin.  It  was  hard  to  believe that  life  had  ever  been  so  carefree.  This  trip  was  so  full  of  conflict,  argument  and self-­‐questioning;  it  was  a  struggle  that  had  begun  long  before  she  had  found  herself

on  Cretan  soil.

How  can  I  be  twenty-­‐five  and  so  hopelessly  uncertain  of  the  future?  she  had asked  herself  as  she  packed  her  bag  for  the  trip.  Here  I  am,  in  a  flat  I  don't  own, about  to  take  a  holiday  from  a  job  I  don't  like  with  a  man  I  hardly  care  about.  What's wrong  with  me?

By  the  time  her  mother,  Sofia,  was  Alexis's  age,  she  had  already  been  married for  several  years  and  had  two  children.  What  were  the  circumstances  that  had  made her  so  mature  at  so  young  an  age?  How  could  she  have  been  so  settled  when  Alexis still  felt  such  a  child?  If  she  knew  more  about  how  her  mother  had  approached  life, perhaps  it  would  help  her  to  make  her  own  decisions.

Sofia  had  always  been  extremely  guarded  about  her  background,  though,  and over  the  years  her  secrecy  had  become  a  barrier  between  herself  and  her  daughter. It  seemed  ironic  to  Alexis  that  the  study  and  understanding  of  the  past  was  so encouraged  in  her  family  and  yet  she  was  prevented  from  holding  up  a  magnifying glass  to  her  own  history;  this  sense  that  Sofia  was  hiding  something  from  her children  cast  a  shadow  of  mistrust.  Sofia  Fielding  appeared  not  just  to  have  buried her  roots  but  to  have  trodden  down  hard  on  the  earth  above  them.

Alexis  had  only  one  clue  to  her  mother's  past:  a  faded  wedding  picture  which had  stood  on  Sofia's  bedside  table  for  as  long  as  Alexis  could  remember,  the  ornate silver  frame  worn  thin  with  polishing.  In  early  childhood  when  Alexis  used  her parents'  big  lumpy  bed  as  a  trampoline,  the  image  of  the  smiling  but  rather  stiffly posed  couple  in  the  picture  had  floated  up  and  down  in  front  of  her.  Sometimes  she asked  her  mother  questions  about  the  beautiful  lady  in  lace  and  the  chiselled platinum-­‐haired  man.  What  were  their  names?  Why  did  he  have  grey  hair?  Where were  they  now?  Sofia  had  given  the  briefest  of  answers:  that  they  were  her  Aunt Maria  and  Uncle  Nikolaos,  that  they  had  lived  in  Crete  and  that  they  were  now  both dead.  This  information  had  satisfied  Alexis  then—but  now  she  needed  to  know more.  It  was  the  status  of  this  picture—the  only  framed  photograph  in  the  entire house  apart  from  those  of  herself  and  her  younger  brother,  Nick—that  intrigued  her as  much  as  anything.  This  couple  had  clearly  been  significant  in  her  mother's childhood  and  yet  Sofia  always  seemed  so  reluctant  to  talk  about  them.  It  was  more than  reluctance,  in  fact;  it  was  stubborn  refusal.  As  Alexis  grew  into  adolescence  she had  learned  to  respect  her  mother's  desire  for  privacy—it  was  as  keen  as  her  own teenage  instinct  to  lock  herself  away  and  avoid  communication.  But  she  had  grown beyond  all  that  now.

On  the  night  before  she  was  to  leave  for  her  holiday,  she  had  gone  to  her parents'  home,  a  Victorian  terraced  house  in  a  quiet  Battersea  street.  It  had  always been  a  family  tradition  to  eat  out  at  the  local  Greek  taverna  before  either  Alexis  or Nick  left  for  a  new  university  term  or  a  trip  abroad,  but  this  time  Alexis  had  another motive  for  the  visit.  She  wanted  her  mother's  advice  on  what  to  do  about  Ed  and, just  as  importantly,  she  planned  to  ask  her  a  few  questions  about  her  past.  Arriving a  good  hour  early,  Alexis  had  resolved  to  try  and  get  her  mother  to  lift  the  shutters.

Even  a  little  light  would  do.

She  let  herself  into  the  house,  dropped  her  heavy  rucksack  on  to  the  tiled floor  and  tossed  her  key  into  the  tarnished  brass  tray  on  the  hall  shelf.  It  landed  with a  loud  clatter.  Alexis  knew  there  was  nothing  her  mother  hated  more  than  being taken  by  surprise.

Guessing  that  her  mother  would  be  upstairs,  she  took  the  steps  two  at  a  time, and  as  she  entered  her  parents'  room  she  marvelled  as  usual  at  its  extreme orderliness.  A  modest  collection  of  beads  was  strung  across  the  corner  of  the  mirror and  three  bottles  of  perfume  stood  neatly  lined  up  on  Sofia's  dressing  table. Otherwise  the  room  was  entirely  devoid  of  clutter.  There  were  no  clues  to  her mother's  personality  or  past,  not  a  picture  on  the  wall,  not  a  book  by  the  bedside. Just  the  one  framed  photograph  next  to  the  bed.  Even  though  she  shared  it  with Marcus,  this  room  was  Sofia's  space,  and  her  need  for  tidiness  dominated  here. Every  member  of  the  family  had  his  or  her  own  place  and  each  was  entirely idiosyncratic.

If  the  sparse  minimalism  of  the  master  bedroom  made  it  Sofia's,  Marcus's space  was  his  study,  where  books  were  piled  in  columns  on  the  floor.  Sometimes these  heavyweight  towers  would  topple  and  the  tomes  would  scatter  across  the room;  the  only  way  across  to  his  desk  then  was  to  use  the  leather-­‐bound  volumes  as stepping  stones.  Marcus  enjoyed  working  in  this  ruined  temple  of  books;  it reminded  him  of  being  in  the  midst  of  an  archaeological  dig,  where  every  stone  had been  carefully  labelled  even  if  they  all  looked  to  the  untrained  eye  like  so  many  bits of  abandoned  rubble.  It  was  always  warm  in  this  room,  and  even  when  she  was  a child  Alexis  had  often  sneaked  in  to  read  a  book,  curling  up  on  the  soft  leather  chair that  continually  oozed  stuffing  but  was  somehow  still  the  cosiest  and  most embracing  seat  in  the  house.

In  spite  of  the  fact  that  they  had  left  home  long  ago,  the  children's  rooms remained  untouched.  Alexis's  was  still  painted  in  the  rather  oppressive  purple  that she  had  chosen  when  she  was  a  sulky  fifteen  year  old.  The  bedspread,  rug  and wardrobe  were  in  a  matching  shade  of  mauve,  the  colour  of  migraines  and tantrums—even  Alexis  thought  so  now,  though  at  the  time  she  had  insisted  on having  it.  One  day  her  parents  might  get  round  to  repainting  it,  but  in  a  house  where interior  design  and  soft  furnishings  took  low  priority  it  might  be  another  decade before  this  happened.  The  colour  of  the  walls  in  Nick's  room  had  long  since  ceased to  be  relevant—not  a  square  inch  could  be  seen  between  the  posters  of  Arsenal players,  heavy  metal  bands  and  improbably  busty  blondes.  The  drawing  room  was  a space  shared  by  Alexis  and  Nick,  who  during  two  decades  must  have  spent  a  million and  one  hours  silently  watching  television  in  the  semi-­‐darkness.  But  the  kitchen  was for  everyone.  The  round  1970s  pine  table—the  first  piece  of  furniture  that  Sofia  and Marcus  had  ever  bought  together—was  the  focal  point,  the  place  where  everyone came  together,  talked,  played  games,  ate  and,  in  spite  of  the  heated  debates  and

disagreements  that  often  raged  around  it,  became  a  family.

Though  Alexis  would  never  have  known  it,  a  knot  tightened  in  Sofia's  stomach as  she  prepared  for  this  family  ritual.  The  moment  reminded  her  of  all  those  nights before  her  daughter's  university  terms  began  when  she  feigned  jollity  but  felt anguished  that  Alexis  would  soon  be  gone.  Sofia's  ability  to  hide  her  emotions seemed  to  strengthen  in  proportion  to  the  feelings  she  was  suppressing.  She  looked at  her  daughter's  mirrored  image  and  at  her  own  face  next  to  it,  and  a  shock  wave passed  through  her.  It  was  not  the  teenager's  face  that  she  always  held  in  her mind's  eye  but  the  face  of  an  adult,  whose  questioning  eyes  now  engaged  with  her own.

Alexis  picked  up  the  familiar  photograph  and  took  a  deep  breath.  Even  in  her mid-­‐twenties  she  still  found  herself  having  to  summon  up  courage  to  force  her  way into  the  no-­‐go  region  of  her  mother's  past,  as  though  she  was  ducking  under  the striped  tape  that  cordoned  off  the  scene  of  a  crime.  She  needed  to  know  what  her mother  thought.  Sofia  had  married  before  she  was  twenty,  so  was  she,  Alexis, foolish  to  throw  away  the  opportunity  of  spending  the  rest  of  her  life  with  someone like  Ed?  Or  might  her  mother  think,  as  she  did  herself,  that  if  these  thoughts  were even  present  in  her  head  then  he  was,  indeed,  not  the  right  person?  Inwardly,  she rehearsed  her  questions.  How  had  her  mother  known  with  such  certainty  and  at such  an  early  age  that  the  man  she  was  to  marry  was  'the  one'?  How  could  she  have known  that  she  would  be  happy  for  the  next  fifty,  sixty,  perhaps  even  seventy  years? Or  had  she  not  thought  of  it  that  way?  Just  at  the  moment  when  all  these  questions were  to  spill  out,  she  demurred,  suddenly  fearful  of  rejection.  There  was,  however, one  question  she  had  to  ask.

Sofia  was  a  woman  who  found  it  hard  to  smile,  to  show  her  feelings,  to embrace.  Reticence  was  her  natural  state  and  her  immediate  response  was  to search  for  an  excuse.  Something  stopped  her,  however.  It  was  Marcus's  often-­‐ repeated  words  to  her  that  Alexis  would  always  be  their  child,  but  not  forever  a child  that  came  back  to  her.  Even  if  she  struggled  against  the  notion,  she  knew  it was  true,  and  seeing  in  front  of  her  this  independent  young  woman  finally

confirmed  it.  Instead  of  clamming  up  as  she  usually  did  when  the  subject  of  the  past even  hovered  over  a  conversation,  Sofia  responded  with  unexpected  warmth, recognising  for  the  first  time  that  her  daughter's  curiosity  to  know  more  about  her roots  was  not  only  natural;  it  was  possibly  even  a  right.

Alexis  tried  to  hide  her  amazement,  hardly  daring  to  breathe  in  case  her mother  changed  her  mind.

Then,  more  certainly,  Sofia  said:  "Yes,  it  would  be  a  good  opportunity.  I'll write  a  note  for  you  to  take  to  Fotini  Davaras.  She  knew  my  family.  She  must  be quite  elderly  now  but  she's  lived  in  the  village  where  I  was  born  for  her  whole  life and  married  the  owner  of  the  local  taverna—so  you  might  even  get  a  good  meal."

Alexis  shone  with  excitement.  "Thanks,  Mum...Where  exactly  is  the  village?" she  added.  "In  relation  to  Hania?"

The  careless  bang  of  the  front  door  announced  Marcus's  return  from  the university  library.  His  worn  leather  briefcase  stood,  bulging,  in  the  middle  of  the hallway,  stray  scraps  of  paper  protruding  through  gaps  in  every  seam.  A bespectacled  bear  of  a  man  with  thick  silvery  hair  who  probably  weighed  as  much  as his  wife  and  daughter  combined,  he  greeted  Alexis  with  a  huge  smile  as  she  ran down  from  her  mother's  room  and  took  off  from  the  final  stair,  flying  into  his  arms in  just  the  way  she  had  done  since  she  was  three  years  old.

They  left  for  the  restaurant  soon  after,  a  five-­‐minute  walk  from  the  house. Nestling  in  the  row  of  glossy  wine  bars,  overpriced  patisseries  and  trendy-­‐  fusion restaurants,  Taverna  Loukakis  was  the  constant.  It  had  opened  not  long  after  the Fieldings  had  bought  their  house  and  in  the  meantime  had  seen  a  hundred  other shops  and  eating  places  come  and  go.  The  owner,  Gregorio,  greeted  the  trio  as  the old  friends  they  were,  and  so  ritualistic  were  their  visits  that  he  knew  even  before they  sat  down  what  they  would  order.  As  ever,  they  listened  politely  to  the  day's specials,  and  then  Gregorio  pointed  to  each  of  them  in  turn  and  recited:  "Meze  of the  day,  moussaka,  stifado,  kalamari,  a  bottle  of  retsina  and  a  large  sparkling  water." They  nodded  and  all  of  them  laughed  as  he  turned  away  in  mock  disgust  at  their rejection  of  his  chef's  more  innovative  dishes.

Alexis  (moussaka)  did  most  of  the  talking.  She  described  her  projected  trip with  Ed,  and  her  father  (kalamari)  occasionally  interjected  with  suggestions  on archaeological  sites  they  might  visit.

looking  at  ruins!"

They  all  knew  perfectly  well  that  Ed  was  more  than  capable  of  bypassing anything  if  there  was  a  whiff  of  high  culture  about  it,  and  as  usual  there  was  a  subtle hint  of  disdain  in  Marcus's  voice  when  Ed  came  into  the  conversation.  It  was  not that  he  disliked  him,  or  even  really  disapproved  of  him.  Ed  was  exactly  the  sort  that a  father  was  meant  to  hope  for  as  a  son-­‐in-­‐law,  but  Marcus  could  not  help  his feelings  of  disappointment  whenever  he  pictured  this  well-­‐connected  boy  becoming his  daughter's  future.  Sofia,  on  the  other  hand,  adored  Ed.  He  was  the  embodiment of  all  that  she  aspired  to  for  her  daughter:  respectability,  certainty  and  a  family  tree that  lent  him  the  confidence  of  someone  linked  (albeit  extremely  tenuously)  with English  aristocracy.

It  was  a  light-­‐hearted  evening.  The  three  of  them  had  not  been  together  for several  months  and  Alexis  had  much  to  catch  up  on,  not  least  all  the  tales  of  Nick's love  life.  In  Manchester  doing  postgraduate  work,  Alexis's  brother  was  in  no  hurry  to grow  up  and  his  family  were  constantly  amazed  at  the  complexity  of  his relationships.

Alexis  and  her  father  then  began  to  exchange  anecdotes  about  their  work  and Sofia  found  her  mind  wandering  back  to  when  they  had  first  come  to  this  restaurant and  Gregorio  had  stacked  up  a  pile  of  cushions  so  that  Alexis  could  reach  the  table. By  the  time  Nick  was  born,  the  taverna  had  invested  in  a  highchair  and  soon  the children  had  learned  to  love  the  strong  tastes  of  taramasalata  and  tzatziki  that  the waiters  brought  out  for  them  on  tiny  plates.  For  more  than  twenty  years  almost every  landmark  of  their  lives  had  been  celebrated  there,  with  the  same  tape  of popular  Greek  tunes  playing  on  a  loop  in  the  background.  The  realisation  that  Alexis was  no  longer  a  child  struck  Sofia  more  strongly  than  ever  and  she  began  to  think  of Plaka  and  the  letter  she  was  soon  to  write.  For  many  years  she  had  corresponded quite  regularly  with  Fotini  and  over  a  quarter  of  a  century  earlier  had  described  the arrival  of  her  first  child;  within  a  few  weeks,  a  small,  perfectly  embroidered  dress had  arrived  in  which  Sofia  had  dressed  the  baby  for  her  christening,  in  the  absence of  a  traditional  robe.  The  two  women  had  stopped  writing  a  while  back,  but  Sofia was  certain  that  Fotini's  husband  would  have  let  her  know  if  anything  had  happened to  his  wife.  Sofia  wondered  what  Plaka  would  be  like  now,  and  tried  to  block  out  an image  of  the  little  village  overrun  with  noisy  pubs  selling  English  beer;  she  very  much hoped  Alexis  would  find  it  just  as  it  was  when  she  had  left.

As  the  evening  progressed  Alexis  felt  a  growing  excitement  that  at  last  she was  to  delve  further  into  her  family  history.  In  spite  of  the  tensions  she  knew  would have  to  be  faced  on  her  holiday,  at  least  the  visit  to  her  mother's  birthplace  was something  she  could  look  forward  to.  Alexis  and  Sofia  exchanged  smiles  and  Marcus found  himself  wondering  whether  his  days  of  playing  mediator  and  truce-­‐maker

between  his  wife  and  daughter  were  drawing  to  a  close.  He  was  warmed  by  the thought  and  basked  in  the  company  of  the  two  women  he  loved  most  in  the  world.

They  finished  their  meal,  politely  drank  the  complimentary  raki  to  the  halfway mark  and  left  for  home.  Alexis  would  sleep  in  her  old  room  tonight,  and  she  looked forward  to  those  few  hours  in  her  childhood  bed  before  she  had  to  get  up  and  take the  underground  to  Heathrow  in  the  morning.  She  felt  strangely  contented  in  spite of  the  fact  that  she  had  singularly  failed  to  ask  her  mother's  advice.  It  seemed  much more  important  at  this  very  moment  that  she  was  going,  with  her  mother's  full  co-­‐ operation,  to  visit  Sofia's  birthplace.  All  her  pressing  anxieties  over  the  more  distant future  were,  for  a  moment,  put  aside.

When  they  returned  from  the  restaurant,  Alexis  made  her  mother  some coffee  and  Sofia  sat  at  the  kitchen  table  composing  the  letter  to  Fotini,  rejecting three  drafts  before  finally  sealing  an  envelope  and  passing  it  across  the  table  to  her daughter.  The  whole  process  was  conducted  in  silence,  absorbing  Sofia  completely. Alexis  had  sensed  that  if  she  spoke  the  spell  might  be  broken  and  her  mother  might have  a  change  of  heart  after  all.

§

For  two  and  a  half  weeks  now,  Sofia's  letter  had  sat  in  the  safe  inner  pocket  of Alexis's  bag,  as  precious  as  her  passport.  Indeed,  it  was  a  passport  in  its  own  right, since  it  would  be  her  way  of  gaining  access  to  her  mother's  past.  It  had  travelled with  her  from  Athens  and  onwards  on  the  fume-­‐filled,  sometimes  storm-­‐tossed ferries  to  Paros,  Santorini  and  now  Crete.  They  had  arrived  on  the  island  a  few  days earlier  and  found  a  room  to  rent  on  the  seafront  in  Hania—an  easy  task  at  this  stage of  the  season  when  most  holidaymakers  had  already  departed.

These  were  the  last  days  of  their  vacation,  and  having  reluctantly  visited Knossos  and  the  archaeological  museum  at  Iraklion,  Ed  was  keen  to  spend  the  few days  before  their  long  boat  journey  back  to  Piraeus  on  the  beach.  Alexis,  however, had  other  plans.

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  mentioned  her  pilgrimage  to  Ed  and  she  braced herself  for  his  reaction.

Ed's  angry  eyes  flashed  at  her  like  sapphires  as  his  suntanned  face disappeared  behind  his  menu.  He  would  sulk  for  the  rest  of  the  evening  but  Alexis could  take  that  given  that  she  had  rather  sprung  this  on  him.  What  was  harder  to

cope  with,  even  though  it  was  equally  typical  of  him,  was  his  total  lack  of  interest  in her  plan.  He  did  not  even  ask  the  name  of  the  person  she  was  going  to  visit.

Not  long  after  the  sun  had  risen  over  the  hills  the  following  morning,  she  crept out  of  bed  and  left  their  hotel.

Something  very  unexpected  had  struck  her  when  she  looked  Plaka  up  in  her guidebook.  Something  her  mother  had  not  mentioned.  There  was  an  island  opposite the  village  just  off  the  coast,  and  although  the  entry  for  it  was  minimal,  miss-­‐able even,  it  had  captured  her  imagination:

SPINALONGA:  Dominated  by  a  massive  Venetian  fortress,  this  island  was seized  by  the  Turks  in  the  eighteenth  century.  The  majority  of  Turks  left  Crete  when  it was  declared  autonomous  in  1898  but  the  inhabitants  refused  to  give  up  their  homes and  their  lucrative  smuggling  trade  on  Spinalonga.  They  only  left  in  1903  when  the island  was  turned  into  a  leper  colony.  In  1941,  Crete  was  invaded  by  the  Germans and  occupied  until  1945,  but  the  presence  of  lepers  meant  Spinalonga  was  left  alone. Abandoned  in  1957.

It  appeared  that  the  raison  d'etre  of  Plaka  itself  had  been  to  act  as  a  supply centre  for  the  leper  colony,  and  it  intrigued  Alexis  that  her  mother  had  made  no mention  of  this  at  all.  As  she  sat  at  the  wheel  of  the  hired  Cinquecento,  she  hoped she  might  have  time  to  visit  Spinalonga.  She  spread  the  map  of  Crete  out  on  the empty  passenger  seat  and  noticed,  for  the  first  time,  that  the  island  was  shaped  like a  languid  animal  asleep  on  its  back.

The  journey  took  her  eastwards  past  Iraklion,  and  along  the  smooth,  straight coastal  road  that  passed  through  the  insanely  overdeveloped  modern  strips  of Hersonisos  and  Malia.  Occasionally  she  would  spot  a  brown  signpost  indicating some  ancient  ruin  nestling  incongruously  among  the  sprawling  hotels.  Alexis  ignored all  these  signs.  Today  her  destination  was  a  settlement  that  had  thrived  not  in  the twentieth  century  BC  but  in  the  twentieth  century  AD  and  beyond.

Passing  mile  upon  mile  of  olive  groves  and,  in  places  where  the  ground became  flatter  on  the  coastal  plains,  huge  plantations  of  reddening  tomatoes  and ripening  grapes,  she  eventually  turned  off  the  main  road  and  began  the  final  stage of  her  journey  towards  Plaka.  From  here,  the  road  narrowed  and  she  was  forced  to drive  in  a  more  leisurely  Way,  avoiding  small  piles  of  rocks  which  had  spilled  down from  the  mountains  into  the  middle  of  the  road  and,  from  time  to  time,  a  goat ambling  across  in  front  of  her,  its  devilishly  close-­‐set  eyes  glaring  at  her  as  she passed.  After  a  while  the  road  began  to  climb,  and  after  one  particularly  sharp hairpin  bend  she  drew  in  to  the  side,  her  tyres  crackling  on  the  gravelly  surface.  Way below  her,  in  the  blindingly  blue  waters  of  the  Gulf  of  Mirabello,  she  could  see  the great  arc  of  an  almost  circular  natural  harbour,  and  just  where  the  arms  of  it  seemed to  join  in  embrace  there  was  a  piece  of  land  that  looked  like  a  small,  rounded  hillock. From  a  distance  it  appeared  to  be  connected  to  the  mainland,  but  from  her  map Alexis  knew  this  was  the  island  of  Spinalonga  and  that  to  reach  it  there  was  a  strip  of water  to  be  crossed.  Dwarfed  by  the  landscape  around  it,  the  island  stood  proud  of

the  water,  the  remains  of  the  Venetian  fortress  clearly  visible  at  one  end,  and behind  it,  fainter  but  still  distinct,  a  series  of  lines  mapped  out;  these  were  its streets.  So  there  it  was:  the  empty  island.  It  had  been  continuously  inhabited  for thousands  of  years  and  then,  less  than  fifty  years  ago,  for  some  reason  abandoned.

She  took  the  last  few  miles  of  her  journey  down  to  Plaka  slowly,  the  windows of  her  cheap  rented  car  wound  down  to  let  in  the  warm  breeze  and  the  fragrant smell  of  thyme.  It  was  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  when  she  finally  rattled  to  a  halt in  the  silent  village  square.  Her  hands  were  glistening  with  sweat  from  gripping  the hard  plastic  steering  wheel  and  she  noticed  that  her  left  arm  had  been  scorched  by the  early  afternoon  sun.  It  was  a  ghostly  time  to  arrive  in  a  Greek  village.  Dogs played  dead  in  the  shade  and  a  few  cats  prowled  for  scraps.  There  were  no  other signs  of  life,  simply  some  vague  indications  that  people  had  been  there  not  long before—an  abandoned  moped  leaning  against  a  tree,  half  a  packet  of  cigarettes  on  a bench  and  a  backgammon  set  lying  open  next  to  it.  Cicadas  kept  up  their  relentless chorus  that  would  only  be  silenced  at  dusk  when  the  fierce  heat  finally  cooled.  The village  probably  looked  exactly  as  it  had  done  in  the  1970s  when  her  mother  had left.  There  had  been  few  reasons  for  it  to  change.

Alexis  had  already  decided  that  she  would  try  to  visit  Spinalonga  before  she tracked  down  Fotini  Davaras.  She  was  enjoying  this  sense  of  complete  freedom  and independence,  and  once  she  had  found  the  old  woman  it  might  then  seem  rude  to go  off  on  a  boat  trip.  It  was  clear  to  Alexis  that  she  would  be  pushed  to  get  back  to Hania  that  night,  but  just  for  now  she  would  enjoy  her  afternoon  and  would  deal with  the  logistics  of  ringing  Ed  and  finding  somewhere  to  stay  later  on.

Deciding  to  take  the  guidebook  at  its  word  ("Try  the  bar  in  the  small  fishing village  of  Plaka  where,  for  a  few  thousand  drachma,  there  is  usually  a  fisherman willing  to  take  you  across"),  she  made  her  way  purposefully  across  the  square  and pushed  aside  the  sticky  rainbow  of  plastic  strips  that  hung  in  the  doorway  of  the village  bar.  These  grubby  ribbons  were  an  attempt  to  keep  the  flies  out  and  the coolness  in,  but  all  they  actually  did  was  gather  dust  and  keep  the  place  in  a permanent  state  of  semi-­‐darkness.  Staring  into  the  gloom,  Alexis  could  just  about make  out  the  shape  of  a  woman  seated  at  a  table,  and  as  she  groped  her  way towards  her,  the  shadowy  figure  got  up  and  moved  behind  the  bar.  By  now  Alexis's throat  was  desiccated  with  dust.

The  woman  shuffled  past  a  series  of  giant  glass  vats  of  olives  and  several  half-­‐ empty  bottles  of  clear,  thick  ouzo  and  reached  into  the  fridge  for  some  chilled mineral  water.  She  poured  carefully  into  a  tall,  straight-­‐edged  glass,  adding  a  thick wedge  of  rough-­‐skinned  lemon  before  passing  it  to  Alexis.  She  then  dried  her  hands, wet  with  condensation  from  the  icy  bottle,  on  a  huge  floral  apron  that  just  about reached  around  her  generous  waist,  and  spoke.  "English?"  she  asked.

Alexis  nodded.  It  was  a  half-­‐truth  after  all.  It  took  her  just  one  word  to communicate  her  next  wish.  "Spinalonga?"  she  said.

The  woman  turned  on  her  heel  and  vanished  through  a  little  doorway  behind the  bar.  Alexis  could  hear  the  muffled  yells  of  "Gerasimo!  Gerasimo!"  and,  soon after,  the  sound  of  footsteps  on  a  wooden  staircase.  An  elderly  man,  bleary-­‐eyed from  his  disturbed  siesta,  appeared.  The  woman  gabbled  away  at  him,  and  the  only word  that  meant  anything  to  Alexis  was  'drachma',  which  was  repeated  several times.  It  was  quite  clear  that,  in  no  uncertain  terms,  he  was  being  told  that  there was  good  money  to  be  earned  here.  The  man  stood  there  blinking,  taking  in  this torrent  of  instructions  but  saying  nothing.

The  woman  turned  to  Alexis  and,  grabbing  her  order  pad  from  the  bar, scribbled  down  some  figures  and  a  diagram.  Even  if  Alexis  had  spoken  fluent  Greek it  could  not  have  been  clearer.  With  the  help  of  plenty  of  pointing  and  circular movements  in  the  air  and  marks  on  the  paper,  she  deduced  that  her  return  trip  to Spinalonga,  with  a  two-­‐hour  stop  on  the  island,  would  cost  20,000  drachma,  around £35.  It  wasn't  going  to  be  a  cheap  day  out,  but  she  was  in  no  position  to  negotiate— and  besides,  she  was  more  committed  than  ever  to  visiting  the  island.  She  nodded and  smiled  at  the  boatman,  who  nodded  gravely  back  at  her.  It  was  at  that  moment that  it  dawned  on  Alexis  that  there  was  more  to  the  ferryman's  silence  than  she  had at  first  realised.  He  could  not  have  spoken  even  if  he  had  wished.  Gerasimo  was dumb.

It  was  a  short  walk  to  the  quayside  where  Gerasimo's  battered  old  boat  was moored.  They  walked  in  silence  past  the  sleeping  dogs  and  the  shuttered  buildings. Nothing  stirred.  The  only  sounds  were  the  soft  padding  of  their  own  rubber-­‐soled feet  and  the  cicadas.  Even  the  sea  was  flat  and  soundless.

So  here  she  was  being  ferried  on  this  500-­‐metre  journey  by  a  man  who occasionally  smiled,  but  no  more.  He  was  as  leather-­‐faced  as  any  Cretan  fisherman who  had  spent  decades  on  storm-­‐tossed  seas,  balding  the  elements  by  night  and mending  his  nets  in  the  baking  sunshine  by  day.  He  was  probably  somewhere beyond  sixty  years  old,  but  if  wrinkles  were  like  the  rings  of  an  oak  tree  and  could  be used  to  measure  age,  a  rough  calculation  would  leave  him  little  short  of  eighty.  His features  betrayed  nothing.  No  pain,  no  misery,  but  no  particular  joy  either.  They were  simply  the  quiet  features  of  resigned  old  age  and  a  reflection  of  all  that  he  had lived  through  in  the  previous  century.  Though  tourists  had  been  Crete's  most  recent invaders,  following  the  Venetians,  the  Turks  and,  in  the  old  man's  lifetime,  the Germans,  few  of  them  had  bothered  to  learn  any  Greek.  Alexis  now  castigated herself  for  not  getting  her  mother  to  teach  her  some  useful  vocabulary— presumably  Sofia  could  still  speak  fluently  even  if  her  daughter  had  never  heard  her utter  a  word.  All  Alexis  could  now  offer  the  boatman  was  a  polite  'efharisto—"'thank you"—as  he  helped  her  on  board,  at  which  he  touched  the  brim  of  his  battered straw  hat  in  reply.

Now  approaching  Spinalonga,  Alexis  gathered  up  her  camera  and  the  plastic two-­‐litre  bottle  of  water  that  the  woman  in  the  café  had  pressed  upon  her, indicating  that  she  must  drink  plenty.  As  the  boat  bumped  against  the  jetty,  old

Gerasimo  offered  her  a  hand  and  she  stepped  across  the  wooden  seat  on  to  the uneven  surface  of  the  deserted  quay.  She  noticed  then  that  the  engine  was  still running.  The  old  man  was  not,  it  appeared,  intending  to  stay.  They  managed  to communicate  to  each  other  that  he  would  return  in  two  hours,  and  she  watched  as he  slowly  turned  the  boat  and  set  off  back  in  the  direction  of  Plaka.

Alexis  was  now  stranded  on  Spinalonga  and  felt  a  wave  of  fear  sweep  over her.  Supposing  Gerasimo  forgot  her?  How  long  would  it  take  before  Ed  came  in search?  Could  she  swim  the  distance  back  to  the  mainland?  She  had  never  been  so entirely  alone,  had  rarely  been  more  than  a  few  metres  from  the  next  human  being and,  except  in  her  sleep,  never  out  of  touch  with  other  people  for  more  than  an hour  or  so.  Her  dependency  suddenly  felt  like  a  millstone  and  she  resolved  to  pull herself  together.  She  would  embrace  this  period  of  solitude—her  few  hours  of isolation  were  a  mere  pinprick  of  time  compared  with  the  life  sentence  of  loneliness that  past  inhabitants  of  Spinalonga  must  have  faced.

The  massive  stone  walls  of  the  Venetian  fortification  loomed  above  her.  How was  she  to  get  past  this  apparently  impregnable  obstacle?  It  was  then  that  she noticed,  in  the  rounded  section  of  the  wall,  a  small  entrance  that  was  just  about head  height.  It  was  a  tiny,  dark  opening  in  the  pale  expanse  of  stonework,  and  as she  approached  she  saw  that  it  was  the  way  into  a  long  tunnel  which  curved  away  to block  the  view  of  what  lay  at  its  far  end.  With  the  sea  behind  her  and  the  walls  in front,  there  was  only  one  way  to  go—forward  into  the  dark,  claustrophobic passageway.  It  went  on  for  some  metres,  and  when  she  emerged  from  the  semi-­‐ darkness  once  again  into  the  dazzling  early  afternoon  light  she  saw  that  the  scale  of the  place  had  changed  completely.  She  stopped,  transfixed.

She  was  at  the  lower  end  of  a  long  street  lined  on  both  sides  with  small  two-­‐ storey  houses.  At  one  time  this  might  have  looked  like  any  village  in  Crete,  but  these buildings  had  been  reduced  to  a  state  of  semi-­‐dereliction.  Window  frames  hung  at strange  angles  on  broken  hinges,  and  shutters  twitched  and  creaked  in  the  slight  sea breeze.  She  walked  hesitantly  down  the  dusty  street,  taking  in  everything  she  saw:  a church  on  her  right  with  a  solid  carved  door,  a  building  which,  judging  by  its  large ground-­‐floor  window  frames,  had  evidently  been  a  shop,  and  a  slightly  grander detached  building  with  a  wooden  balcony,  arched  doorway  and  the  remains  of  a walled  garden.  A  profound,  eerie  silence  hung  over  it  all.

In  the  downstairs  rooms  of  the  houses  clumps  of  bright  wild  flowers  grew  in abundance,  and  on  the  upper  storeys  wallflowers  peeped  out  from  between  cracks in  the  plaster.  Many  of  the  house  numbers  were  still  visible,  the  fading  figures—11, 18,  29—focusing  Alexis's  imagination  on  the  fact  that  behind  each  of  these  front doors  real  lives  had  been  lived.  She  continued  to  stroll,  spellbound.  It  was  like sleepwalking.  This  was  not  a  dream  and  yet  there  was  something  entirely  unreal about  it  all.

She  passed  what  must  have  been  a  café,  a  larger  hall  and  a  building  with  rows of  concrete  basins,  which  she  deduced  must  have  been  a  laundry.  Next  to  them

were  the  remains  of  an  ugly  three-­‐storey  block  with  functional  cast-­‐iron  balcony railings.  The  scale  of  the  building  was  in  strange  contrast  with  the  houses,  and  it  was odd  to  think  that  someone  must  have  put  this  building  up  only  seventy  years  ago and  thought  it  the  height  of  modernity.  Now  its  huge  windows  gaped  open  to  the sea  breeze  and  electric  wires  hung  down  from  the  ceilings  like  clumps  of  coagulated spaghetti.  It  was  almost  the  saddest  building  of  all.

Beyond  the  town  she  came  to  an  overgrown  path  that  led  away  to  a  spot beyond  all  signs  of  civilisation.  It  was  a  natural  promontory  with  a  sheer  drop  into the  sea  hundreds  of  feet  below.  Here  she  allowed  herself  to  imagine  the  misery  of the  lepers  and  to  wonder  whether  in  desperation  they  might  ever  have  come  to  this place  to  contemplate  ending  it  all.  She  stared  out  towards  the  curved  horizon.  Until now  she  had  been  so  absorbed  by  her  surroundings,  so  entirely  immersed  in  the dense  atmosphere  of  the  place,  that  all  thoughts  of  her  own  situation  had  been suspended.  She  was  the  only  person  on  this  entire  island  and  it  made  her  face  a  fact: solitude  did  not  have  to  mean  loneliness.  You  could  be  lonely  in  a  crowd.  The thought  gave  her  strength  for  what  she  might  have  to  do  when  she  returned:  begin the  next  stage  of  her  life  alone.

Retracing  her  steps  into  the  silent  town,  Alexis  rested  for  a  while  on  a  stone doorstep,  gulping  back  some  of  the  water  she  had  carried  with  her.  Nothing  stirred except  for  the  occasional  lizard  scuttling  through  the  dry  leaves  that  now  carpeted the  floors  of  these  decaying  homes.  Through  a  gap  in  the  derelict  house  in  front  of her  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  sea,  and  beyond  it  the  mainland.  Each  day  the  lepers must  have  looked  across  at  Plaka  and  been  able  to  see  every  building,  every  boat— perhaps  even  people  going  about  their  daily  business.  She  could  only  begin  to imagine  how  much  its  proximity  must  have  tantalised  them.

What  stories  could  the  walls  of  this  town  tell?  They  must  have  seen  great suffering.  It  went  without  saying  that  being  a  leper,  stuck  out  here  on  this  rock,  must have  been  as  bad  a  card  as  life  could  deal.  Alexis  was,  however,  well  practised  in making  deductions  from  archaeological  fragments,  and  she  could  tell  from  what remained  of  this  place  that  life  here  had  held  a  more  complex  range  of  emotions  for the  inhabitants  than  simply  misery,  and  despair.  If  their  existence  had  been  entirely abject,  why  would  there  have  been  cafes?  Why  was  there  a  building  that  could  only have  been  a  town  hall?  She  sensed  melancholy,  but  she  also  saw  signs  of  normality. It  was  these  that  had  taken  her  by  surprise.  This  tiny  island  had  been  a  community, not  just  a  place  to  come  and  die—that  much  was  clear  from  the  remains  of  the infrastructure.

Time  had  passed  quickly.  When  Alexis  glanced  at  her  watch  she  saw  that  it was  already  five  o'clock.  The  sun  had  seemed  so  high  still  and  its  heat  so  intense that  she  had  lost  all  track  of  time.  She  leapt  up,  her  heart  pounding.  Though  she  had enjoyed  the  silence  and  the  peace  here,  she  did  not  relish  the  idea  of  Gerasimo leaving  without  her.  She  hurried  back  through  the  long  dark  tunnel  and  out  on  to the  quay  the  other  side.  The  old  fisherman  was  sitting  in  his  boat  waiting  for  her,

and  immediately  she  appeared,  he  twisted  the  key  to  start  the  motor.  Clearly  he  had no  intention  of  staying  around  longer  than  necessary.

The  journey  back  to  Plaka  was  over  within  minutes.  With  a  sense  of  relief  she spotted  the  bar  where  her  journey  had  begun  and  saw  the  comfortingly  familiar  hire car  parked  just  opposite.  By  now  the  village  had  come  to  life.  Outside  doorways women  sat  talking,  and  under  the  trees  in  the  open  space  by  the  bar  a  group  of  men were  huddled  over  a  game  of  cards,  a  pall  of  smoke  from  their  strong  cigarettes hanging  in  the  air.  She  and  Gerasimo  walked  back  to  the  bar  in  their  now accustomed  silence  and  were  greeted  by  the  woman,  who  Alexis  deduced  was Gerasimo's  wife.  Alexis  counted  out  a  handful  of  scruffy  notes  and  handed  them  to her.  "Do  you  want  drink?"  asked  the  woman  in  her  rough  English.  Alexis  realised that  it  was  not  only  a  drink  she  needed,  but  also  food.  She  had  eaten  nothing  all  day and  the  combination  of  heat  and  the  sea  journey  had  left  her  feeling  shaky.

Recalling  that  her  mother's  friend  ran  a  local  taverna,  she  hastily  rummaged inside  her  backpack  for  the  crumpled  envelope  containing  Sofia's  letter.  She  showed the  address  to  the  woman,  who  registered  immediate  recognition.  Taking  Alexis  by the  arm,  she  led  her  out  into  the  street  and  along  the  seafront.  About  fifty  metres down  the  road,  and  extending  on  a  small  pier  out  into  the  sea,  was  a  taverna.  Like an  oasis,  its  painted  blue  chairs  and  checked  indigo  and  white  tablecloths  seemed  to summon  Alexis,  and  the  moment  she  was  greeted  by  its  owner,  the  restaurant's eponymous  Stephanos,  she  knew  she  would  be  happy  to  sit  there  and  watch  the  sun go  down.

Stephanos  had  one  thing  in  common  with  every  other  taverna  owner  Alexis had  met:  a  thick,  well-­‐clipped  moustache.  Unlike  the  majority  of  them,  however,  he did  not  look  as  though  he  ate  as  much  as  he  served.  It  was  much  too  early  for  local people  to  eat,  so  Alexis  sat  alone,  at  a  table  right  on  the  edge  by  the  sea.

Stephanos,  who  spoke  a  great  deal  more  English  than  the  couple  at  the  bar, warmly  replied  that  his  wife  was  indeed  there  and  would  come  out  to  see  her  as soon  as  she  had  finished  preparing  today's  dishes.  He  suggested  meanwhile  that  he bring  her  a  selection  of  local  specialities  so  that  she  didn't  have  to  bother  with  a menu.  With  a  glass  of  chilled  retsina  in  her  hand  and  some  coarse  bread  on  the  table in  front  of  her  to  sate  her  immediate  hunger,  Alexis  felt  a  wave  of  contentment  pass over  her.  She  had  derived  great  pleasure  from  her  day  of  solitude  and  relished  this moment  of  freedom  and  independence.  She  looked  across  at  Spinalonga.  Freedom was  not  something  any  of  the  lepers  would  ever  have  enjoyed,  she  thought,  but  had they  gained  something  else  instead?

Stephanos  returned  with  a  series  of  small  white  plates  stacked  up  his  arm, each  one  charged  with  a  tiny  portion  of  something  tasty  and  freshly  prepared  from his  kitchen—prawns,  stuffed  zucchini  flowers,  tzatziki  and  miniature  cheese  pies. Alexis  wondered  if  she  had  ever  felt  such  hunger  or  been  presented  with  such

delicious-­‐looking  food.

As  he  approached  her  table  Stephanos  had  noticed  her  gazing  out  towards the  island.  He  was  intrigued  by  this  lone  Englishwoman  who  had,  as  Andriana, Gerasimo's  wife,  explained,  spent  the  afternoon  alone  on  Spinalonga.  In  high summer  several  boatloads  of  tourists  a  day  were  ferried  across—but  most  of  them only  stayed  for  half  an  hour  at  most  and  then  were  driven  back  by  coach  to  one  of the  big  resorts  further  down  the  coast.  The  majority  only  came  out  of  ghoulish curiosity,  and  judging  by  the  snatches  of  conversation  he  sometimes  overheard  if they  ever  bothered  to  stop  in  Plaka  for  a  meal,  they  were  usually  disappointed.  It seemed  that  they  expected  to  see  more  than  a  few  derelict  houses  and  a  boarded-­‐ up  church.  What  did  they  want?  he  was  always  tempted  to  ask.  Bodies?  Abandoned crutches?  Their  insensitivity  never  failed  to  arouse  his  irritation.  But  this  woman  was not  like  them.

This  was  not  at  all  the  usual  reaction  from  visitors  to  Spinalonga,  but  the young  woman  had  obviously  spent  more  time  there  than  most.  Alexis  was  happy  to make  conversation,  and  since  Stephanos  was  always  keen  to  practise  his  English  he was  not  going  to  discourage  her.

By  now,  other  customers  were  arriving,  and  Stephanos  got  up  from  the wicker-­‐seated  chair  to  show  them  to  their  tables  and  present  them  with  menus.  The sun  had  now  fallen  below  the  horizon  and  the  sky  had  turned  a  deep  pink.  Swallows dived  and  swooped,  catching  insects  on  the  rapidly  cooling  air.  What  seemed  like  an age  went  by.  Alexis  had  eaten  everything  that  Stephanos  had  put  in  front  of  her  but she  was  still  hungry.

Just  as  she  was  wondering  whether  to  go  into  the  kitchen  to  choose  what  to have  next,  as  was  perfectly  acceptable  for  customers  in  Crete,  her  main  course

arrived.

Alexis  was  astonished.  Not  just  by  the  perfectly  presented  dish.  Not  even  by the  woman's  soft,  almost  accentless  English.  What  took  her  by  surprise  was  her beauty.  She  had  always  wondered  what  kind  of  face  could  possibly  have  launched  a thousand  ships.  It  must  have  been  one  like  this.

The  vision  seemed  about  to  turn  away,  but  then  she  paused.  "My  husband said  you  were  asking  for  me."

Alexis  looked  up  in  surprise.  Her  mother  had  told  her  that  Fotini  was  in  her early  seventies,  but  this  woman  was  slim,  scarcely  lined,  and  her  hair,  piled  high  on her  head,  was  still  the  colour  of  ripe  chestnuts.  She  was  not  the  old  woman  Alexis had  been  expecting  to  meet.

Fotini  Davaras's  face  lit  up.  "You're  Sofia's  daughter!  My  goodness,  how wonderful!"  she  said.  "How  is  she?  How  is  she?"

Fotini  accepted  with  huge  enthusiasm  the  letter  which  Alexis  held  out  to  her, hugging  it  to  her  chest  as  though  Sofia  herself  were  there  in  person.  "I  am  so  happy. I  haven't  heard  from  her  since  her  aunt  died  a  few  years  ago.  Until  then  she  used  to write  to  me  every  month,  then  she  just  stopped.  I  was  very  worried  when  some  of my  last  letters  went  unanswered."

All  of  this  was  news  to  Alexis.  She  had  been  unaware  that  her  mother  used  to send  letters  to  Crete  so  regularly—and  certainly  had  no  idea  that  she  had  ever received  any.  How  odd  during  all  those  years  that  Alexis  herself  had  never  once  seen a  letter  bearing  a  Greek  postmark—she  felt  sure  she  would  have  remembered  it, since  she  had  always  been  an  early  riser,  and  invariably  the  one  to  sweep  up  any letters  from  the  doormat.  It  seemed  that  her  mother  had  gone  to  great  lengths  to conceal  this  correspondence.

By  now  Fotini  was  holding  Alexis  by  the  shoulders  and  scrutinising  her  face with  her  almond-­‐shaped  eyes.

Anna?  On  all  those  occasions  when  she  had  tried  to  extract  information  from her  mother  about  the  sepia-­‐toned  aunt  and  uncle  who  had  brought  her  up,  Alexis had  never  heard  this  name.

Standing  in  the  dusky  half-­‐light,  with  the  now  ink-­‐black  sea  behind  her,  she  was  all but  knocked  backwards  by  the  scale  of  her  mother's  secre-­‐tiveness,  and  the realisation  that  she  was  talking  to  someone  who  might  hold  some  of  the  answers.

In  spite  of  the  fact  that  she  wanted  to  ask  all  the  questions—she  was  bursting with  them—Alexis  allowed  herself  to  be  interviewed  by  Fotini,  whose  enquiries were  all  more  searching  than  they  appeared.  How  was  her  mother?  Was  she  happy? What  was  her  father  like?  What  had  brought  her  to  Crete?

Fotini  was  as  warm  as  the  night,  and  Alexis  found  herself  answering  her questions  very  openly.  This  woman  was  old  enough  to  be  her  grandmother,  and  yet was  so  unlike  how  she  would  expect  a  grandmother  to  be.  Fotini  Davaras  was  the antithesis  of  the  bent  old  lady  in  black  that  she  had  imagined  when  her  mother  had handed  her  the  letter.  Her  interest  in  Alexis  seemed  totally  genuine.  It  was  a  long time—if  it  had  ever  happened  at  all—since  Alexis  had  talked  to  someone  like  this. Her  university  tutor  had  occasionally  listened  to  her  as  though  what  she  said  really mattered,  but  in  her  heart  she  knew  that  was  only  because  she  was  paid  to  do  so.  It wasn't  long  before  Alexis  was  confiding  in  Fotini.

This  statement  was  very  uncharacteristic  of  the  normally  pragmatic  Alexis, and  she  was  aware  that  it  might  sound  rather  nebulous,  almost  fanciful,  to  someone she  had  known  for  less  than  two  hours.  Besides,  she  had  strayed  off  the  agenda;

how  could  she  expect  this  Greek  woman,  kindly  as  she  was,  to  be  interested  in  her?

Stephanos  approached  at  this  moment  to  clear  the  dishes,  and  within  minutes he  was  back  with  cups  of  coffee  and  two  generous  balloons  of  molasses-­‐coloured brandy.  Other  customers  had  come  and  gone  during  the  evening  and,  once  again, the  table  Alexis  occupied  was  the  only  one  in  use.

Warmed  by  the  hot  coffee  and  even  more  so  by  the  fiery  Metaxa,  Alexis  asked Fotini  how  long  she  had  known  her  mother.

She  pulled  it  out  and,  picking  up  a  knife  from  the  next  table,  quickly  slit  it open.

Dear  Fotini,

Please  forgive  me  for  being  out  of  touch  for  so  long.  I  know  I  don't  need  to explain  the  reasons  to  you,  but  believe  me  when  I  tell  you  that  I  think  of  you  often. This  is  my  daughter,  Alexis.  Will  you  treat  her  as  kindly  as  you  always  treated  me—I hardly  need  to  ask  it,  do  I?

Alexis  is  very  curious  about  her  history—it's  understandable,  but  I  have  found it  almost  impossible  to  tell  her  anything.  Isn't  it  odd  how  the  passage  of  time  can make  it  harder  than  ever  to  bring  things  out  into  the  open?

I  know  she  will  ask  you  plenty  of  questions—she  is  a  natural  historian.  Will  you answer  them?  Your  eyes  and  ears  witnessed  the  whole  story—I  think  you  will  be  able to  give  her  atruer  account  than  I  ever  could.

Paint  a  picture  of  it  all  for  her,  Fotini.  She  will  be  eternally  grateful.  Who knows—she  may  even  return  to  England  and  be  able  to  tell  me  things  I  never  knew. Will  you  show  her  where  I  was  born—I  know  she  will  be  interested  in  that—and  take her  to  Agios  Nikolaos?

This  comes  with  much  love  to  you  and  Stephanas—and  please  send  warm  best wishes  to  your  sons  too.

Thank  you,  Fotini.

Yours  ever,  Sofia

When  she  had  finished  reading  the  letter,  Fotini  folded  it  carefully  and returned  it  to  its  envelope.  She  looked  across  at  Alexis,  who  had  been  studying  her

every  expression  with  curiosity  as  she  scanned  the  crumpled  sheet  of  paper.

She  knew  instinctively  that  this  might  be  the  best  investment  of  time  she could  ever  make,  and  there  was  no  doubt  that  her  mother's  story  could  help  her more  in  the  long  term  than  yet  another  museum  visit.  Why  examine  the  cool  relics of  past  civilisations  when  she  could  be  breathing  life  into  her  own  history?  There was  nothing  to  stop  her  staying.  Just  a  brief  text  message  telling  Ed  that  she  was going  to  be  here  for  a  day  or  so  would  be  all  it  would  take.  Even  though  she  knew  it was  an  act  of  almost  callous  disregard  for  him,  she  felt  this  opportunity  justified  a little  selfishness.  She  was  essentially  free  to  do  what  she  pleased.  It  was  a  moment of  stillness.  The  dark,  flat  sea  almost  seemed  to  hold  its  breath,  and  in  the  clear  sky above,  the  brightest  constellation  of  all,  Orion,  who  had  been  killed  and  placed  in the  sky  by  the  gods,  seemed  to  wait  for  her  decision.

This  might  be  the  one  chance  Alexis  was  offered  in  her  lifetime  to  grab  at  the fragments  of  her  own  history  before  they  were  dissipated  in  the  breeze.  She  knew there  was  only  one  response  to  the  invitation.  "Thank  you,"  she  said  quietly, suddenly  overwhelmed  with  tiredness.  "I'd  love  to  stay."

Chapter  Two

ALEXIS  SLEPT  DEEPLY  that  night.  When  she  and  Fotini  finally  went  to  bed,  it was  after  one  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  the  cumulative  effect  of  the  long  drive  to Plaka,  the  afternoon  on  Spinalonga  and  the  heady  mix  of  meze  and  Metaxa  drew her  into  a  deep  and  dreamless  sleep.

It  was  nearly  ten  when  luminous  sunshine  came  streaming  through  the  gap between  the  thick  hessian  curtains  and  threw  a  beam  across  Alexis's  pillow.  As  it woke  her,  she  instinctively  slid  further  under  the  sheets  to  hide  her  face.  In  the  past fortnight  she  had  slept  in  several  unfamiliar  rooms,  and  each  time  she  surfaced there  was  a  moment  of  confusion  as  she  adjusted  to  her  surroundings  and  dragged herself  into  the  here  and  now.  Most  of  the  mattresses  in  the  cheap  pensions  where she  and  Ed  had  stayed  had  either  sagged  in  the  middle  or  had  metal  springs protruding  through  the  ticking.  It  had  never  been  hard  to  get  up  from  those  beds  in the  morning.  But  this  bed  was  altogether  different.  In  fact  the  whole  room  was different.  The  round  table  with  a  lace  cloth,  the  stool  with  its  faded  woven  seat,  the group  of  framed  watercolours  on  the  wall,  the  candlestick  thickly  coated  with  organ pipes  of  wax,  the  fragrant  lavender  which  hung  in  a  bunch  on  the  back  of  the  door, and  the  walls  painted  in  a  soft  blue  to  match  the  bed  linen:  all  of  these  things  made it  homelier  than  home.

When  she  drew  back  the  curtains  she  was  greeted  by  the  dazzling  vista  of  a

sparkling  sea  and  the  island  of  Spinalonga,  which,  in  the  shimmering  haze  of  heat, seemed  further  away,  more  remote  than  it  had  yesterday.

When  she  had  set  off  from  Hania  early  the  previous  day,  she  had  had  no intention  of  staying  in  Plaka.  She  had  imagined  a  brief  meeting  with  the  elderly woman  from  her  mother's  childhood  and  a  short  tour  of  the  village  before  rejoining Ed.  For  that  reason  she  had  brought  nothing  more  than  a  map  and  her  camera—and had  certainly  not  anticipated  needing  spare  clothes  or  a  toothbrush.  Fotini, however,  had  been  quick  to  come  to  her  rescue,  lending  her  everything  she  needed one  of  Stephanos's  shirts  to  sleep  in,  and  a  clean  if  rather  threadbare  towel.  This morning,  at  the  end  of  her  bed,  she  found  a  floral  shirt—not  at  all  her  style,  but  after the  heat  and  dust  of  the  previous  day  she  was  glad  for  the  change  of  clothing.  It  was a  gesture  of  such  maternal  kindness  that  she  could  hardly  ignore  it—even  if  the  pale pinks  and  blues  of  the  blouse  looked  rather  incongruous  with  her  khaki  shorts,  what did  it  really  matter?  Alexis  splashed  her  face  with  cold  water  at  the  tiny  sink  in  the corner  and  then  scrutinised  her  tanned  face  in  the  mirror.  She  was  as  excited  as  a child  who  was  about  to  be  read  the  crucial  chapter  of  a  story.  Today  Fotini  was  going to  be  her  Scheherazade.

Dressed  in  the  unfamiliar  feel  of  crisp,  ironed  cotton,  she  wandered  down  the dark  back  stairway  and  found  herself  in  the  restaurant  kitchen,  drawn  there  by  the powerful  aroma  of  strong,  freshly  brewed  coffee.  Fotini  sat  at  a  huge,  gnarled  table in  the  middle  of  the  room.  Though  thoroughly  scrubbed,  it  still  seemed  to  bear  the stains  from  every  piece  of  meat  that  had  been  pulverised  there  and  every  herb  that had  been  crushed  on  its  surface.  It  must  have  also  witnessed  a  thousand  moments of  frayed  temper  which  had  simmered  and  boiled  over  in  the  intense  heat  of  the kitchen.  Fotini  rose  to  greet  her.

She  was  wearing  a  blouse  similar  to  the  one  she  had  lent  Alexis,  though Fotini's  was  in  shades  of  ochre  that  matched  the  full  skirt  that  billowed  out  from  her slender  waist  and  nearly  reached  her  ankles.  The  first  impression  of  her  beauty  that had  struck  Alexis  so  forcibly  the  night  before  in  the  kindly  dusk  light  had  not  been wrong.  The  Cretan  woman's  statuesque  physique  and  large  eyes  reminded  her  of the  images  on  the  great  Minoan  fresco  at  Knossos,  those  vivid  portraits  which  had survived  several  thousand  years  of  time's  ravages  and  yet  had  a  remarkable simplicity  that  made  them  seem  so  contemporary.

Alexis  stifled  a  yawn,  nodded  and  then  smiled  at  Fotini,  who  was  now  busily loading  a  tray  with  a  coffee  pot,  some  generously  proportioned  cups  and  saucers and  a  loaf  that  she  had  just  removed  from  the  oven.

plastic  strips  and  on  to  the  terrace,  where  all  last  night's  tables  had  been  stripped  of their  paper  cloths  and  now  looked  strangely  bare  with  their  red  Formica  tops.

The  two  women  sat  overlooking  the  sea  which  lapped  the  rocks  below.  Fotini poured  and  the  dense  black  liquid  gushed  in  a  dark  stream  into  the  white  china. After  the  endless  disappointing  cups  of  Nescafe,  served  as  though  the  tasteless dissolving  granules  of  instant  coffee  were  a  delicacy,  Alexis  felt  no  cup  of  coffee  had ever  tasted  as  powerful  and  delicious  as  this.  It  seemed  that  nobody  had  the  heart to  tell  the  Greeks  that  Nescafe  was  no  longer  a  novelty—it  was  this  old-­‐fashioned thick  and  treacly  fluid  that  everyone,  including  her,  craved.  The  September  sunshine had  a  clear  brilliance  and  a  kindly  warmth  that,  after  the  intensity  of  the  August heat,  made  it  one  of  the  most  welcome  months  in  Crete.  The  furnace-­‐strong temperatures  of  midsummer  had  dropped  and  the  hot,  angry  winds  had  gone  too. The  two  women  sat  opposite  each  other  beneath  the  shade  of  the  awning  and  Fotini put  her  dark,  lined  hand  on  Alexis's.

Looking  at  Alexis's  slightly  puzzled  expression,  Fotini  realised  that  she  had  to slow  her  pace.  She  poured  them  both  another  cup  of  coffee,  giving  herself  a moment  to  think  about  where  to  start.  It  seemed  she  would  have  to  go  back  even further  than  she  had  originally  imagined  would  be  necessary.

Alexis  began  to  feel  slightly  edgy.  The  impregnable  safe  of  her  mother's  past, which  had  been  so  resolutely  locked  for  her  entire  life,  was  now  to  be  opened.  All the  secrets  would  come  spilling  out,  and  she  found  herself  questioning  whether  she really  wanted  that.  She  stared  out  across  the  sea  at  the  pale  outline  of  Spinalonga and  remembered  her  solitary  afternoon  there,  already  with  nostalgia.  Pandora regretted  opening  her  box.  Would  it  be  the  same  for  her?

Fotini  spotted  the  direction  of  her  gaze.

She  didn't  expect  her  words  to  sound  quite  so  blunt,  quite  so  heartless,  and  she  saw straightaway  that  they  had  made  Alexis  wince.

For  Fotini,  who  had  grown  up  in  the  shadow  of  the  colony,  leprosy  had  always been  a  fact  of  life.  She  had  seen  more  lepers  arrive  in  Plaka  to  cross  over  the  water to  Spinalonga  than  she  could  count.  She  had  also  seen  the  varied  states  of  the victims  of  the  disease:  some  cripplingly  disfigured,  others  apparently  untouched. Untouchable  had,  in  fact,  been  the  last  thing  they  seemed.  But  she  understood Alexis's  reaction.  It  was  the  natural  response  for  someone  whose  knowledge  of leprosy  came  from  Old  Testament  stories  and  the  image  of  a  bell-­‐swinging  sufferer crying,  "Unclean!  Unclean!"

Alexis  continued  to  gaze  at  the  little  island  across  the  shimmering  water.  Her visit  there  yesterday  had  seemed  so  full  of  conflicting  images:  the  remains  of  elegant Italianate  villas,  gardens  and  even  shops,  and  overshadowing  them  all  the  spectre  of a  disease  which  she  had  seen  portrayed  in  epic  films  as  a  living  death.  She  took another  gulp  of  the  thick  coffee.

Alexis  was  feeling  ashamed  of  her  initial  reaction,  humbled  by  her  ignorance, but  the  revelation  that  a  member  of  her  family  had  been  a  leper  had  been  a  bolt  out of  the  bluest  of  skies.

Spinalonga  hygiene  was  poor,  and  though  it  improved  a  great  deal  during  the  time she  was  there,  some  irreparable  damage  was  done  in  her  early  years.  I  shall  spare you  the  details.  Giorgis  spared  Maria  and  Anna  from  them.  But  you  do  know  how  it happens,  don't  you?  Leprosy  can  affect  nerve  endings,  and  the  result  of  this  is  that you  can't  feel  it  if  you  burn  or  cut  yourself.  That's  why  people  with  leprosy  are  so vulnerable  to  inflicting  permanent  damage  on  themselves,  and  the  consequences  of that  can  be  disastrous."

Fotini  paused.  She  was  concerned  not  to  offend  this  young  woman's sensibilities,  but  was  also  very  aware  that  there  were  elements  of  the  story  that were  nothing  less  than  shocking.  It  was  simply  a  case  of  treading  carefully.

On  the  big  wooden  tray  propped  against  the  coffee  pot  there  was  a  tatty manila  envelope.  Fotini  opened  it  and  the  contents  spilled  out  on  to  the  table.  Some of  the  photographs  were  no  bigger  than  train  tickets,  others  were  postcard  size. Some  were  shiny,  with  white  borders,  others  were  matt,  but  all  were  monochrome, many  faded  almost  to  invisibility.  Most  had  been  taken  in  a  studio  in  the  days  before the  spontaneous  snapshot  was  possible,  and  the  stiffness  of  the  subjects  made  them seem  as  distant  and  remote  as  King  Minos.

The  first  photo  Alexis  focused  on  was  one  she  recognised.  It  was  the  picture that  her  mother  had  next  to  her  bed  of  the  lady  in  lace  and  the  platinum-­‐haired man.  She  picked  it  up.

She  passed  it  to  Alexis.  The  man  was  about  the  same  height  as  the  woman, but  broad-­‐shouldered.  He  had  dark,  wavy  hair,  a  clipped  moustache,  a  strong  nose, and  eyes  that  smiled  even  though  the  expression  he  maintained  for  this  photograph was  serious  and  posed.  His  hands  seemed  big  in  comparison  with  his  body.  The woman  next  to  him  was  slim,  long-­‐necked  and  strikingly  beautiful;  her  hair  was wound  into  plaits  which  were  coiled  up  on  top  of  her  head,  and  her  smile  was  broad and  spontaneous.  Seated  in  front  of  them  were  two  girls  in  cotton  dresses.  One  had strong,  thick  hair  worn  loose  about  her  shoulders  and  her  eyes  were  slanted  almost like  a  cat's.  She  had  mischief  in  her  eyes  and  plump  lips  that  did  not  smile.  The  other had  neady  plaited  hair,  more  delicate  features  and  a  nose  that  wrinkled  as  she smiled  at  the  camera.  She  could  almost  be  described  as  skinny  and,  of  the  two  girls, was  much  more  like  the  mother,  with  her  hands  held  sofdy  in  her  lap  in  a  demure pose  while  her  sister  had  her  arms  folded  and  glared,  as  if  in  defiance,  at  the  person taking  the  photograph.

your  grandmother,"  she  said,  indicating  the  other.  "And  those  are  their  parents, Eleni  and  Giorgis."

She  spread  the  pictures  out  on  the  table,  and  occasionally  the  breeze  lifted them  gendy  from  its  surface  and  seemed  to  bring  them  to  life.  Alexis  saw  pictures  of the  two  sisters  when  they  were  babes  in  arms,  then  as  schoolgirls,  and  then  as young  women,  by  that  stage  just  with  their  father.  There  was  also  a  picture  of  Anna arm  in  arm  with  a  man  in  full  traditional  Cretan  dress.  It  was  a  wedding  picture.

Like  any  collection  of  family  photographs,  it  was  a  random  selection  that  told only  fragments  of  a  story.  The  real  tale  would  be  revealed  by  the  pictures  that  were missing  or  never  even  taken  at  all,  not  the  ones  that  had  been  so  carefully  framed  or packed  away  neatly  in  an  envelope.  Alexis  was  aware  of  that,  but  at  least  she  had now  been  given  a  glimpse  of  these  family  members  that  her  mother  had  kept  so secret  for  so  long.

She  pointed  to  a  small  house  on  the  corner,  a  pebble's  throw  from  where  they sat  sipping  their  coffee.  It  was  a  tatty,  whitewashed  building,  as  shabby  as  every other  home  in  the  ramshackle  village,  but  charming  nevertheless.  Its  plastered  walls were  flaking  and  the  shutters,  repainted  time  and  time  again  since  Alexis's  great-­‐ grandparents  had  lived  there,  were  a  shade  of  bright  aqua  that  had  peeled  and cracked  in  the  heat.  A  balcony,  perched  above  the  doorway,  sagged  under  the weight  of  several  huge  urns  from  which  flame-­‐red  geraniums  cascaded  downwards, as  though  making  their  escape  through  the  carved  wooden  railings.  It  was  typical  of almost  every  home  on  every  Greek  island  and  could  have  been  built  at  any  time  in the  past  few  hundred  years.  Plaka,  like  any  village  lucky  enough  to  have  been  spared the  ravages  of  mass  tourism,  was  timeless.

Eleni  was  generous  in  every  way  and  had  enough  time  for  all  her  children,  whether they  were  her  own  flesh  and  blood  or  simply  her  pupils.

again  if  anyone  found  out.  There  was  only  one  responsible  action  Eleni  could  take once  she  knew  she  was  infected—and  she  took  it.  She  gave  instructions  that  every child  in  the  school  should  be  checked  so  that  the  sufferer  could  be  identified,  and, sure  enough,  there  was  a  nine-­‐year-­‐old  boy,  called  Dimitri,  whose  wretched  parents had  to  endure  the  horror  of  having  their  son  taken  away  from  them.  But  the alternative  was  a  great  deal  worse.  Think  of  the  contact  that  children  have  with  each other  when  they  play!  They're  not  like  adults,  who  keep  their  distance.  They  scuffle and  wrestle  and  fall  in  heaps  on  top  of  each  other.  We  know  now  that  the  disease  is generally  only  spread  through  persistent  close  contact,  but  what  people  were  afraid of  in  those  days  was  that  the  school  in  Elounda  would  become  a  leper  colony  in  its own  right  if  they  didn't  pull  out  the  infected  child  as  soon  as  they  possibly  could."

Alexis's  lips  had  dried  and  she  hardly  trusted  herself  to  speak  in  case  no  sound came.  To  help  the  moment  pass,  she  moved  her  empty  cup  towards  Fotini,  who filled  it  once  more  and  pushed  it  back  across  the  table.  As  she  carefully  stirred  sugar into  the  dark  swirling  liquid,  Alexis  felt  herself  being  pulled  into  Eleni's  vortex  of  grief and  suffering.

What  had  it  felt  like?  To  sail  away  from  your  home  and  be  effectively imprisoned  within  sight  of  your  family,  everything  that  was  precious  to  you  stripped away?  She  thought  not  only  of  the  woman  who  had  been  her  great-­‐grandmother, but  also  of  the  boy,  both  of  them  innocent  of  any  crime  and  yet  condemned.

Fotini  reached  out  and  put  her  hand  on  Alexis's.  Perhaps  she  had  been  in  too much  of  a  hurry  to  tell  the  story,  without  really  knowing  this  young  woman  well enough.  It  was  no  fairytale,  however,  and  she  could  not  simply  choose  which chapters  to  tell  and  which  ones  to  omit.  If  she  trod  too  carefully  now,  the  real  story might  never  be  told.  She  watched  the  clouds  pass  across  Alexis's  face.  Unlike  the pale  wisps  that  hung  in  the  blue  sky  that  morning,  these  were  sombre  and  brooding. Until  now,  Fotini  suspected,  the  only  darkness  in  Alexis's  life  had  been  the  vague shadow  of  her  mother's  hidden  past.  It  had  been  nothing  more  than  a  question mark,  nothing  that  had  kept  her  awake  at  night.  She  had  not  seen  disease,  let  alone death.  Now  she  had  to  learn  about  them  both.

A  walk  was  exactly  what  Alexis  needed.  These  fragments  of  her  mother's history  and  a  surfeit  of  caffeine  had  made  her  head  spin,  and  as  they  descended  the wooden  steps  on  to  the  shingly  beach  below,  Alexis  gulped  in  the  salty  air.

They  strolled  the  length  of  the  beach  and  began  to  ascend  the  stony  path lined  with  teasels  and  lavender  that  led  away  from  the  village.  The  breeze  was stronger  here  and  Fotini's  walk  slowed.  Though  she  was  fit  for  a  woman  in  her seventies,  she  didn't  always  have  her  old  stamina,  and  her  pace  became  more careful  and  more  faltering  as  the  path  began  to  steepen.

Occasionally  she  stopped,  once  or  twice  pointing  out  places  on  Spinalonga that  came  into  view.  Eventually  they  came  to  a  huge  rock  worn  smooth  by  wind,  rain and  its  long  use  as  a  bench.  They  sat  down  and  looked  out  to  sea,  the  wind  rustling the  scrubby  bushes  of  wild  thyme  that  grew  in  profusion  around  them.  It  was  here that  Fotini  began  to  relate  Sofia's  story.

Over  the  next  few  days  Fotini  told  Alexis  everything  she  knew  of  her  family's history,  leaving  no  pebble  unturned—from  the  small  shingle  of  childhood  minutiae to  the  larger  boulders  of  Crete's  own  history.  In  the  time  they  had  together,  the  two women  strolled  along  the  coastal  paths,  sat  for  hours  over  the  dinner  table  and made  journeys  to  local  towns  and  villages  in  Alexis's  hired  car,  with  Fotini  laying  the pieces  of  the  Petrakis  jigsaw  before  them.  These  were  days  during  which  Alexis  felt herself  grow  older  and  wiser,  and  Fotini,  in  retelling  so  much  of,  her  past,  felt  herself young  again.  The  half-­‐century  that  separated  the  two  women  disappeared  to vanishing  point,  and  as  they  strolled  arm  in  arm,  they  might  even  have  been mistaken  for  sisters.