Part 3 Chapter Ten

Part  3

Chapter  Ten

1945

IT  WAS  AS  though  they  had  been  breathing  in  a  poisonous  gas  and  now  once again  there  was  oxygen  in  the  atmosphere.  Members  of  the  resistance  were  arriving back  in  their  villages,  often  after  travelling  hundreds  of  miles  to  reach  them,  and fresh  bottles  of  raki  were  uncorked  to  toast  every  return.  Within  a  fortnight  of  the end  of  occupation  it  was  the  feast  of  Agios  Konstandinos,  and  the  celebration  of  this saint's  day  was  the  excuse  everyone  needed  to  throw  all  caution  to  the  wind.  A cloud  had  lifted  and  madness  descended  in  its  place.  Fatted  goats  and  well-­‐fed sheep  rotated  on  spits  the  length  and  breadth  of  Crete,  and  fireworks  crackled  in  the sky  across  the  island,  reminding  some  people  of  the  explosions  which  had  ripped through  their  cities  and  illuminated  the  skies  in  the  early  days  of  the  war.  No  one dwelt  on  this  comparison,  however;  they  wanted  to  look  forward  now,  not  back.

For  the  feast  of  Agios  Konstandinos,  the  girls  of  Plaka  donned  their  finery. They  had  been  to  church,  but  their  minds  were  on  things  other  than  the  sacred nature  of  the  event.  These  adolescent  girls  had  few  restrictions  placed  on  them because  they  were  still  perceived  as  children  and  innocence  was  presumed  in  all they  said  and  did.  It  was  only  later,  when  their  womanliness  was  already  developed, that  their  parents  woke  up  to  their  sexuality  and  began  to  keep  a  close  eye  on  them, sometimes  rather  too  late.  By  then,  of  course,  many  of  these  girls  had  stolen  kisses from  village  boys  and  engaged  in  secret  trysts  in  the  olive  groves  or  fields  on  the way  home  from  school.

Whilst  neither  Maria  nor  Fotini  had  ever  been  kissed,  Anna  had  become  a well-­‐practised  flirt.  She  was  never  happier  than  when  she  was  in  the  company  of boys  and  could  toss  her  mane  of  hair  and  flash  her  engaging  smile  knowing  that  her audience  would  not  look  away.  She  was  like  a  cat  on  heat.

There  were  several  dozen  young  men  in  the  village,  mere  boys  when  they  had left  to  fight  with  the  andarte  at  the  beginning  of  the  occupation.  Some  of  them  had now  chosen  to-­‐join  the  Communists  and  had  gone  to  take  part  in  the  struggle against  right-­‐wing  forces  that  was  brewing  on  mainland  Greece,  bringing  new hardship  and  bloodshed.

Fotini's  brother  Antonis  was  one  of  those  who  had  returned  to  Plaka. Sympathetic  as  he  was  to  the  ideals  of  the  left  and  the  new  campaign  on  the mainland,  after  four  years  away  he  had  been  more  than  ready  to  come  home.  It  was Crete  that  ha  had  been  fighting  for,  and  here  he  wanted  to  stay.  During  his  time away  Antonis  had  grown  wiry  and  strong  and  was  unrecognisable  from  the

emaciated  figure  who  had  staggered  back  after  those  first  few  months  in  the resistance  to  see  his  family.  Now  he  had  not  only  a  moustache,  but  a  beard  too, which  added  at  least  five  years  to  his  twenty-­‐three.  He  had  lived  on  a  diet  of mountain  greens,  snails  and  whatever  wild  animals  he  could  ensnare,  and  endured extremes  of  heat  and  cold  that  had  given  him  a  sense  of  indestructibility.

It  was  the  romantic  figure  of  Antonis  that  Anna  had  set  her  heart  on  that night.  She  Was  not  alone  in  that  ambition,  but  she  was  confident  of  winning  at  least a  kiss  from  him.  He  was  lean  and  slim-­‐hipped,  and  when  the  dancing  began,  Anna was  determined  to  make  him  notice  her.  If  he  failed  to,  he  would  be  the  only  man  in the  village  who  had.  Everyone  was  aware  of  Anna,  not  only  because  she  was  half  a head  taller  than  most  of  the  other  girls,  but  because  her  hair  was  longer,  wavier  and glossier  than  all  the  rest,  and  even  when  plaited  it  reached  down  to  her  hips.  The whites  of  her  huge  oval  eyes  were  as  bright  as  the  dazzling  cotton  shirts  which  the girls  all  wore,  and  her  pearly  teeth  gleamed  as  she  laughed  and  chattered  with  her friends,  supremely  conscious  of  her  beauty  under  the  watchful  gaze  of  the  groups  of young  men  who  stood  about  the  square,  anticipating  the  moment  when  music would  mark  the  real  launch  of  the  festivities.  Anna  was  almost  luminous  in  the  dusk of  this  great  feast  day.  The  other  girls  were  in  her  shadow.

Tables  and  chairs  had  been  set  out  on  three  sides  of  the  square,  and  on  the fourth  a  long  trestle  table  took  the  weight  of  a  dozen  dishes  piled  high  with  cheese pies  and  spicy  sausages,  sweet  pastries  and  pyramids  of  waxy-­‐skinned  oranges  and ripe  apricots.  The  smell  of  roasting  lamb  wafted  over  the  square  and  brought  with  it the  mouth-­‐watering  anticipation  of  pleasure.  There  was  a  strict  order  of  events. Eating  and  drinking  would  come'  later,  but  before  that  there  would  be  dancing.

At  first  the  boys  and  men  all  stood  talking  together  and  the  girls  stood  apart, giggling  excitedly.  The  separation  was  not  to  last.  The  band  struck  up  and  the swirling  and  stamping  of  feet  began.  Men  and  women  rose  from  their  seats  and  girls and  boys  broke  away  from  their  huddles.  Soon  the  dusty  space  was  filled.  Anna knew  as  the  inner  female  circle  rotated  that  sooner  or  later  she  would  find  herself opposite  Antonis  and  that  for  a  few  moments  they  would  dance  together  before moving  on.  How  can  I  make  him  see  me  as  someone  more  than  his  little  sister's friend?  she  asked  herself.

She  did  not  have  to  try.  Antonis  stood  in  front  of  her.  The  slow  pentozali dance  gave  her  a  few  moments  to  study  the  pair  of  fathomless  eyes  that  looked  out through  the  black  tassled  fringe  of  his  traditional  headdress.  The  sariki  was  the warrior's  hat  that  many  young  men  now  wore  to  show  that  they  had  graduated  into manhood,  not  just  through  the  passage  of  time  but  because  they  had  the  blood  of another  man  on  their  hands.  In  Antonis's  case,  it  was  not  merely  one  but  several enemy  soldiers.  He  prayed  that  he  would  never  again  hear  the  distinctive  cry  of surprise  as  his  blade  penetrated  the  soft  flesh  between  the  shoulder  blades,  and  the strangulated  gasp  that  followed.  It  never  felt  like  victory,  but  it  did  give  him  the  right to  associate  himself  with  the  fearless  warriors  of  Crete's  past,  the  pallikaria,  in  their

breeches  and  long  boots.

Anna  flashed  her  broad  smile  at  this  boy  who  had  become  a  man,  but  he  did not  return  it.  The  ebony  eyes  had  instead  fixed  on  hers  and  held  them  until  she  was almost  relieved  when  it  was  time  for  him  to  move  on  to  his  next  partner.  As  the dance  ended,  her  heart  still  pounded  furiously  and  she  returned  to  her  group  of friends,  who  now  spectated  as  some  of  the  men,  Antonis  among  them,  reeled before  them  like  human  gyroscopes.  It  was  a  dizzying  display.  Their  boots  cleared the  ground  by  several  feet  as  they  leapt  into  the  air,  and  the  perfectly  synchronised bowing  of  the  three-­‐stringed  lyre  and  the  plucking  of  the  lute  urged  them  on,  giving the  dance  a  breathless  energy  right  to  the  very  end.

The  married  women  and  the  widows  watched  the  acrobatics  even  though  the performance  was  not  being  staged  for  them,  but  for  the  nubile  beauties  who observed  from  the  corner  of  the  square.  As  Antonis  rotated  and  the  music  and  the drum  beat  built  to  a  climax,  Anna  was  certain  that  this  handsome  warrior  was dancing  for  her  alone.  The  whole  audience  clapped  and  cheered  as  they  finished  and the  band,  with  hardly  a  moment's  pause,  launched  into  the  next  tune.  A  group  of slightly  older  men  now  took  the  dusty  centre  stage.

Anna  was  bold.  She  broke  away  from  her  circle  of  friends  and  approached Antonis,  who  was  pouring  himself  a  glass  of  wine  from  a  huge  clay  jug.  Although  he had  seen  her  many  times  at  his  home,  he  had  barely  noticed  her  before  tonight. Before  the  occupation  Anna  had  seemed  just  a  little  girl;  now  a  shapely,  voluptuous woman  had  taken  her  place.

Antonis  had  the  feeling  that  Anna  had  offered  herself  to  him  for  more  than  a pentozali.  When  a  suitable  dance  began,  he  went  up  to  her,  took  her  by  the  hand and  led  her  into  the  circle.  Holding  her  round  the  waist,  he  now  inhaled  the indescribably  sensual  smell  of  her  sweat,  an  essence  of  more  intoxicating  sweetness than  anything  he  had  ever  breathed  in  before.  Crushed  lavender  and  rose  petals would  not  compare.  When  the  dance  finished,  he  felt  her  hot  breath  in  his  ear.

Anna  knew  that  a  stroll  to  the  church,  even  during  such  wild  celebrations,  was perfectly  normal  on  a  saint's  day,  and  besides,  Agios  Konstandinos  shared  his  day

with  his  wife,  Agia  Eleni,  making  it  a  special  moment  to  remember  her  mother.  She made  her  way  swiftly  to  the  alleyway  behind  the  church  and  within  a  few  moments Antonis  was  there  too,  fumbling  to  find  her  in  the  darkness.  Her  parted  lips immediately  sought  his.

Not  since  he  had  been  paying  good  money  had  he  been  kissed  like  this.  In  the last  months  of  the  war  he  had  been  a  regular  in  the  brothels  of  Rethimnon.  The women  there  loved  the  andarte  and  gave  them  a  special  rate,  particularly  when they  were  as  handsome  as  Antonis.  Theirs  had  been  the  only  business  that  had thrived  during  the  occupation  as  men  sought  comfort  after  long  absences  from  their wives,  and  young  men  took  the  opportunity  to  develop  sexual  experience  that would  never  be  tolerated  under  the  watchful  eyes  of  their  own  community.  It  had, however,  been  loveless.  Here  in  his  arms  was  a  woman  who  kissed  like  a  prostitute but  was  probably  a  virgin  and,  most  importantly,  Antonis  could  feel  real  desire. There  was  no  mistaking  it.  Every  part  of  his  being  craved  for  this  lascivious  kiss  to continue.  His  mind  was  working  swiftly.  Here  he  was  back  for  good  and  expected  to marry  and  settle  down  in  the  community,  and  here  was  a  woman'  eager  for  love who  had  been  waiting  quite  literally  on  his  doorstep,  just  as  she  had  been  since childhood.  She  had  to  be  his.  It  was  meant  to  be.

They  separated  from  their  embrace.  "We  must  get  back  to  the  square,"  said Anna,  knowing  that  her  father  would  notice  her  absence  if  she  was  away  for  much longer.  "But  let's  go  separately."

She  slipped  out  of  the  shadows  and  into  the  church,  where  she  spent  a  few minutes  lighting  a  candle  before  an  image  of  the  Virgin  and  Child,  her  lips,  still  wet from  Antonis's,  moving  silently  in  prayer.

As  she  returned  to  the  square  there  was  a  slight  commotion  in  the  street.  A large  saloon  car  had  drawn  up,  one  of  few  on  an  island  where  most  people  still travelled  on  their  own  two  feet  or  on  the  back  of  a  four-­‐legged  beast.  Anna  paused to  watch  the  passengers  as  they  climbed  out.  The  driver,  a  distinguished  man  in  his sixties,  was  immediately  recognisable  as  Alexandras  Vandoulakis,  the  head  of  the wealthy  landowning  family  that  lived  on  a  sprawling  farm  near  Elounda.  He  was  a popular  man,  and  his  wife  Eleftheria  was  liked  too.  They  employed  a  dozen  or  so men  in  the  village—Antonis  included—several  of  whom  had  only  just  returned  after long  absences  with  the  resistance,  and  had  welcomed  them  back  with  open  arms. They  were  generous  with  the  men's  wages,  though  some  said,  sarcastically,  that they  could  afford  to  be.  It  was  not  just  the  thousands  of  hectares  of  olive  groves  that were  the  source  of  their  wealth.  They  owned  a  similar  amount  of  land  on  the  fertile Lasithi  plateau,  where  they  grew  huge  crops  of  potatoes,  cereals  and  apples, providing  them  with  an  all-­‐year  round  income,  and  a  guaranteed  one  at  that.  The cool  climate  of  the  plateau,  800  metres  up,  rarely  failed  and  the  green  fields  were verdant  with  moisture  provided  by  the  melting  snows  of  the  mountains  that encircled  it.  Alexandras  and  Eleftheria  Vandoulakis  often  spent  the  months  of  high summer  in  Neapoli,  twenty  or  so  kilometres  away,  where  they  had  a  grand  town

house,  leaving  the  estate  hi  Elounda  to  be  managed  by  their  son  Andreas.  Theirs  was a  fortune  of  rare  magnitude.

It  was,  however,  no  surprise  that  such  a  well-­‐to-­‐do  family  should  turn  out  to celebrate  with  fishermen,  shepherds  and  men  who  worked  the  land.  It  was  the same  all  over  Crete.  Every  village  member  would  turn  out  to  dance  and  feast  and the  wealthy  landowning  families  who  lived  on  nearby  farms  or  estates  would  come to  join  them.  They  could  not  throw  a  better  party,  however  great  their  fortune,  and they  wanted  to  share  in  its  exuberance.  Both  rich  and  poor  had  suffered  and  all  had equal  cause  to  celebrate  their  liberation.  The  soulful  sentiment  of  the  mantinades and  the  excitement  of  the  energetic  pentozali  were  the  same  whether  your  family owned  ninety  olive  trees  or  ninety  thousand.

From  the  back  seat  of  the  car  emerged  the  two  Vandoulakis  daughters  and finally  their  older  brother,  Andreas.  They  were  immediately  welcomed  by  some  of the  villagers  and  given  a  good  table  with  the  best  view  of  the  dancing.  Andreas, however,  did  not  sit  for  long.

He  grabbed  them  both  and  pulled  them  into  the  circle,  where  they  blended  in with  the  crowd  of  dancers,  dressed  as  they  were  in  the  same  costumes  as  the  village girls.  Anna  watched.  Some  of  her  friends  were  in  the  group  and  it  struck  her  that  if they  were  going  to  have  the  opportunity  to  link  arms  and  dance  with  Andreas Vandoulakis,  then  so  was  she.  She  joined  the  next  pentozali  and,  just  as  she  had done  with  Antonis  not  an  hour  earlier,  fixed  Andreas  in  her  gaze.

The  dance  soon  came  to  an  end.  The  lamb  was  now  roasted  and  being  cut into  thick  chunks,  platters  of  which  were  passed  round  for  the  villagers  to  feast  on. Andreas  was  back  with  his  family  but  his  mind  was  elsewhere.

At  the  age  of  twenty-­‐five,  he  was  being  pressurised  by  his  parents  to  find  a wife.  Alexandras  and  Eleftheria  were  frustrated  by  his  rejection  of  every  single  one of  the  daughters  of  their  friends  and  acquaintances.  Some  were  dour,  some  were drippy  and  others  were  simply  dim,  and  although  all  of  them  would  have  been  more than  generously  dowried,  Andreas  refused  to  have  anything  to  do  with  them.

As  he  got  up,  Eleftheria  gave  Alexandras  a  knowing  look.  Her  view  was  that, given  the  lack  of  impact  any  dowry  would  have  on  Andreas's  life,  what  did  it  really matter  whom  he  married?  Eleftheria  herself  had  come  from  a  considerably  humbler background  than  Alexandras,  but  it  had  not  significantly  affected  their  lives.  She wanted  her  son  to  be  happy,  and  if  that  involved  flying  in  the  face  of  convention, then  so  be  it.

Andreas  had  walked  right  up  to  the  crowd  of  girls,  who  were  sitting  in  a  circle eating  pieces  of  the  tender  meat  with  their  fingers.  There  was  nothing  particularly

remarkable  about  Andreas,  who  had  inherited  his  father's  strong  features  and  his mother's  sallow  complexion,  but  his  family  background  lent  him  a  bearing  that  set him  apart  from  all  the  other  men  at  the  gathering,  except  for  Alexandras Vandoulakis.  The  young  women  were  embarrassed  when  they  realised  Andreas  was approaching  them  and  hastily  wiped  their  hands  on  their  skirts  and  licked  the  fatty juice  from  their  lips.

The  candles  on  the  tables  had  guttered  and  burned  out,  but  by  now  the  moon had  risen  and  cast  its  bright  glow  in  the  otherwise  sable-­‐black  sky.  Both  raki  and wine  had  flowed  and  the  musicians,  emboldened  by  the  atmosphere,  played  faster and  faster  until  the  dancers  once  again  appeared  to  fly  through  the  air.  Andreas  held Anna  close.  It  was  the  time  of  night  when  the  tradition  of  swapping  partners  during the  dance  could  be  ignored,  and  he  decided  he  was  not  going  to  exchange  her  for some  matronly  type  with  few  teeth  and  two  left  feet.  Anna  was  perfect.  No  one  else would  do.

Alexandros  and  Eleftheria  Vandoulakis  watched  their  son  courting  this woman,  but  they  were  not  the  only  ones  to  do  so.  Antonis  sat  at  a  table  with  his friends,  drinking  himself  into  a  stupor  as  he  realised  what  was  unfolding  in  front  of him.  The  man  he  worked  for  was  in  the  process  of  seducing  the  girl  he  desired.  The more  he  drank  the  more  miserable  he  became.  He  had  felt  less  dejected  when  he was  sleeping  on  an  open  hillside  during  the  war,  lashed  by  storms  and  stinging winds.  What  hope  did  he  have  of  keeping  Anna  for  himself  when  he  was  in competition  with  a  man  who  was  heir  to  a  sizeable  chunk  of  Lasithi?

In  the  far  corner  of  the  square  Giorgis  sat  playing  backgammon  with  a  group of  older  people.  His  eyes  darted  back  and  forth  from  the  board  to  the  square,  where Anna  continued  to  dance  with  the  most  eligible  man  this  side  of  Agios  Nikolaos.

The  Vandoulakis  family  eventually  rose  to  leave.  Andreas's  mother  knew instinctively  that  her  son  would  not  want  to  come  home  with  them,  but  in  the interests  of  respectability  and  the  reputation  of  this  village  beauty  he  had  taken such  a  liking  to,  it  was  important  that  he  should.  Her  son  was  no  fool.  If  he  was  going to  break  away  from  tradition  and  have  the  liberty  to  select  his  own  wife  rather  than be  manoeuvred  into  accepting  some  choice  of  his  parents,  he  needed  them  to  be  on his  side.

He  spoke  like  a  man  used  to  issuing  orders  and  expecting  them  to  be  carried out.  Anna  had  no  objection  to  that,  for  once  realising  that  acquiescence  was  the right  response.  It  could,  after  all,  be  her  route  out  of  Plaka.

Chapter  Eleven

J.  _L  The  summons  was  perfunctory,  the  voice  of  a  master  to  his  servant. Andreas  had  stopped  his  truck  some  distance  from  where  Antonis  was  hacking down  some  old  and  now  barren  olive  trees  and  was  waving  him  over.  Antonis paused  from  his  work  and  leaned  on  his  axe.  He  was  not  yet  used  to  being  at  the beck  and  call  of  his  young  master.  The  roamings  of  the  past  few  years,  though endlessly  tough  and  uncomfortable,  had  had  a  joyful  freedom  about  them,  and  he was  finding  it  hard  to  get  used  to  both  the  daily  routine  and  the  idea  that  he  must jump  to  attention  every  time  the  boss  issued  an  order.  If  that  was  not  enough,  there was  also  a  specific  cause  for  resentment  between  himself  and  this  man  who  stood shouting  at  him  from  the  driving  seat  of  his  vehicle.  It  made  him  feel  like  planting  his axe  into  Andreas  Vandoulakis's  neck.  Antonis  glistened.  His  brow  was  beaded  with droplets  of  perspiration  and  his  shirt  clung  to  his  back.  It  was  only  the  end  of  May but  already  temperatures  were  soaring.  He  would  not  jump  to  attention,  not  quite yet  anyway.  Nonchalantly  he  pulled  the  cork  from  the  hollow  gourd  at  his  feet  and took  a  swig  of  water.

Anna...Before  last  week  Antonis  had  scarcely  noticed  her,  and  he  had  certainly not  given  her  a  moment's  thought,  but  on  that  saint's  day  night  she  had  roused  in him  a  passion  that  would  not  let  him  sleep.  Over  and  over  again  he  relived  the moment  of  their  embrace.  Ten  short  minutes  it  had  lasted,  perhaps  even  less,  but  to Antonis  every  second  had  been  as  long  and  lingering  as  a  whole  day.  Then  it  was  all over.  Right  in  front  of  him,  the  possibility  of  love  had  been  snatched  away.  He  had watched  Andreas  Vandoulakis  from  the  moment  he  had  arrived  and  seen  him  dance with  Anna.  He  knew  theft,  even  before  the  battle  lines  were  drawn  up,  who  had won  the  war.  The  odds  had  been  heavily  weighted  against  him.

Antonis  now  sauntered  over  to  Andreas,  who  was  oblivious  to  the  nuances  of his  manner.

He  handed  over  an  envelope.  Antonis  did  not  need  to  look  at  it  to  know whose  name  was  written  on  the  outside.

The  engine  of  his  truck  started  up  noisily  and  Andreas  hurriedly  reversed  out of  the  field,  whipping  the  dry  earth  into  a  filthy  cloud  that  lingered  in  the  air  and filled  Antonis's  lungs  with  dust.

He  knew  this  letter  would  seal  his  own  misery  but  he  also  knew  he  had  no choice  but  to  make  sure  it  was  safely  handed  over.  Andreas  Vandoulakis  would  soon

find  out  if  he  had  failed  in  his  task  and  there  would  be  hell  to  pay.  All  day  long  the crisp  envelope  sat  in  his  pocket.  It  crackled  whenever  he  sat  down  and  he  tortured himself  with  thoughts  of  ripping  it  up,  crushing  it  into  a  tight  ball  and  hurling  it  into  a ravine,  or  of  watching  it  burn  slowly  in  the  small  fire  he  had  made  to  dispose  of some  of  the  debris  from  his  day's  wood-­‐cutting.  But  the  one  thing  he  had  not  been tempted  to  do  was  open  it.  He  could  not  bear  to  read  it.  Not  that  he  needed  to.  It was  perfectly  obvious  what  it  would  say.

Anna  was  surprised  to  find  Antonis  standing  on  her  doorstep  early  that evening.  He  had  knocked  on  the  door,  hoping  not  to  find  her  in,  but  there  she  was, with  that  same  broad-­‐mouthed  smile  that  was  so  indiscriminately  flashed  at whoever  crossed  her  path.

She  shifted  from  one  foot  to  the  other  and  he  could  see  that  she  was impatient  to  open  the  letter  and  wanted  him  gone.  Taking  a  step  back,  she  said goodbye  and  closed  the  door.  As  it  banged  shut  it  was  as  though  he  had  been slapped  in  the  face.

Inside  the  house,  Anna  sat  down  at  the  low  table  and  with  trembling  hands opened  the  envelope.  She  wanted  to  savour  the  moment.  What  was  she  going  to find?  An  articulate  outpouring  of  passion?  Words  that  exploded  on  the  page  like fireworks?  Sentiments  as  moving  as  the  sight  of  a  shooting  star  on  a  clear  night?  Like any  eighteen-­‐year-­‐old  girl  anticipating  such  poetry,  she  was  bound  to  be disappointed  by  the  letter  on  the  table  in  front  of  her:

Dear  Anna,

I  wish  to  meet  you  again.  Please  would  you  come  to  lunch  with  your  father  on Sunday  next.  My  mother  and  father  look  forward  to  meeting  you  both.

Yours,

Andreas  Vandoulakis

Though  the  content  excited  her,  taking  her  one  step  closer  to  her  escape  from Plaka,  the  formality  of  the  letter  chilled  her.  Anna  thought  that  because  Andreas  had enjoyed  a  superior  education  he  might  be  masterful  with  words,  but  there  was about  as  much  emotion  in  this  hastily  scribbled  note  as  in  the  dreary  books  of

ancient  Greek  grammar  that  she  had  been  happy  to  leave  behind  with  her  school days.

The  lunch  duly  took  place,  and  many  thereafter.  Anna  was  always  chaperoned by  her  father  in  accordance  with  the  strict  etiquette  observed  by  people  both  rich and  poor  for  such  situations.  On  the  first  half-­‐dozen  occasions,  father  and  daughter were  collected  at  midday  by  a  servant  in  Alexandras  Vandoulakis's  car,  taken  to  the grand  porticoed  town  house  in  Neapoli  and  returned  home  again  at  three-­‐thirty precisely.  The  pattern  was  always  the  same.  On  arrival  they  would  be  shown  into  an airy  reception  room  where  every  piece  of  furniture  was  covered  with  throws  of intricate,  ornately  embroidered  white  lace  and  a  huge  dresser  gleamed  with  a display  of  fine,  almost  translucent  china.  Here  Eleftheria  Vandoulakis  would  offer them  a  small  plate  of  sweet  preserve  and  a  tiny  glass  of  liqueur,  waiting  to  receive the  empty  plates  and  glasses  on  a  tray  once  they  had  finished.  Then  they  all processed  into  the  gloomy  dining  room,  where  oil  paintings  of  fierce  moustachioed ancestors  glared  down  from  panelled  walls.  Even  here  the  formalities  continued. Alexandras  would  appear  and,  crossing  himself,  would  say,  "Welcome,"  to  which  the visitors  replied  in  unison  with  the  words:  "I  am  fortunate  to  be  with  you."  It  was  the same  on  each  occasion,  until  Anna  knew,  almost  to  the  minute,  what  would  happen when.

Visit  after  visit  they  perched  on  elaborately  carved  high-­‐backed  chairs  at  the dark  overpolished  table,  politely  accepting  every  course  that  was  brought  to  them. Eleftheria  did  all  she  could  to  make  her  guests  feel  relaxed;  many  years  earlier  she had  been  through  the  same  ordeal  when  she  was  vetted  by  the  previous  generation of  the  Vandoulakis  family  for  her  suitability  as  Alexandros's  wife,  and  she remembered  the  unbearable  stiffness  of  it  all  as  though  it  was  yesterday.  In  spite  of the  woman's  kind  efforts,  however,  conversation  was  stilted  and  both  Giorgis  and Anna  were  painfully  conscious  that  they  were  on  trial.  It  was  to  be  expected.  If  this was  a  courtship,  and  no  one  had  yet  defined  it  as  such,  there  were  terms  of engagement  that  needed  to  be  established.

By  the  time  of  the  seventh  meeting,  the  Vandoulakis  family  had  decamped  to the  sprawling  house  on  the  large  estate  in  Elounda  which  was  where  they  spent  the months  between  September  and  April.  Anna  was  now  growing  impatient.  She  and Andreas  had  not  been  alone  together  since  the  dance  they  had  had  in  May,  and,  as she  moaned  one  evening  to  Fotini  and  her  mother,  "That  was  hardly  being  on  our own,  with  the  whole  village  watching  us!  Why  does  it  all  take  so  long?"

Anna,  Maria  and  Fotini  were  at  the  Angelopoulos  house,  supposedly  being instructed  on  their  needlework.  In  reality  they  were  all  there  to  chew  over  the 'Vandoulakis  situation',  as  it  was  referred  to.  By  now  Anna  was  feeling  like  an  animal at  the  local  market  being  sized  up  for  her  suitability.  Perhaps  she  should  have  kept

her  sights  lower  after  all.  She  was  determined  not  to  let  her  enthusiasm  wane, however.  She  had  turned  eighteen,  her  school  days  were  long  past  and  she  had  only one  ambition:  to  marry  well.

It  was  Maria,  naturally,  who  was  really  taking  care  of  Giorgis  and  who  knew that  she  would  remain  in  the  home  for  some  while  longer,  putting  aside  her  own remote  dream  of  becoming  a  teacher.  She  bit  her  tongue,  however.  It  wasn't  a  good idea  to  seek  confrontation  with  Anna  at  the  best  of  times.

It  took  until  spring  of  the  following  year  for  Alexandras  Vandoulakis  to  satisfy himself  that,  in  spite-­‐  of  the  differences  in  their  wealth  and  social  situation,  it  would not  be  a  mistake  if  his  son  made  Anna  his  bride.  She  was,  after  all,  exceedingly handsome,  bright  enough  and  clearly  devoted  to  Andreas.  One  day,  after  yet another  lunch,  the  two  fathers  returned  to  the  reception  room  alone.  Alexandras Vandoulakis  was  blunt.

At  the  mention  of  Eleni,  Giorgis  maintained  his  silence.  The  Vandoulakis  family knew  that  Anna's  mother  had  died  a  few  years  earlier,  but  more  than  that  he  did  not intend  them  to  find  out.

When  they  returned  home  that  afternoon,  Maria  was  waiting  for  them.  It  was

as  if  she  knew  that  this  meeting  had  been  a  crucial  one.

Maria  knew  that  what  her  sister  wanted  more  than  anything  in  the  world  was to  become  Anna  Vandoulakis,  and  she  wanted  it  for  her  too.  It  would  take  her  out  of Plaka  and  into  the  other  world  she  had  always  fantasised  about  where  she  would not  have  to  cook,  clean,  darn  or  spin.

Maria  knew  that  she  had  said  too  much.  Though  there  had  been  few  secrets between  these  girls  in  days  gone  by,  over  the  past  few  months  this  had  changed. Fotini  had  confided  in  Maria  about  her  brother's  infatuation  with  Anna  and  how  it aggravated  him  to  hear  all  the  estate  workers  talk  of  nothing  but  the  impending engagement  between  their  master's  son  and  the  girl  from  the  village.  Poor  Antonis.

Anna  bullied  Maria  until  she  told  her.

For  a  moment  Anna  basked  in  the  knowledge  that  she  was  the  focus  of discussion  and  speculation.  She  loved  to  know  she  was  the  centre  of  attention  and wanted  to  know  more.

It  was  not  what  Anna  expected  and  certainly  not  what  she  wanted  to  hear. She  responded  with  vehemence.

people  stayed  at  home  and  lined  their  own  pockets."

Maria's  parting  shot  was  one  barbed  comment  too  many  for  Anna's  liking.  She hurled  herself  at  her  sister,  and  Maria,  as  ever  when  she  became  embroiled  in  an argument  with  the  unrestrained  Anna,  chose  not  to  retaliate.  She  fled  from  the house  and,  being  a  faster  runner  than  Anna,  was  soon  out  of  sight  in  the  maze  of little  streets  at  the  far  end  of  the  village.

Maria  was  a  mistress  of  restraint.  Unlike  her  volatile  sister,  whose  feelings, thoughts  and  actions  were  simultaneously  played  out  for  all  to  see,  she  was thoughtful.  Generally  she  kept  her  feelings  and  opinions  to  herself,  observing  that outbursts  of  emotion  or  careless  words  were  often  regretted.  In  the  past  few  years she  had  learned  to  control  her  feelings  better  than  ever.  In  this  way  she  kept  up  the appearance  of  being  contented,  largely  to  protect  her  father.  Sometimes,  however, she  would  allow  herself  the  luxury  of  a  spontaneous  outburst,  and  when  it  came,  it could  have  the  impact  of  a  clap  of  thunder  on  a  cloudless  day.

In  spite  of  the  opinions  of  the  estate  workers  and  the  residual  misgivings  of Alexandras  Vandoulakis,  the  engagement  took  place  in  April.  The  pair  had  been  left alone  in  the  gloomy  drawing  room  after  dinner,  which  had  been  an  even  stifier event  than  usual.  The  anticipation  of  the  engagement  had  been  such  that  when  the moment  finally  came  and  Andreas  asked  for  her  hand,  Anna  felt  little  emotion.  She had  played  the  scene  through  in  her  mind  so  often  that  when  it  actually  took  place  it was  as  though  she  were  an  actress  on  a  stage.  She  felt  numb,  unreal.

There  was  nothing  romantic,  imaginative  or  even  remotely  magical  about  the proposal.  It  was  as  functional  as  the  floorboards  they  stood  on.

Anna  had  reached  her  goal,  winning  a  bet  with  herself  and  cocking  a  snook  at those  who  might  have  thought  she  was  not  up  to  marriage  into  a  landed  family. These  were  her  first  thoughts  as  she  accepted  Andreas's  hand  and  kissed  him  fully and  passionately  on  the  lips  for  the  first  time.

As  was  customary  during  a  period  of  engagement,  gifts  were  then  lavished  on Anna  by  her  future  in-­‐laws.  Beautiful  clothes,  silk  underwear  and  expensive  trinkets were  purchased  for  her  so  that,  although  her  own  father  could  provide  very  little, she  would  not  be  lacking  for  anything  by  the  time  she  finally  became  a  Vandoulakis.

A  week  before  the  wedding  itself  took  place,  work  began  in  Plaka  on  the traditional  crown  of  bread.  Leavened  seven  times,  a  large  circle  of  dough  was decorated  with  intricate  patterns  of  a  hundred  flowers  and  fronds,  and  in  the  final stage  of  its  baking  was  glazed  to  a  golden  brown.  The  unbroken  circle  symbolised the  bride's  intention  to  stay  with  her  husband  from  beginning  to  end.  Meanwhile,  at the  Vandoulakis  home,  Andreas's  sisters  began  work  on  decorating  the  nuptial quarters  at  the  couple's  future  home  with  silk  cloth  and  wreaths  of  ivy, pomegranates  and  laurel  leaves.

A  lavish  party  had  been  thrown  to  celebrate  the  engagement,  and  for  the wedding  itself  in  March  of  the  following  year,  no  expense  was  spared.  Before  the service,  which  was  to  take  place  in  Elounda,  the  guests  arrived  at  the  Vandoulakis home.  They  were  a  curious  mix.  Wealthy  people  from  Elounda,  Agios  Nikolaos  and Neapoli  mixed  with  the  estate  workers  and  dozens  of  folk  from  Plaka.  When  they caught  sight  of  Anna,  the  people  from  her  old  village  gasped.  Enough  gold  coins  to fill  a  bank  'vault  jangled  across  her  chest  and  heavily  jewelled  earrings  hung  from her  ears.  She  glittered  in  the  spring  light,  and  in  the  rich  red  of  her  traditional  bridal gown  she  could  have  stepped  from  the  Tales  of  the  Arabian  Nights.

Giorgis  looked  at  her  with  pride  and  some  bemusement,  marvelling  that  this was  his  own  daughter.  She  was  almost  unrecognisable.  He  wished  at  this  more  than any  other  moment  that  Eleni  was  here  to  see  their  firstborn  looking  so  beautiful.  He wondered  what  she  would  have  thought  about  Anna  moving  into  such  an  important family.  So  much  of  his  elder  daughter  reminded  him  of  his  wife,  but  there  was  also  a part  of  her  that  was  completely  unfamiliar.  It  seemed  an  impossibility  that  he,  a humble  fisherman,  could  have  anything  to  do  with  this  vision.

Maria  had  helped  Anna  get  ready  that  morning.  Her  sister's  hands  trembled so  violently  that  she  had  to  do  up  every  button  for  her.  She  knew  this  was  what Anna  wanted  and  that  she  was  achieving  her  ultimate  goal.  She  was  confident  that her  sister  had  rehearsed  being  the  grande  dame  so  often  in  her  daydreams  that  she would  'have  no  trouble  adapting  to  the  reality.

The  mix  of  guests  made  this  an  unusual  event,  but  even  more  unconventional was  that  the  pre-­‐nuptial  feast  was  held  in  the  groom's  house  rather  than  the  bride's, as  was  the  tradition.  Everyone  understood  the  reasons  for  this.  They  did  riot  need  to be  articulated.  What  kind  of  feast  would  have  been  on  offer  at  the  house  of  Giorgis Petrakis?  The  smart  ladies  of  Neapoli  tittered  at  the  very  thought,  just  as  they  had done  when  they  heard  that  the  Vandoulakis  boy  was  marrying  a  poor  fisherman's daughter.  "What  on  earth  is  the  family  thinking  of?"  they  had  sneered.  Whatever

anyone  thought  of  the  marriage,  everyone  was  there  to  enjoy  the  fine  lunch  of  roast lamb,  cheese  and  wine  from  Vandoulakis's  own  crops,  and  when  all  two  hundred stomachs  were  full  it  was  time  for  the  marriage  service.  It  was  a  motley  procession of  cars,  trucks  and  donkeys  pulling  carts  that  finally  made  its  way  down  to  Elounda.

For  Cretans  both  rich  and  poor  the  rituals  of  the  marriage  ceremony  were  the same.  Two  Stephana,  the  simple  marriage  crowns  made  from  dried  flowers  and grasses  and  linked  by  a  ribbon,  were  placed  on  the  heads  of  the  couple  by  the  priest, and  then  exchanged  three  times  to  cement  their  union.  These  crowns  would  be framed  later  on  by  Anna's  mother-­‐in-­‐law  and  hung  high  above  the  couple's  bed  so that,  as  the  saying  went,  no  one  could  tread  on  the  marriage.  For  much  of  the  time, the  words  of  the  sacred  ritual  were  lost  in  the  chatter  of  the  congregation,  but  when the  bride  and  groom  finally  joined  hands  with  the  priest,  a  hush  spread  around  the church.  Now  they  performed  a  sedate  dance  around  the  altar,  the  Isaiah  Dance,  and the  guests  knew  that  soon  they  would  be  outside  in  the  sunshine.

Following  the  bride  and  groom,  who  rode  in  a  carriage,  everyone  trooped back  to  the  Vandoulakis  home  where  trestle  tables  were  laid,  out  for  another  feast. People  ate,  drank  and  danced  into  the  night,  and  just  before  the  sun  rose  a  volley  of gunshots  was  fired  to  mark  the  end  of  the  celebrations.

After  the  wedding,  Anna  more  or  less  vanished  from  life  in  Plaka.  She  visited once  a  week  to  see  her  father,  but  as  time  went  on  she  began  to  send  a  car  down  to collect  him  instead,  so  her  appearances  in  Plaka  became  very  few  and  far  between. As  the  wife  of  the  future  head  of  the  estate,  she  found  her  social  position  much altered.  This  was,  however,  not  a  problem  for  her.  It  was  exactly  what  she  wanted— a  disconnection  from  her  past.

Anna  threw  herself  into  her  new  role  and  soon  found  that  her  duties  as daughter-­‐in-­‐law  were  as  weighty  as  those  of  being  a  wife.  She  spent  each  day  in  the company  of  Eleftheria  and  her  friends,  either  calling  on  them  or  receiving  them  at their  home,  and  just  as  she  had  hoped,  they  all  enjoyed  a  level  of  leisure  that bordered  on  idleness.  Her  main  duty  was  to  help  manage  the  domestic  aspects  of the  Vandoulakis  household,  which  largely  involved  ensuring  that  the  maid  had  laid on  a  great  spread  of  food  for  the  menfolk  when  they  returned  in  the  evening.

She  longed  to  make  changes  to  the  two  family  homes,  to  relieve  them  of  their dark  drapes  and  sombre  furnishings.  She  nagged  Andreas  until  he  took  his  mother aside  to  ask  for  permission,  and  Eleftheria  in  turn  consulted  the  real  head  of  the household.  This  was  the  way  in  which  everything  had  to  be  done.

The  new  bride  threw  herself  into  the  task  and  was  soon  carried  away  on  a wave  of  enthusiasm  for  fabrics  and  wallpapers,  making  endless  trips  to  an  importer of  fine  French  and  Italian  goods  who  had  a  smart  shop  in  Agios  Nikolaos.  It  kept  her

busy  and  absorbed  and  Andreas  benefited,  finding  her  in  a  lively  and  buoyant  mood at  the  end  of  each  day.

Another  of  her  duties  was  to  manage  the  panegyria  celebrations  which  the Vandoulakis  family  threw  for  their  workers.  Anna  excelled  at  putting  on  a  show.  At these  feasts  she  would  sometimes  feel  the  eyes  of  Antonis  Angelopoulos  on  her  and she  would  look  up  to  meet  his  steely  glare.  Occasionally  he  would  even  speak  to  her.

His  manner  made  Anna  flinch  and  her  reply  was  appropriately  curt.

With  that  she  turned  her  back  on  him.  Both  his  look  and  his  manner challenged  her  right  to  be  there  as  his  superior.  How  dare  he?

Anna's  marriage  brought  a  change  not  only  to  her  own  status;  her  departure also  meant  a  change  in  Maria's.  The  younger  sister  now  clearly  had  the  role  of mistress  in  her  own  household.  Much  of  Maria's  energy  had  gone  into  pleasing  and pacifying  her  sister,  and  the  fact  that  Anna  was  no  longer  there  meant  a  lightening of  her  load.  She  put  renewed  energy  into  running  the  Petrakis  home  and  now  often went  with  her  father  to  make  deliveries  to  Spinalonga.

For  Giorgis,  who  could  not  lay  flowers  on  her  grave,  each  visit  to  the  island was  an  opportunity  to  remember  Eleni.  He  continued  to  go  to  and  fro  with  Dr Lapakis  in  both  fair  and  stormy  weather,  and  on  these  journeys  the  doctor  talked about  his  work,  confessing  to  Giorgis  how  many  of  the  lepers  were  now  dying  and how  much  he  missed  the  visits  of  Dr  Kyritsis.

Lapakis  had  received  some  letters  from  his  old  colleague,  explaining  and profusely  regretting  his  absence.  Kyritsis  was  still  involved  in  putting  back  together the  damaged  hospital  in  Iraklion  and  at  present  could  not  be  spared  to  continue  his research.  Privately,  Lapakis  began  to  despair  and  poured  out  his  heart  to  Giorgis. Most  people  would  have  prayed  to  God  on  bended  knee,  but  in  the  absence  of  faith, Lapakis  leant  on  his  loyal  boatman,  whose  suffering  would  always  be  greater  than his  own.

Although  people  continued  to  die  of  the  disease,  for  those  with  the  less virulent  strain  life  on  Spinalonga  was  still  full  of  the  unexpected.  Since  the  war finished,  there  had  been  two  film  showings  every  week,  the  market  was  better  than ever  and  the  newspaper  thrived.  Dimitri,  who  was  now  seventeen,  had  already begun  to  teach  the  five-­‐  and  six-­‐year-­‐olds  whilst  a  more  experienced  teacher  took charge  of  the  older  children;  he  continued  to  live  at  the  Kontomaris  house,  an arrangement  which  brought  great  happiness  on  both  sides.  As  far  as  it  could  do,  a

general  sense  of  contentment  pervaded  the  island.  Even  Theodores  Makridakis  no longer  had  the  will  to  make  trouble.  He  liked  a  good  debate  in  the  bar  but  had  long since  given  up  the  idea  of  taking  over  the  position  of  ultimate  authority.  Nikos Papadimitriou  did  the  job  far  too  well.

Maria  and  Fotini  were  engaged  in  a  pattern  of  daily  tasks  that  took  them through  the  next  few  years  like  a  dance,  with  an  endlessly  repeated  sequence  of steps.  With  three  sons,  Savina  Angelopoulos  needed  the  help  pf  her  fit  and  capable daughter  to  keep  the  men  in  the  house  fed  and  looked  after,  so  Fotini,  like  Maria, had  domestic  duties  that  tied  her  to  Plaka.

Even  if  Eleni  might  have  wished  for  better  things  for  her  daughter  than remaining  in  the  village,  she  would  not  have  wished  for  a  more  conscientious  child than  Maria.  There  was  no  question  in  the  girl's  mind  that  she  should  be  doing anything  other  than  looking  after  her  father,  even  if  she  had  once  entertained fantasies  of  standing,  chalk  in  hand,  at  the  front  of  a  class,  as  her  mother  had  done. Like  the  printed  pattern  on  their  old  curtains,  all  such  aspirations  had  long  since faded.

The  two  girls  shared  the  joys  and  the  limitations  of  this  existence  for  several years,  and  in  all  the  time  they  performed  their  duties  it  did  not  occur  to  them  that they  had  any  real  cause  for  complaint.  There  was  water  to  fetch  from  the  village pump,  wood  to  be  collected  for  their  ovens,  sweeping,  spinning,  cooking  and  the beating  of  rugs.  Maria  would  regularly  collect  honey  from  her  hives  on  the  thyme-­‐ covered  hillside  overlooking  Plaka;  it  yielded  such  intense  sweetness  that  for  several years  she  had  no  need  to  buy  even  one  gram  of  sugar.  In  the  courtyards  at  the  back of  their  homes  old  olive  oil  cans  overflowed  with  basil  and  mint  and  pithoi,  huge urns  once  used  to  store  water  and  oil,  provided  a  perfect  home  for  carefully  tended geraniums  and  lilies,  when  they  became  cracked  and  no  longer  of  practical  use.

The  girls  were  heiresses  to  a  millennium  of  secretly  evolved  folklore  and  were now  considered  old  enough  to  be  taught  the  crafts  and  skills  that  had'  been  handed down  through  generations  without  written  record.  Fotini's  grandmother  was  a  great source  of  such  lore  and  showed  them  how  to  dye  wool  with  extracts  of  iris,  hibiscus and  chrysanthemum  petals,  and  how  to  weave  coloured  grasses  into  elaborate baskets  and  mats.  Other  women  passed  on  to  them  their  knowledge  of  the  magical benefits  of  locally  grown  herbs,  and  they  would  walk  far  into  the  mountains  to  find wild  sage,  cistus  and  camomile  for  their  healing  powers.  On  a  good  day  they  would return  with  a  basket  of  the  most  precious  herb  of  all,  origanumdictamus,  which  was said  to  heal  wounds  as  well  as  cure  sore  throats  and  stomach  problems.  Maria would  always  have  the  right  potion  to  minister  to  her  father  if  he  was  sick,  and  soon her  reputation  for  mixing  useful  remedies  spread  round  the  village.

While  they  were  on  their  long  walks  into  the  mountains  they  would  also gather  horta,  the  iron-­‐rich  mountain  greens  that  were  a  staple  part  of  every  diet. The  childhood  games  they  had  played  on  the  beach  when  they  fashioned  pies  out  of sand  were  now  replaced  by  the  more  adult  pastime  of  making  them  out  of  pastry

and  herbs.

One  of  Maria's  most  important  jobs  between  late  autumn  and  early  spring was  to  keep  the  home  fire  burning.  It  not  only  provided  the  warmth  which  kept them  sane  while  winter  winds  howled  outside;  it  also  kept  the  spirit  of  the  house alive.  The  spiti—the  Greeks  used  the  same  word  for  both  'house'  and  'home'—was  a divine  symbol  of  unity,  and  theirs,  more  than  most,  needed  constant  nurturing.

However  onerous  Maria's  domestic  tasks  might  have  seemed  to  anyone  living in  a  city—or  indeed  to  Anna,  who  now  lived  in  some  luxury—there  Was  always  time for  chatter  and  intrigue.  Fotini's  house  was  a  focal  point  for  this.  Since  idleness  was considered  a  sin,  the  serious  business  of  gossip  was  conducted  in  the  innocent context  of  sewing  and  embroidery.  This  not  only  kept  the  girls'  hands  busy  but  also gave  them  the  opportunity  to  prepare  for  the  future.  Every  pillowcase,  cushion, tablecloth  and  runner  in  the  house  of  a  married  woman  had  been  woven  or embroidered  by  herself,  her  mother  or  her  mother's  mother.  Anna  had  been  an exception.  Over  the  few  years  she  had  sat  in  a  sewing  circle  with  women  older  and wiser  than  herself,  she  had  completed  just  one  small  corner  of  a  pillowcase.  It  had been  symptomatic  of  her  continuous  state  of  rebellion.  Her  stubbornness  was subtle.  While  the  other  girls  and  women  sat  talking  and  sewing,  her  fingers remained  idle.  She  would  wave  her  needle  around,  gesticulating  and  making patterns  in  the  air  with  her  thread,  but  rarely  pricked  the  cloth.  It  was  just  as  well that  she  had  married  into  a  family  where  everything  was  provided.

At  certain  times  of  year,  the  girls  turned  their  hands  to  the  seasonal  tasks which  demanded  they  should  be  outside.  They  would  join  the  fray  at  grape  harvest and  would  be  the  first  into  the  troughs  to  tread  the  copiously  juicy  fruit.  Then,  just before  autumn  turned  to  winter,  they  would  be  among  the  crowd  who  would  beat the  olive  trees  to  make  the  fruit  cascade  down  into  the  open  baskets  below.  Such days  were  full  of  laughter  and  flirtation,  and  the  completion  of  these  communal tasks  would  be  marked  with  dancing  and  merrymaking.

One  by  one,  members  of  this  carefree  but  duty-­‐laden  coterie  of  young  women moved  out  of  the  group.  They  found  husbands,  or,  as  was  more  generally  the  case, husbands  were  found  for  them.  On  the  whole  they  were  other  young  men  from Plaka  or  one  of  the  neighbouring  villages  such  as  Vrouhas  or  Selles.  Their  parents had  usually  known  each  other  for  years  and  had  sometimes  planned  the  match between  their  offspring  before  they  could  even  count  or  write  their  own  names. When  Fotini  announced  her  own  engagement  Maria  saw  her  world  coming  to  an end.  She  displayed  only  pleasure  and  delight,  however,  quietly  castigating  herself  for her  feelings  of  envy  as  she  anticipated  the  rest  of  her  life  spent  on  doorsteps  with the  widowed  crones,  crocheting  lace  as  the  sun  went  down.

Fotini,  like  Maria,  was  now  twenty-­‐two  years  old.  Her  father  had  supplied  the fish  taverna  on  the  seafront  for  many  years,  and  the  owner,  Stavros  Davaras,  was  a good  friend,  as  well  as  being  a  reliable  customer.  His  son,  Stephanos,  was  already working  for  his  father  and  one  day  would  take  over  the  business,  which  had  a  gentle

flow  of  customers  on  weekdays  and  a  torrent  of  them  on  saints'  days  and  Sundays. Pavlos  Angelopoulous  regarded  Stephanos  as  a  good  match  for  his  daughter,  and the  already  established  mutual  dependence  of  the  families  was  considered  a desirable  grounding  for  the  marriage.  The  pair  had  known  each  other  since childhood  and  were  confident  that  they  could  develop  feelings  for  each  other  which would  add  sparkle  to  what  was,  after  all,  just  an  arrangement.  A  modest  dowry  was negotiated,  and  once  the  engagement  had  run  its  usual  course,  the  wedding  took place.

The  great  consolation  for  Maria  was  that  Fotini  would  be  living  no  further away  from  her  now  than  she  had  been  before.  Although  Fotini  now  had  different, more  onerous  duties—working  in  the  taverna  as  well  as  running  the  home  and negotiating  the  minefield  of  living  with  her  in-­‐laws—the  women  would  still  see  each other  every  day.

Determined  not  to  betray  her  dismay  at  finding  herself  the  last  of  a diminishing  group,  Maria  threw  herself  more  enthusiastically  than  ever  into  her  filial duties,  accompanying  her  father  with  increasing  frequency  on  his  trips  to  Spinalonga and  ensuring  that,  their  home  was  always  immaculately  tidy.  For  a  young  woman  it was  far  from  fulfilling.  Her  devotion  to  Giorgis  was  admired  in  the  village,  but  at  the same  time  her  lack  of  a  husband  reduced  her  status.  Spinsterhood  was  perceived  as a  curse,  and  to  be  left  on  the  shelf  was  daily  public  humiliation  in  a  village  like  Plaka. If  she  got  any  older  without  finding  a  fiancé,  respect  for  her  dutiful  behaviour  could quickly  turn  to  scorn.  The  problem  now  was  that  there  were  few  eligible  men  in Plaka,  and  Maria  would  not  consider  a  man  from  another  village.  It  was  unthinkable that  Giorgis  should  uproot  himself  from  Plaka  and  therefore  unimaginable  that Maria  would  ever  move  either.  There  was,  she  reflected,  as  much  chance  of marriage  as  there  was  of  seeing  her  beloved  mother  walk  through  the  door.

Chapter  Twelve

1951

ANNA  WAS  NOW  four  years  married  and  thriving  on  her  new  status.  She loved  Andreas  dutifully,  and  willingly  responded  to  his  passion  for  her.  To  everyone around  her,  Anna  seemed  a  faultless  wife.  She  was  aware,  however,  that  the  family was  awaiting  the  announcement  of  a  pregnancy.  The  lack  of  a  baby  did  not  bother her  at  all.  There  would  be  plenty  of  time  for  children  and  she  was  enjoying  this carefree  time  far  too  much  to  want  to  lose  it  to  motherhood.  Eleftheria  had broached  the  subject  one  day  when  they  were  discussing  the  decor  for  one  of  the spare  bedrooms  in  Neapoli.

Eleftheria  thought  she  was  providing  the  perfect  opportunity  for  her daughter-­‐in-­‐law  to  say  something  about  her  plans  and  aspirations  for  becoming  a mother,  and  was  disappointed  when  Anna  professed  a  liking  for  pale  green.  "It'll

complement  the  fabric  I've  ordered  to  cover  the  furniture,"  she  said.

Anna  and  Andreas,  along  with  his  parents,  lived  for  some  of  the  time  during the  summer  months  in  the  family's  grand  neoclassical  villa  in  Neapoli,  which  Anna had  now  extensively  refurbished.  Eleftheria  considered  its  fine  drapes  and  fragile furniture  very  impractical,  but  it  appeared  she  could  not  stand  in  this  young woman's  way.  In  September  the  family  started  to  move  back  to  the  main  house  in Elounda,  which  Anna  was  also  gradually  transforming  to  her  own  taste  in  spite  of her  father-­‐in-­‐law's  penchant  for  the  sombre  style  favoured  by  his  generation.  She often  had  herself  taken  into  Agios  Nikolaos  to  shop,  and  one  day  in  late  autumn  she arrived  back  from  one  of  these  trips  to  see  her  upholsterer  and  check  up  on  the progress  of  her  latest  pair  of  curtains.  She  rushed  into  the  kitchen  and  planted  a  kiss on  the  back  of  the  head  of  the  figure  seated  at  the  table.

As  she  walked  across  the  room,  the  silk  lining  of  her  coat  rustling  against  her legs,  she  chattered  about  the  minutiae  of  her  day.  She  was  putting  water  on  to prepare  herself  some  coffee  when  the  man  at  the  table  rose  from  his  chair.  Anna turned  round  and  let  out  a  scream  of  surprise.

As  the  two  stood  face  to  face,  Anna  saw  that  the  man  she  had  greeted  so affectionately,  though  clearly  not  her  husband,  was  in  every  way  very  like  him.  The breadth  of  his  shoulders,  his  hair  and,  now  that  he  was  standing,  even  his  height seemed  to  match  Andreas's  exactly.  The  strong  and  distinctive  Vandoulakis  nose was  the  same  and  the  slightly  slanted  eyes  bore  an  uncanny  resemblance.  When  he spoke,  Anna's  mouth  went  dry.  What  trick  was  this?

Anna  knew  of  the  existence  of  a  cousin  and  had  heard  Manoli's  name

mentioned  a  few  times  in  conversation,  but  little  more  than  that.  She  had  never pictured  him  as  this  carbon  copy  of  her  husband.

Anna  could  see  that,  but  she  could  also  see  many  other  things  that  actually made  this  version  of  her  husband  very  different  from  the  original.  Though  Manoli had  the  same  broad  shoulders  as  Andreas,  he  was  actually  thinner  and  she  could  see his  bony  shoulder  blades  protruding  under  his  shirt.  He  had  laughter  in  his  eyes  and deep  lines  around  them.  He  thought  it  was  a  terrific  joke  that  she  had  mistaken  him for  his  cousin  and  she  realised  quite  quickly  that  he  had  set  the  moment  up.  Life  was there  to  be  enjoyed,  you  could  see  it  in  his  smile.

At  that  moment,  Andreas  and  his  father  returned  and  there  were exclamations  of  delight  and  amazement  when  they  saw  Manoli  standing  there.  Soon the  three  men  were  sitting  round  a  bottle  of  raki  and  Anna  excused  herself  to  make arrangements  for  dinner.  When  Eleftheria  arrived  an  hour  or  so  later,  a  second bottle  of  raki  was  already  drained  and  both  she  and  Manoli  wept  tears  of  joy  as  they embraced.  Letters  were  immediately  sent  off  to  Andreas's  sisters,  and  the  following Sunday  a  great  reunion  party  was  held  to  mark  Manoli's  return  after  his  decade  of absence.

Manoli  Vandoulakis  was  a  free-­‐spirited  youth  who  had  spent  the  past  ten years,  largely  on  mainland  Greece,  squandering  a  sizeable  inheritance.  His  mother had  died  in  childbirth  and  his  father  had  passed  away  five  years  later  at  the  age  of thirty,  of  a  heart  attack.  Manoli  had  grown  up  hearing  dark  murmur-­‐ings  of  how  his father  had  died  of  a  broken  heart  and  whether  or  not  this  was  true,  it  made  him resolve  to  live  as  though  each  day  might  be  his  last.  It  was  a  philosophy  that  made perfect  sense  to  him,  and  even  his  uncle  Alexandras,  who  since  the  death  of  Yiannis Vandoulakis  had  been  his  guardian,  could  not  stop  him.  As  a  child  Manoli  had noticed  that  everyone  around  him  carried  out  a  relentless  round  of  tasks  and  duties, apparently  only  enjoying  themselves  when  they  were  given  permission  on  saints' days  and  Sundays.  He  wanted  pleasure  every  day  of  his  life.

Though  the  memory  of  his  parents  dimmed  by  the  day,  he  was  often  told  that they  had  lived  good  and  dutiful  lives.  But  what  real  good  had  their  exemplary behaviour  done  them?  It  had  not  kept  death  away,  had  it?  Fate'  had  snatched  them like  an  eagle  plucking  its  defenceless  prey  from  a  bare  rock  face.  To  hell  with  it,  he thought;  if  destiny  could  not  be  outwitted,  he  might  as  well  see  what  else  life  had  to

offer  him  other  than  a  few  decades  of  living  on  a  Cretan  hillside  before  burial beneath  it.

Ten  years  earlier,  he  had  left  home.  Apart  from  the  occasional  letter  to  his aunt  and  uncle—some  from  Italy,  some  from  Yugoslavia,  but  mostly  from  Athens— to  reassure  them  that  he  was  still  alive,  he  had  had  little  contact  with  his  family. Alexandras  was  aware  that  if  his  older  brother  Yiannis  had  not  died  so  young,  it would  be  Manoli  who  would  now  be  in  line  to  inherit  the  Vandoulakis  estate,  rather than  his  own  son.  But  such  thoughts  were  hypothetical.  Instead  of  the  promise  of land,  when  he  had  reached  the  age  of  eighteen  Manoli  had  come  into  a  small  cash fortune.  It  was  this  money  that  he  had  largely  squandered  in  Rome,  Belgrade  and Athens.

His  return  caused  a  great  stir,  not  just  with  his  uncle  and  aunt,  but  also  with Andreas  himself.  With  only  six  months'  difference  between  them,  the  two  were virtually  twins.  As  children  they  had  almost  known  each  other's  thoughts  and  felt each  other's  pain,  but  after  their  eighteenth  birthdays  their  lives  had  taken  such divergent  paths  that  it  was  hard  to  imagine  how  things  would  be  now  that  Manoli was  back.

It  was,  however,  timely.  Alexandras  Vandouiakis  was  due  to  retire  the following  year,  and  Andreas  could  really  do  with  a  helping  hand  in  managing  the estate.  They  all  felt  it  would  be  better  for  Manoli  to  take  on  the  role  than  for  them to  employ  an  outsider,  and  even  if  Alexandras  had  some  doubts  about  whether  his nephew  would  really  buckle  down  to  it,  he  would  put  those  doubts  aside.  Manoli was  family,  after  all.

For  several  months,  Manoli  lived  in  the  house  on  the  Elounda  estate.  There were  plenty  of  rooms  that  were  never  used  so  his  presence  inconvenienced  no  one, but  in  December  Alexandras  provided  him  with  a  house  of  his  own.  Manoli  had enjoyed  this  taste  of  family  life  and  being  part  of  the  dynasty  from  which  he  had chosen  for  ten  years  to  absent  himself,  but  his  uncle  expected  him  to  get  married  in the  future  and  for  this  purpose  insisted  that  he  should  live  in  his  own  home.

Manoli's  house  had  belonged  to  the  estate  manager  in  the  days  when Alexandros  had  paid  an  outsider  to  perform  the  role.  It  was  set  at  the  end  of  a  short driveway  a  kilometre  from  the  main  house,  and  with  its  four  bedrooms  and  large drawing  room  was  considered  a  substantial  home  for  a  bachelor.  Manoli,  however, continued  to  be  a  regular  visitor  at  the  main  house.  He  wanted  to  be  fed  and

pampered,  just  like  Alexandros  and  Andreas,  and  here  were  two  women  to  do  just that  for  him.  Everyone  loved  his  lively  conversation  and  welcomed  him  there,  but Alexandros  always  insisted  that  eventually  he  should  go  home.

Manoli  had  lived  his  life  in  a  state  of  impermanence,  flitting  like  a  butterfly from  one  place  to  the  next.  And  wherever  he  went  he  left  a  trail  of  broken  promises. Even  as  a  child,  he  had  stretched  things  to  the  limit.  Just  for  a  dare,  he  once  held  his hand  in  a  flame  until  the  skin  began  to  melt  and  another  time  he  jumped  off  the highest  rock  on  the  Elounda  coast,  scraping  his  back  so  badly  the  sea  around  him turned  scarlet.  In  the  foreign  capitals  of  Europe  he  would  gamble  until  he  was  down to  his  shirt  and  then  make  a  spectacular  comeback.  It  was  just  the  way  he  was.  In spite  of  himself  he  found  he  was  playing  the  same  game  in  Elounda,  but  the difference  here  was  that  he  was  now  obliged  to  stay.

He  could  ho  longer  afford  to  fly  away,  even  if  he  had  wanted  to.

To  Alexandros's  surprise,  Manoli  worked  quite  hard,  though  he  did  not  have the  same  commitment  as  his  cousin.  Andreas  would  always  take  his  lunch  to  the fields  to  save  the  time  it  took  to  return  home,  but  Manoli  preferred  to  get  away from  the  harsh  sunshine  just  for  a  few  hours  and  had  taken  to  coming  in  to  eat  his lunch  at  the  spacious  table  in  the  Vandoulakis  kitchen.  Anna  had  no  objection.  She welcomed  his  presence  in  the  house.

Their  interaction  was  not  so  much  conversation  as  flirtation.  Manoli  made  her laugh,  sometimes  until  tears  streamed  down  her  face,  and  her  appreciation  of  his teasing  humour  and  the  way  the  enlarged  pupils  of  her  eyes  sparkled  when  she  held his  gaze  were  enough  to  keep  him  from  the  olive  groves  well  into  the  afternoon.

Sometimes  Eleftheria  was  there  rather  than  in  Neapoli  and  feared  that  her nephew  was  not  really  pulling  his  weight  on  the  estate.  "Men  shouldn't  hang  around the  house  in  the  day,"  she  once  remarked  to  Anna.  "It's  a  woman's  territory.  Theirs is  outside."

Anna  chose  to  ignore  her  mother-­‐in-­‐law's  disapproving  comment  and welcomed  Manoli  more  effusively  than  ever.  In  her  view,  the  closeness  of  the kinship  between  them  sanctioned  their  friendship.  It  was  the  custom  that  a  woman enjoyed  much  greater  freedom  once  married  than  she  had  been  allowed  as  a  single woman,  so  at  first  no  one  questioned  Anna's  liberty  to  spend  an  hour  a  day, sometimes  even  more,  with  her  'cousin'.  But  a  few  people  began  to  notice  the frequency  of  Manoli's  visits,  and  tongues  started  to  wag.

One  lunchtime  that  spring,  Manoli  had  lingered  even  longer  than  usual.  Anna sensed  his  recklessness  and  for  once  shuddered  at  the  danger  she  was  putting herself  in.  Nowadays  when  he  left  he  would  hold  on  to  her  hand  and  kiss  it  in  an absurdly  histrionic  way.  She  could  have  passed  it  oft'  as  a  frivolous  gesture,  but  the way  in  which  he  pressed  his  middle  finger  into  the  very  centre  of  her  palm  and  held it  there  made  her  shiver.  More  significantly,  he  touched  her  hair.  It  was  dead matter,  he  said  laughingly,  and  anyway  she  had  started  it,  he  teased,  by  kissing  a total  stranger...on  the  hair.  And  so  it  went  on.  He  had  picked  some  meadow  flowers

that  day,  and  presented  her  with  a  bouquet  of  bright,  if  wilting,  poppies.  It  was  a romantic  gesture  and  she  was  charmed,  especially  when  he  pulled  one  from  the bunch  and  carefully  placed  it  in  the  front  of  her  blouse.  His  touch  was  subtle  and there  was  a  moment  when  she  was  not  entirely  certain  whether  the  contact  of  his rough  hand  with  her  smooth  skin  was  accidental,  or  whether  he  had,  very deliberately,  brushed  her  breast  with  his  fingers.  A  moment  later,  when  she  felt  his gentle  touch  on  her  neck,  the  doubt  was  gone.

Anna  was  an  impetuous  enough  woman,  but  something  held  her  back.  My God,  she  thought,  this  is  the  threshold  of  insanity.  What  am  I  doing?  She  pictured herself  standing  in  this  huge  kitchen  almost  nose  to  nose  with  a  man  who,  though he  looked  so  very  like  him,  was  not  her  husband.  She  saw  the  situation  as  it  would appear  to  someone  looking  in  through  the  open  window,  and  however  hard  she tried  to  convince  herself,  she  knew  it  would  not  seem  ambiguous.  She  was  one second  away  from  being  kissed.  She  still  had  a  choice.

Her  marriage  to  Andreas  lacked  nothing.  He  was  warm,  adoring  and  gave  her free  rein  to  make  changes  in  their  homes  when  she  wished;  she  even  got  on tolerably  well  with  her  in-­‐laws.,They  had,  however,  quickly  settled  into  a  pattern,  as happened  in  such  marriages,  and  life  had  a  predictability  that  made  it  unlikely  that the  next  half-­‐century  would  hold  any  real  surprises.  After  all  the  anticipation  and excitement  at  starting  a  new  life,  Anna  was  discovering  that  it  could  be  just  as  dull  as her  old  one.  What  it  lacked  was  the  thrill  of  the  clandestine,  the  frisson  of  the  illicit. Whether  such  things  were  worth  risking  everything  for,  she  did  not  quite  know.

I  ought  to  stop  this,  she  thought.  Otherwise  I  could  lose  everything.  She addressed  Manoli  with  her  usual  haughtiness.  It  was  their  game,  how  she  always talked  to  him.  While  he  was  extravagantly  flirtatious,  she  treated  him  as  her  inferior.

The  following  Sunday  was  the  feast  of  Agios  Giorgis,  so  it  was  a  perfect  excuse for  inviting  Maria  and  her  father  to  visit.  It  was  a  duty  rather  than  a  particular pleasure  to  see  them  both;  she  felt  she  had  nothing  in  common  with  her  tedious little  sister  and  little  to  say  to  her  father.  For  the  rest  of  that  week  Anna  dreamed  of Manoli's  lingering  touch  and  looked  forward  to  the  next  time  they  could  be  alone, but  before  that  happened,  she  mused,  the  dull  family  luncheon  had  to  take  place.

There  were  still  shortages  of  many  kinds  of  food  in  Crete  at  that  time,  but these  never  seemed  to  affect  the  Vandoulakis  household,  especially  on  a  saint's  day, when  it  was  conveniently  considered  a  religious  duty  to  feast.  Giorgis  was  delighted to  receive  the  invitation.

Maria  was  secretly  pleased  that  they  had  been  invited.  She  yearned  to strengthen  the  bond  with  her  sister,  knowing  that  this  would  have  been  what  their mother  wanted,  but  nevertheless  she  felt  some  trepidation  as  the  day  approached. Giorgis,  however,  who  was  finally  emerging  from  his  long  state  of  grief,  was  happy at  the  prospect  of  seeing  his  elder  daughter.

Anna  cringed  as  she  heard  the  spluttering  sound  of  her  father's  newly acquired  truck  in  the  driveway  and  with  little  enthusiasm  made  her  way  slowly down  the  big  staircase  to  greet  them.  Manoli,  who  had  already  arrived,  had  got  to the  front  door  well  before  her  and  thrown  it  open.

Maria  was  not  at  all  what  he  had  expected.  She  had  the  biggest  brown  eyes he  had  ever  seen  and  they  looked  at  him  with  wide-­‐eyed  surprise.

So  negligent  was  Anna  in  her  correspondence  that  Maria  and  Giorgis  had known  nothing  of  the  arrival  of  the  long-­‐lost  relative.

Manoli  was  always  in  his  element  with  a  pretty  girl,  but  never  more  so  than with  one  like  this,  who  added  innocence  to  such  sweet  beauty.  He  took  in  every detail:  a  slim  waist,  a  neat  bosom  and  muscular  arms  built  up  by  years  of  hard physical  work.  She  was  at  once  fragile  and  strong.

At  one  o'clock  they  all  sat  down  to  eat.  With  Alexandras,  Eleftheria,  their  two daughters  and  their  respective  families,  there  were  at  least  a  dozen.  Chatter  was noisy  and  animated.

Manoli  had  decided  in  advance  that  he  would  flirt  with  Anna's  younger  sister. A  practised  lothario  such  as  he  was  did  so  out  of  habit.  What  he  had  not  expected was  that  Maria  would  be  so  pretty  and  so  eminently  easy  to  tease.  Throughout lunch  he  dominated  her  with  his  playful  talk,  and  although  she  was  unused  to  such flippancy,  she  parried  his  witty  remarks.  Her  unaffected  personality  made  her  so different  from  most  of  the  women  he  was  used  to  meeting  that  he  eventually  found himself  toning  down  his  banter  and  asking  her  questions  about  herself.  He discovered  that  she  knew  about  mountain  herbs  and  their  healing  powers,  and  they talked  earnestly  about  their  place  in  a  world  where  the  boundaries  of  science  were being  pushed  forward  by  the  day.  Maria  and  Anna  were  as  unalike  as  a  raw  pearl and  a  polished  diamond.  One  had  natural  lustre  and  its  own  unique,  irregular  shape. The  other  had  been  cut  and  polished  to  achieve  its  glittering  beauty.  Manoli  loved both  such  jewels,  and  this  soft,  gentle-­‐eyed  girl  who  was  so  clearly  devoted  to  her father  appealed  strongly  to  him.  She  was  without  artifice  and  had  a  naivety  that  he found  unexpectedly  alluring.

Anna  watched  as  Manoli  drew  Maria  into  his  magnetic  field,  telling  her  stories and  making  her  laugh.  She  saw  her  sister  melt  in  his  warmth.  Before  the  meal  was

over,  Anna  realised  what  she  had  done.  She  had  given  Manoli  away,  handed  him  like a  gift-­‐wrapped  parcel  to  her  sister,  and  now  she  wanted  him  back.

Chapter  Thirteen

FOR  THE  NEXT  week,  Manoli  was  vexed.  This  was  unusual  for  him.  How  could he  pursue  Maria?  She  was  quite  unlike  most  of  the  women  he  had  met  on  his travels.  Besides  which,  the  accepted  patterns  and  modes  of  behaviour  between  men and  women  in  Plaka  were  very  different  from  those  governing  such  relationships  in the  cities  where  he  had  lived.  Here  in  rural  Crete,  every  move,  every  word  was subject  to  scrutiny.  He  had  been  perfectly  aware  of  this  when  he  had  visited  Anna on  all  those  occasions,  and  though  he  had  always  been  careful  to  ensure  that  certain boundaries  were  never  crossed,  he  had  known  that  he  was  playing  with  fire.  In  Anna he  had  seen  a  bored,  isolated  woman  who  had  separated  herself  from  the  village where  she  had  grown  up  and  achieved  her  ambition  of  being  in  a  position  where other  people  were  paid  to  do  those  tasks  which  would  otherwise  have  kept  her  busy and  occupied.  She  had  improved  her  position,  but  now  floated  in  a  friendless  social vacuum,  one  in  which  Manoli  had  been  happy  to  entertain  her.  A  woman  with  eyes that  so  hungrily  sought  his  and  lips  that  spread  themselves  into  such  a  generous smile:  it  would  have  been  rude  to  ignore  her.

Maria  was  quite  different.  Not  only  did  she  lack  her  sister's  ambition  to  marry outside  the  village,  she  seemed  without  desire  to  marry  at  all.  She  lived  in  a  small house  with  her  widowed  father,  apparently  content  and  yet  so  exceptionally marriageable.  Manoli  would  not  have  admitted  it  to  himself,  but  it  was  largely  her lack  of  interest  that  attracted  him.  He  had  all  the  time  in  the  world,  though,  and would  be  patient,  certain  that  sooner  or  later  she  would  be  won  over.  Confidence was  not  lacking  in  the  Vandoulakis  male.  It  rarely  occurred  to  them  that  they  would not  get  what  they  wanted.  Manoli  had  much  on  his  side.  Perhaps  the  most important  factor  was  that  Fotini  had  protected  Maria  from  the  gossip  about  Manoli and  Anna.  The  source  of  the  endlessly  flowing  fountain  of  stories  was  Fotini's brother  Antonis.  It  was  more  than  five  years  since  that  kiss  which  had  meant nothing  to  Anna  and  far  too  much  to  Antonis,  but  the  sense  of  having  been  cast aside  still  rankled.  He  despised  Anna  and  had  watched  with  malicious  satisfaction the  comings  and  goings  of  her  husband's  cousin,  which  had  increased  in  regularity now  that  Eleftheria  and  Alexandras  Vandoulakis  were  spending  more  time  in Neapoli  and  less  in  Elounda.  Antonis  gave  reports  to  Fotini  whenever  he  called  in  for supper  at  the  waterfront  taverna  which  was  now  her  home.

cousin  comes  to  visit  her?  He's  family,  why  shouldn't  he?"

Fotini  did  mean  it.  She  slammed  the  bottle  down  on  the  table  in  front  of  her brother  and  glared  at  him.  She  was  as  protective  of  Giorgis  and  Maria  Petrakis  as she  would  have  been  of  her  own  flesh  and  blood,  and  wanted  to  keep  these  vicious and  damaging  rumours  from  them.  Part  of  her  could  not  believe  them  in  any  case. Why  would  Anna,  whose  whole  life  had  turned  around  the  night  she  met  Andreas, risk  throwing  it  all  away?  The  very  thought  of  it  was  baffling,  ridiculous  even,  and besides,  she  held  out  hope  that  Manoli,  the  subject  of  Antonis's  scurrilous  rumour-­‐ mongering,  might  one  day  notice  Maria.  Since  the  lunch  on  the  feast  of  Agios Giorgis,  Maria  had  chatted  incessantly  about  Andreas's  cousin,  repeating  every detail  of  their  encounter  at  the  Vandoulakis  house.

Manoli  had  been  seen  a  few  times  in  the  village.  With  his  connection  to Giorgis  he  had  found  a  warm  welcome  among  the  men  of  Plaka  and  soon  became  a regular  fixture  at  the  bar;  he  was  found  there  as  often  as  anyone,  playing backgammon,  passing  around  strong  cigarettes  and  discussing  the  politics  of  the island  beneath  a  thick  pall  of  smoke.  Even  in  this  small  village  on  a  road  that  led  only to  even  smaller  villages,  the  pressing  issues  of  world  politics  were  high  on  the agenda.  In  spite  of  their  remoteness  from  them,  events  on  mainland  Greece regularly  aroused  both  passion  and  fury.

Manoli  had  a  broader  world  view  than  others  in  the  bar—many  had  been  no further  than  Iraklion  and  most  had  never  got  as  far  as  Hania—and  he  brought  a  new perspective  to  argument  and  conversation.  Though  he  was  careful  not  to  brag  of  the casual  conquests  that  had  been  a  recurring  theme  of  his  travels,  he  entertained them  all  with  stories  of  Italians,  Yugoslavians  and  their  brothers  on  mainland Greece.  His  was  a  light  touch  and  everyone  liked  him,  enjoying  the  gaiety  that  he brought  to  the  bar.  Whenever  there  was  a  pause  in  the  argument  Manoli  would have  an  anecdote  or  two  to  tell  and  the  assembled  company  were  happy  to  indulge him.  His  tales  of  the  old  Turkish  quarter  in  Athens,  the  Spanish  Steps  in  Rome  and the  bars  of  Belgrade  were  mesmerising  and  while  he  spoke  there  was  silence,  except

for  the  occasional  clack  of  worry  beads.  He  did  not  need  to  embroider  the  facts  to entertain.  The  stories  of  his  brief  imprisonment,  being  adrift  on  a  ship  in  the  middle of  the  Mediterranean,  and  fighting  a  duel  in  the  back  streets  of  a  Yugoslavian  port were  all  true  enough.  They  were  the  tales  of  a  man  who  had  travelled  without responsibilities  and  initially  without  cares.  They  showed  him  to  be  a  wild  but  not uncaring  man,  but  as  he  spoke,  Manoli  was  conscious  that  he  did  not  wish  to  be perceived  as  an  unsuitable  match  for  Giorgis's  daughter  and  accordingly  toned  down his  stories.

Even  Antonis,  who  had  ceased  to  skulk  in  the  corner  whenever  his  boss's rakish  cousin  appeared,  now  greeted  him  warmly.  Music  was  their  common  bond, plus  the  fact  that  they  had  both  spent  a  few  years  away  from  this  province;  though decades  younger  than  the  grizzled  men  they  drank  with,  they  were  in  some  ways more  worldly-­‐wise  than  their  elders  would  ever  be.  As  a  child,  Manoli  had  learned  to play  the  lyre  and  during  his  travelling  years  it  had  been  both  a  companion  and  his security,  at  one  point  the  only  thing  that  stood  between  him  and  starvation.  Often he  had  found  himself  singing  and  playing  for  his  supper,  and  his  lyre  was  the  only possession  of  any  value  that  he  had  not  gambled  away.  This  precious  instrument now  hung  on  the  wall  behind  the  bar,  and  when  the  raki  was  low  in  the  bottle  he would  remove  it  from  its  hook  and  play,  the  bow  sending  the  sound  of  its  vibrating strings  shuddering  through  the  night  air.

Likewise,  Antonis's  wooden  flute,  his  thiaboli,  had  been  his  constant companion  during  his  years  away  from  home.  Its  mellow  sounds  had  filled  a hundred  different  caves  and  shepherds'  huts,  the  notes  soothing  the  hearts  and souls  of  his  companions  and,  more  prosaically,  helping  them  while  away  all  those hours  they  had  spent  watching  and  waiting.  As  different  as  Manoli  and  Antonis were,  music  was  a  neutral  space  where  wealth  and  hierarchy  played  no  part.  The two  of  them  would  play  in  the  bar  for  an  hour  or  so,  their  haunting  melodies  casting a  spell  over  their  audience  and  over  those  whose  open  windows  captured  the escaping  sounds  as  they  drifted  through  the  stillness.

Though  everyone  was  aware  of  the  great  wealth  that  Manoli's  parents  had enjoyed  and  of  the  fortune  that  he  himself  had  frittered  away,  most  of  the  villagers now  accepted  him  as  someone  just  like  themselves,  who  needed  to  work  hard  for  a living  and  who,  quite  naturally,  aspired  to  having  a  wife  and  a  family.  For  Manoli,  the simplicity  of  this  more  settled  life  had  its  own  rewards.  Even  without  the  possibility of  seeing  Maria,  which  had  been  his  original  motivation  in  visiting  Plaka,  he  found much  in  this  village  to  love.  The  bonds  between  childhood  friends,  the  loyalty  to family  and  a  way  of  life  that  had  not  needed  to  change  for  centuries,  all  had  great appeal.  If  he  could  secure  a  woman  like  Maria,  or  perhaps  even  one  of  the  other village  beauties,  it  would  complete  his  sense  of  belonging.  Apart  from  saints'  day celebrations  in  the  village,  however,  there  were  few  legitimate  occasions  for  him  to meet  her.

The  formalities  still  observed  in  villages  like  Plaka  drove  him  mad.  Though  he

found  the  enduring  traditions  part  of  the  attraction,  the  obscurity  of  the  courting rituals  he  found  nothing  less  than  ridiculous.  He  knew  he  could  not  mention  his intentions  to  Anna,  and  anyway,  he  was  not  visiting  her  so  much  now.  It  was  a pattern  he  knew  he  needed  to  break  if  he  wanted  to  achieve  his  planned  conquest of  Maria.  Anna  had  been  predictably  brittle  with  him  when  he  last  visited.

With  that  she  marched  out  of  the  room,  and  the  door  slammed  behind  her like  a  thunderclap.

Manoli  would  miss  their  intimacy  and  the  sparkle  in  Anna's  eyes,  but  it  was  a price  he  was  prepared  to  pay.

Since  there  was  no  one  at  home  preparing  him  meals,  Manoli  often  ate  in  one of  the  tavernas  in  Elounda  or  in  Plaka.  Each  Friday  he  went  to  Fotini's  taverna,  which she  and  Stephanos  had  now  taken  over  from  his  parents.  One  visit  in  July,  he  sat there  looking  out  to  sea  towards  Spinalonga.  The  island,  shaped  like  a  large,  half-­‐ submerged  egg,  had  become  so  familiar  to  him,  that  he  scarcely  gave  it  a  second thought.  Like  everyone  else,  he  occasionally  wondered  what  it  must  be  like  over there,  but  he  did  not  dwell  on  such  thoughts  for  long.  Spinalonga  was  simply  there, a  lump  of  rock  inhabited  by  lepers.

A  plate  of  tiny  picarel  fish  sat  on  the  table  in  front  of  Manoli,  and  as  he stabbed  each  one  with  his  fork,  his  eye  was  caught  by  something.  In  the  dusky  half-­‐ light  a  little  boat  was  chugging  its  way  from  the  island,  creating  a  broad  triangular wake  as  it  cut  through  the  dense  water.  Two  people  were  in  it,  and  as  the  boat  came into  the  harbour,  he  saw  that  one  of  them  looked  very  like  Maria.

Fotini,  who  had  been  hovering  in  the  background,  saw  where  this conversation  might  lead.  Even  if  he  did  not  intend  to,  she  knew  that  Stephanos  was likely  to  forget  Giorgis's  desire  to  keep  the  facts  of  Eleni's  tragic  death  from  leprosy a  secret  from  the  Vandoulakis  family.

She  grabbed  her  husband's  arm  and  led  him  back  to  the  kitchen.

Stephanos  was  shamefaced.

Stephanos  only  saw  things  in  black  and  white.  He  understood  what  his  wife was  getting  at  and  realised  that  he  and  Fotini  had  a  role  to  play  in  bringing  these two  together.

It  was  precisely  a  week  later  that  the  opportunity  to  engineer  a  meeting between  Maria  and  Manoli  presented  itself.  When  Manoli  appeared  that  Friday, Fotini  slipped  out  of  a  side  door  and  ran  to  the  Petrakis  house.  Giorgis  had  eaten  and gone  to  the  bar  to  play  backgammon  and  Maria  now  sat  in  the  fading  light,  straining to  read.

She  grabbed  her  friend  by  the  arm.  Maria  resisted,  but  only  feebly;  in  her heart  she  yearned  to  go.

Fotini  was  right.  When  they  arrived  at  the  taverna,  Manoli  was  immediately  in charge  of  the  situation.  He  did  not  question  why  Maria  was  there,  but  invited  her  to join  him  at  his  table,  asking  her  what  she  had  been  doing  since  they  had  last  met, and  how  her  father  was.  Then,  more  boldly  than  a  man  normally  did  in  these situations,  he  said,  "There's  a  new  cinema  opened  in  Agios  Nikolaos.  Would  you come  there  with  me?"

Maria,  already  flushed  from  the  excitement  of  seeing  Manoli  again,  blushed even  more  deeply.  She  looked  down  into  her  lap  and  could  hardly  reply.

thing  around  here...going  to  the  cinema  with  someone  you  hardly  know."

So  before  she  knew  it  and  had  had  time  to  be  anxious  and  think  of  all  the reasons  against  it,  the  date  was  agreed.  In  a  mere  three  days  from  now  they  would all  go  to  Agios  Nikolaos.

Manoli's  manners  were  impeccable  and  their  outings  became  a  weekly  event. Each  Monday,  the  four  of  them  would  set  off  at  about  seven  in  the  evening  to  spend an  evening  watching  the  latest  movie,  followed  by  supper.

Giorgis  was  delighted  to  see  his  daughter  being  wooed  by  this  handsome  and charming  man,  someone  he  had  liked  for  many  months  even  before  his  daughter had  got  to  know  him.  Though  it  was  a  very  modern  approach—all  this  going  out before  there  was  any  kind  of  formal  agreement—they  were,  after  all,  moving  into  a more  modern  era,  and  the  fact  that  Maria  had  an  escort  helped  to  contain  the mutterings  of  disapproval  from  the  older  ladies  of  the  village.

The  four  of  them  enjoyed  each  other's  company  and  the  trips  out  of  Plaka changed  the  texture  and  pattern  of  their  otherwise  routine  lives.  Laughter characterised  their  times  together,  and  they  were  often  bent  double  with amusement  at  Manoli's  jokes  and  antics.  Maria  began  to  allow  herself  the  luxury  of a  daydream  and  to  imagine  that  she  could  spend  the  rest  of  her  days  looking  at  this handsome,  lined  face,  aged  by  life  and  laughter.  Sometimes  when  he  looked  straight into  her  eyes  she  felt  the  invisible  hairs  on  her  neck  stand  on  end  and  the  palms  of her  hands  dampen.  Even  on  a  warm  evening  she  would  feel  herself  shudder involuntarily.  It  was  a  new  experience  to  be  so  flattered  and  teased.  What  light  relief Manoli  was  from  the  colourless  backdrop  of  the  rest  of  her  life!  There  were moments  when  she  wondered  if  he  was  actually  capable  of  taking  anything seriously.  The  bubbles  of  his  effervescence  spread  to  everyone  around  him.  Maria had  never  enjoyed  such  carefree  happiness  and  began  to  think  this  euphoria  was love.

Always  weighing  on  her  conscience,  however,  was  what  would  become  of  her father  if  she  should  marry.  With  most  marriage  arrangements,  the  girl  left  her  own family  and  moved  in  with  her  new  husband's  parents.  Clearly  that  would  not  happen with  Manoli  since  he  had  no  parents,  but  equally  impossible  was  the  idea  that  he might  move  into  their  small  Plaka  home.  With  his  background,  it  was  inconceivable. The  problem  went  round  and  round  in  her  mind,  and  not  once  did  it  seem  absurd that  Manoli  had  not  yet  even  kissed  her.

Manoli  was  on  his  best  behaviour  and  had  long  since  decided  that  the  only way  he  would  win  Maria  was  by  conducting  himself  faultlessly.  How  absurd  it sometimes  seemed  to  him  that  in  another  country  he  might  have  taken  a  girl  to  bed when  they  had  scarcely  exchanged  names,  and  yet  here  he  had  spent  many  dozens of  hours  with  Maria  and  had  not  yet  touched  her.  His  desire  for  her  was  intense  but the  waiting  had  a  delicious  novelty.  He  was  sure  his  patience  would  be  rewarded

and  the  wait  only  made  him  want  her  all  the  more.  In  the  early  months  of  this courtship,  when  he  gazed  at  her  pale  oval  face  framed  by  its  halo  of  dark  plaited hair,  she  would  look  down  bashfully,  afraid  to  meet  his  eye.  As  time  went  on, however,  he  watched  her  grow  bolder  and  stare  back.  If  he  had  looked  closely,  he would  have  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  a  quickening  pulse  on  her  pretty  neck before  her  fine  features  broke  into  a  smile.  If  he  took  this  virgin  now  he  knew  he would  be  obliged  to  leave  Plaka.  Though  he  had  deflowered  dozens  of  girls  in  his past,  even  he  could  not  disgrace  the  lovely  Maria  and,  more  importantly,  a  voice inside  urged  him  to  hold  back.  It  was  time  to  settle  down.

From  a  distance,  Anna  smouldered  with  envy  and  resentment.  Manoli  had hardly  been  to  visit  her  since  Giorgis  and  Maria  had  come  for  lunch,  and  on  some occasions  when  there  were  family  gatherings  he  had  stayed  away.  How  dare  he treat  her  that  way?  Soon  she  learned  from  her  father  that  Manoli  was  wooing Maria.  Was  this  just  to  provoke  her?  If  only  she  could  show  him  that  she  really  did not  care.  There  was  no  such  opportunity,  however,  and  therefore  no  such  catharsis. She  desperately  tried  not  to  think  about  them  together,  and  irritably  threw  herself into  increasingly  extravagant  projects  about  the  home  to  distract  herself.  All  the while  she  knew  that  in  Plaka  events  were  inexorably  unfolding,  but  there  was  no one  in  whom  she  could  confide,  and  the  fury  built  up  inside  her  like  steam  in  a pressure  cooker.

Andreas,  dismayed  by  her  strange  mood,  repeatedly  asked  her  what  was wrong  and  was  told  not  to  bother  her.  He  gave  up.  He  had  sensed  for  a  while  that the  halcyon  days  of  early  marriage,  with  its  loving  looks  and  kind  words,  were  over, and  he  now  busied  himself  more  and  more  on  the  estate.  Eleftheria  noticed  the change  too.  Anna  had  seemed  so  happy  and  vivacious  just  a  few  months  before  and now  she  seemed  permanently  angry.  For  Anna,  concealing  her  emotions  like  this was  the  antithesis  of  everything  that  came  naturally  to  her.  She  wanted  to  scream, shout,  yank  her  hair  in  handfuls  frorn  its  roots,  but  when  her  father  and  Maria visited  her  from  time  to  time,  Manoli  was  not  even  mentioned.

By  some  instinct,  Maria  felt  that  her  friendship  with  Manoli  might  have strayed  into  her  sister's  territory  and  that  perhaps  she  regarded  the  Vandoulakis family  as  her  own  domain.  Why  make  things  worse  by  talking  about  it?  She  had  no idea  of  the  scale  of  Anna's  anguish  and  assumed  that  her  air  of  vagueness  was something  to  do  with  the  fact  that  she  had  so  far  failed  to  conceive  a  child.

One  February  evening,  six  months  after  the  weekly  nights  out  had  begun, Manoli  went  to  find  Giorgis  in  the  bar.  The  old  man  was  sitting  alone,  reading  the local  newspaper.  He  looked  up  as  Manoli  approached,  a  plume  of  smoke  curling above  his  head.

Giorgis  folded  the  newspaper  carefully  and  placed  it  on  the  table.  To  Manoli  it seemed  an  age  before  he  spoke.

Giorgis's  blustering  response  concealed  'his  absolute  joy  at  the  request.  Not just  one,  but  now  two  of  his  daughters  were  to  become  part  of  the  most  powerful family  in  the  province.  There  was  no  snobbery  at  the  heart  of  his  sentiment,  just sheer  relief  and  pleasure  that  both  their  futures  were  now  secure.  It  was  the  best  a father  could  possibly  hope  for  on  behalf  of  his  children,  especially  a  father  who  was a  mere  fisherman.  Behind  Manoli's  head  he  could  see  the  twinkling  lights  of Spinalonga  through  the  half-­‐shuttered  window  of  the  bar.  If  only  Eleni  could  share this  moment.

He  put  out  his  hand  to  seize  Manoli's,  momentarily  lost  for  words.  His expression  said  enough.

There  were  a  few  others  in  the  bar  that  evening,  and  even  before  the  girl  in question  knew  anything  about  it,  the  menfolk  of  the  village  were  toasting  her  future with  Manoli.

Later  that  night  when  Giorgis  returned  home,  Maria  was  getting  ready  to retire  to  bed.  As  her  father  came  in  through  the  door,  shutting  it  quickly  to  keep  the February  wind  outside  and  the  warmth  of  the  fire  in,  she  noticed  an  unfamiliar expression  on  his  face.  It  was  suffused  with  excitement  and  delight.

For  a  moment  she  bowed  her  head,  pleasure  and  pain  somehow  mixed  in equal  measure.  Her  throat  contracted.

In  all  her  life  Maria  had  not  felt  this  unfamiliar  mingling  of  emotions.  Her heart  felt  like  a  cauldron  of  ingredients  that  declined  to  blend.  Her  chest  tightened with  anxiety.  What  was  this?  Was  happiness  meant  to  feel  so  like  nausea?  Just  as she  could  not  imagine  someone  else's  pain,  Maria  did  not  know  what  love  felt  like for  anyone  else.  She  was  fairly  certain  she  loved  Manoli.  With  his  charm  and  wit,  it was  not  hard  to  do  so.  But  her  whole  future  with  him?  A  host  of  worries  began  to

gnaw  at  her.  What  would  happen  to  her  father?  She  voiced  her  anxieties immediately.

There  were  as  many  comings  and  goings  to  and  from  the  leper  colony  as  ever. Each  month  there  were  new  arrivals  and  supplies  to  be  delivered,  as  well  as  building materials  for  the  government-­‐funded  refurbishment  that  was  being  carried  out. Giorgis  was  an  essential  part  of  the  whole  operation.  Maria  understood  his attachment  to  the  island.  They  rarely  spoke  about  it  now,  but  it  was  accepted between  them  that  this  was  his  vocation  and  his  way  of  maintaining  a  connection with  Eleni.

Both  father  and  daughter  slept  fitfully  that  night,  and  morning  could  not  come too  soon.  That  day,  Giorgis  was  to  take  Maria  to  Manoli's  house  on  the  Vandoulakis estate.  It  was  a  Sunday,  and  Manoli  was  there  to  greet  them  on  the  doorstep.  Maria had  never  even  seen  his  house  before,  and  it  was  now  to  become  her  home.  It  took her  no  time  at  all  to  calculate  that  it  was  four  times  the  size  of  their  house  in  Plaka and  the  thought  of  living  there  daunted  her.

It  was  indeed  the  coldest  day  they  had  yet  had  this  year.  A  storm  was  brewing and  the  winds  seemed  to  come  from  several  directions,  stirring  up  eddies  of  dead leaves  and  sending  them  spiralling  around  their  ankles.  Maria's  first  impression when  they  went  into  the  house  was  of  a  lack  of  light  and  a  general  untidiness  that she  was  unsurprised  to  find  in  a  house  that  might  have  had  a  maid  but  did  not  have a  mistress.  Manoli  took  them  into  a  reception  room  which  was  slightly  tidier  and more  cared  for,  with  its  embroidered  lace  cloths  and  a  few  photographs  on  the walls.

She  paused  a  moment  before  answering.  To  both  of  them  it  seemed  an  age. He  looked  at  her  with  pleading  eyes,  momentarily  doubtful.

Manoli  had,  typically,  waded  in.  Asking  Giorgis  to  live  with  them  was  the closest  they  could  approximate  to  reestablishing  a  traditional  pattern  where  parents were  ultimately  taken  care  of  by  their  children.  Manoli  had  not  discussed  the  matter with  Maria  and  was  unaware  of  the  sensitivities,  though  he  knew  that  she  would want  to  have  her  father  close  by.

Giorgis  knew  Maria  would  be  true  to  her  word  and  that  he  could  look  forward to  her  visits  without  fear  of  disappointment.  She  would  not  be  like  Anna,  whose letters  and  visits  had  virtually  dried  up  now.

Manoli  could  not  really  understand  his  future  father-­‐in-­‐law's  attachment  to his  old  house  in  the  village,  but  he  was  not  going  to  pursue  the  point.  At  that moment  the  sound  of  tyres  could  be  heard  on  the  stony  track  outside,  and  then  car doors  slamming  shut.  Alexandras  and  Eleftheria  were  at  the  door  and  Manoli ushered  them  in.  Warm  handshakes  were  exchanged.  Although  the  Vandoulakis  and Petrakis  paths  had  not  crossed  for  several  months,  they  were  pleased  to  see  each other.  Alexandras,  as  head  of  the  family,  had  a  duty  to  speak.

The  words  came  from  his  heart  and  Maria  flushed  with  embarrassment  and pleasure.  Alexandras  and  Eleftheria  were  as  aware  as  they  had  been  with  Anna  that there  was  no  dowry  attached  to  this  bride,  no  more  than  a  trousseau  of  embroidery and  lace  to  soften  the  harsh  lines  of  their  nephew's  Spartan  home.  They  would  not dwell  on  this,  however,  since  there  was  more  to  be  gained  than  lost  from  having Manoli  settled  down  and  attached  to  a  local  girl.  The  match  would  fulfil  their promise  to  Manoli's  father  to  ensure  his  son's  well-­‐being.  When  the  boy  had disappeared  to  Europe,  Alexandras  had  felt  a  terrible  sense  of  failure.  Everything  he had  promised  Yiannis  had  been  unfulfilled.  Most  of  the  time  during  that  period  of his  absence  Alexandras  had  not  even  known  if  his  nephew  was  dead  or  alive,  and rarely  which  country  he  was  in,  but  once  Manoli  was  married  to  Maria  he  would  be anchored  to  Elounda,  and  would  always  be  there  to  support  Andreas  in  the management  of  the  great  Vandoulakis  estate.

The  five  of  them  drank  to  each  other's  health.

There  was  soon  talk  of  when  the  wedding  might  take  place.

Naturally  Manoli  was  joking,  but  he  continued  to  tease.

Part  of  him  meant  it.  He  was  now  as  impatient  as  a  tiger,  eager  for  his  prey. His  mind  raced  forwards.  Maria,  beautiful,  pale  and  firm,  her  hair  strewn  across  a pillow,  a  shaft  of  moonlight  cutting  across  the  bed  to  illuminate  a  perfect  body. Waiting  for  him.  Six  whole  months.  My  God,  how  could  he  possibly  wait  that  long?

Manoli  shot  him  a  glance.  He  knew  that  his  uncle  thought  he  needed  a  firm hand,  and  he,  though  he  had  great  affection  for  Alexandras,  loved  to  play  up  to  his anxieties  about  him.

As  soon  as  she  could,  Maria  rushed  to  tell  Fotini  the  news.  "There's  just  one thing  that  worries  me,"she  said.  "My  father."

Maria  tried  not  to  feel  uneasy,  but  her  concern  for  Giorgis  always  seemed  to stand  between  her  and  a  sense  of  absolute  joy.

Chapter  Fourteen

THE  ENGAGEMENT  BETWEEN  Manoli  and  Maria  was  cemented  with  a  party  to which  the  whole  of  Plaka  was  invited.  It  took  place  just  a  month  after  Manpli's proposal.  Both  of  them  felt  as  if  they  had  been  blessed  by  good  fortune.  So  many  of Maria's  childhood  friends  had  been  married  off  by  their  fathers  to  men  they  did  not love  and  with  whom  they  were  expected  to  develop  some  kind  of  affection  as though  they  were  cultivating  geraniums  in  an  urn.  Matches  were  mostly  made  these days  for  the  sake  of  convenience,  so  Maria  was  surprised  and  thankful  to  find  herself marrying  for  love.  She  felt  a  certain  gratitude  to  her  sister  for  this,  but  the  right moment  and  the  right  opportunity  to  express  this  never  presented  itself,  since  they rarely  saw  each  other.  To  everyone's  amazement  and  concern,  she  did  not  even appear  at  the  engagement  party.  She  sent  her  excuses  with  Andreas,  who  came  to join  in  the  celebrations  with  his  parents.

Manoli  loved  the  idea  of  marriage.  He  felt  his  life  as  a  wandering  libertine  was well  and  truly  over  and  now  relished  the  prospect  of  being  looked  after  and  even, perhaps,  of  having  children.  In  contrast  to  Maria,  who  thanked  the  God  she  spoke  to in  church  each  week,  he  attributed  his  luck  to  various  gods,  mostly  Aphrodite,  who

had  delivered  this  beautiful  girl  to  him  on  a  gilded  platter.  He  would  rather  not  have married  at  all  than  marry  where  there  was  no  love  and  no  beauty,  and  he  was relieved  to  have  found  both  in  such  equal  measure.

The  engagement  party  was  in  full  swing  and  the  village  square  teemed  with merrymakers.  Stephanos  carried  round  huge  trays  of  food  and  Maria  and  Manoli mingled  with  the  crowd.

Manoli  took  his  cousin  to  one  side.

The  wedding  sponsor,  the  koumbaros,  was  a  key  figure  in  the  marriage.  In  the ceremony  itself  his  role  was  almost  as  significant  as  the  priest's  and,  God  willing,  in due  course  he  would  become  the  godparent  of  the  first  child.

Andreas  had  expected  the  invitation.  He  would  have  been  wounded  if  they had  not  asked  him,  so  obvious  a  candidate  was  he.  Manoli  and  he  were  more  than brothers,  closer  than  twins,  and  he  was  the  perfect  choice  to  be  the  person  who would  help  bind  these  two  in  marriage,  particularly  with  the  added  dimension  of  his already  being  Maria's  brother-­‐in-­‐law.  His  expectation  of  being  asked,  however,  did not  diminish  the  pleasure.

Andreas  felt  strangely  protective  towards  Manoli.  He  remembered  well  when his  uncle  had  died  and  the  period  that  followed  when  Manoli  had  been  brought  into their  household.  Andreas,  always  a  steady  and  rather  serious  child,  and  Manoli,  a wilder,  less  disciplined  boy,  could  not  have  been  more  different.  They  had  rarely squabbled  as  children,  unlike  most  siblings,  and  there  had  never  been  any  jealousy between  them.  Five  years  into  their  lives,  they  were  each  presented  with  a  ready-­‐ made  brother  and  playmate.  Andreas  benefited  from  the  adventurous,  less responsible  influence  of  his  cousin,  and  there  was  little  doubt  that  Manoli  needed the  firm  hand  that  his  uncle  and  aunt  could  provide.  Andreas,  six  months  the  older, naturally  assumed  the  protective  role,  though  Manoli  had  been  the  one  to  lead  his older  cousin  astray,  and  to  invite  him  to  be  bolder  and  more  daring  in  their escapades  around  the  estate  as  they  grew  into  the  years  of  early  adolescence.

Maria  received  the  first  of  many  gifts  for  her  trousseau,  and  the  merrymaking continued  into  the  small  hours,  after  which  the  village  became  the  quietest  place  on Crete.  Even  the  dogs  would  be  too  tired  to  bark  until  the  sun  was  well  over  the horizon.

When  Andreas  arrived  home  everyone  was  asleep.  Alexandras  and  Eleftheria had  returned  before  him  and  the  house  was  eerily  silent  and  dark.  He  crept  into  the bedroom  and  heard  Anna  stir.

The  truth  was  that  Anna  had  not  had  a  wink  of  sleep  that  night.  She  had tossed  and  turned,  crazed  with  anger  at  the  thought  of  the  merrymaking  down  in Plaka.  She  could  picture  her  sister's  beaming  smile  and  Manoli's  dark  eyes  fixed  on

her,  his  hands  around  her  waist  perhaps  as  they  lapped  up  the  compliments  from  all the  well-­‐wishers.

When  Andreas  switched  on  the  bedside  light  she  rolled  over.

The  issuing  of  such  an  invitation  had  been  inevitable  but  Anna  had  still  not really  braced  herself  for  the  blow.  Andreas's  role  in  the  lives  of  Manoli  and  Maria would  now  be  a  significant  one  and  would  bind  them  all  together,  condemning  her to  an  eternity  of  having  her  nose  rubbed  in  her  sister's  happiness.  In  the  shadows, her  eyes  pricked  as  she  rolled  over  to  bury  her  face  in  the  pillow.

The  crisp-­‐aired  March  days  passed  quickly,  spring  arrived  with  an  explosion  of buds  and  blossom,  and  by  summertime  plans  for  the  wedding  were  well  under  way. The  date  was  set  for  October  and  the  marriage  would  be  toasted  with  the  first  wines from  the  season's  crops.  Maria  and  Manoli  continued  their  weekly  outings,  still  in the  company  of  Fotini  and  Stephanos.  A  girl's  virginity  was  an  unspoken  prerequisite of  the  marriage  contract  and  the  powers  of  temptation  were  well  recognised;  it  was in  everyone's  interest  that  a  girl  should  not  be  alone  with  her  fiancé  until  the wedding  night.

One  May  evening  when  the  four  of  them  were  sitting  over  a  drink  in  Agios Nikolaos,  Maria  noticed  that  Fotini  looked  slightly  flushed.  She  could  tell  that  her friend  had  something  she  wanted  to  say.

They  all  toasted  the  good  news.  To  both  girls  it  seemed  only  moments  since they  had  been  making  castles  in  the  sand  and,  now,  here  they  were  discussing marriage  and  maternity.

Later  that  summer,  concerned  by  the  length  of  time  that  had  elapsed  since she  had  seen  Anna,  and  rather  bemused  by  her  sister's  complete  lack  of  interest  in her  forthcoming  nuptials,  Maria  decided  that  they  should  call  on  her.  It  had  been one  of  August's  hottest  days,  when  even  night-­‐time  brought  little  relief  from  the soaring  temperatures,  and  rather  than  their  customary  outing  to  Agios  Nikolaos  with Fotini  and  Stephanos,  Manoli  and  Maria  would  instead  go  alone  to  see  Anna.  It  was

a  bold  move.  No  invitation  had  been  issued  and  no  word  received  that  the  rather grand  and  elusive  Anna  wanted  to  see  them.  The  message  was  clear  to  Maria.  Why else  would  her  sister  be  behaving  in  this  way  unless  she  was  trying-­‐to  express disapproval?  Maria  wanted  to  get  to  the  bottom  of  it.  Several  letters  she  had written—one  describing  the  engagement  party  that  Anna  had  missed,  supposedly because  of  illness,  and  another  telling  her  about  the  beautiful  lingerie  she  had  been given  for  her  trousseau—had  gone  unanswered.  Anna  had  a  telephone  but  Maria and  Giorgis  did  not,  and  communication  between  them  had  ground  to  a  halt.

As  Manoli  drove  up  the  familiar  road  just  beyond  Elounda  that  led  to  the imposing  Vandoulakis  home,  taking  the  bends  as  would  any  young  man  who  had negotiated  them  a  thousand  times,  Maria  was  nervous.  Courage,  she  told  herself. She's  only  your  sister.  She  could  not  understand  why  she  felt  in  such  a  needless state  of  anxiety  about  calling  on  someone  who  was  such  close  flesh  and  blood.

When  they  drew  up,  Maria  was  the  first  to  get  out  of  the  car.  Manoli  seemed slow,  fiddling  to  get  his  key  out  of  the  ignition,  and  then  combing  his  hair  in  the  rear-­‐ view  mirror.  Maria  stood  waiting  for  him,  impatient  for  this  encounter.  Her  fiancé twisted  the  great  round  door  handle—this  was,  after  all,  a  sort  of  home  from  home for  him—but  it  failed  to  budge,  so  he  seized  the  knocker  and  banged  hard  three times.  Eventually  the  door  was  opened.  Not  by  Anna,  but  by  Eleftheria.

She  was  surprised  to  see  Manoli  and  Maria.  It  was  rare  that  anyone  should call  unannounced,  but  everyone  knew  that  Manoli  was  not  the  type  to  bother  about etiquette,  and  she  embraced  him  warmly.

From  her  bedroom  window,  Anna  had  seen  the  familiar  car  draw  up.  What should  she  do?  She  had  managed  to  avoid  such  a  confrontation  for  as  long  as  she possibly  could,  believing  that  if  only  she  could  keep  away  from  Manoli  her  feelings for  him  might  gradually  fade.  Each  day  of  the  week,  however,  she  saw  him.  She  saw his  reflection  in  her  husband  when  he  came  in  from  the  estate,  and  on  the  nights when  Andreas  made  love  to  her,  Manoli  was  easily  conjured  through  half-­‐closed eyes.  The  intensity  of  her  passion  for  this  vivacious  version  of  her  husband  was  as strong  as  it  had  been  the  day  he  had  tucked  a  flower  between  her  breasts,  and  the merest  thought  of  him  was  enough  to  arouse  her.  She  longed  to  see  that  sparkling smile  which  ignited  her  passion  and  sent  shudders  down  her  spine,  but  any  such meeting  would  now  be  with  Maria,  and  that  would  mean  a  reminder  that  Manoli could  never  be  hers.

She  had  pretended  to  be  in  control.  Until  this  evening.  Now  she  was  cornered.

The  two  people  she  loved  and  loathed  most  in  the  world  were  downstairs  waiting for  her.

Eleftheria  tapped  gently  on  her  door.

Without  ever  having  been  taken  into  her  confidence,  Eleftheria  had harboured  her  suspicions  about  Anna's  feelings  for  Manoli.  She  had  been  the  only person  who  had  known  quite  how  often  he  had  called  on  her,  and  the  only  person who  had  known  full  well  that  Anna  was  not  ill  on  the  day  of  her  sister's  engagement party.  Even  now  she  could  feel  her  daughter-­‐in-­‐law's  reluctance  to  leave  her bedroom.  It  could  not  possibly  take  that  long  to  walk  across  the  room.  It  was'  all beginning  to  make  sense.  She  stood  patiently  for  a  few  moments  before  knocking again,  this  time  with  more  insistence.  "Anna?  Are  you  coming?"

From  behind  the  closed  door,  Anna  delivered  a  sharp  retort.  "Yes  I  am coming.  I'll  be  down  when  I'm  ready."

A  few  moments  later,  her  vermilion  lipstick  freshly  applied  and  her  glossy  hair shining  like  glass,  Anna  threw  open  her  bedroom  door  and  went  downstairs.  She took  a  deep  breath  and  pushed  open  the  door  to  the  reception  room.  Looking  every inch  the  grande  dame  of  the  house,  even  though  Eleftheria  was  its  real  mistress,  she swept  across  the  room  to  greet  her  sister  and  pecked  her  politely  on  the  cheek. Then  she  turned  to  Manoli,  holding  out  a  pale,  limp  hand  to  shake  his.

Anna  had  always  been  able  to  act.  And  in  so  many  ways  it  was  nice  to  see  this man,  this  obsession  of  hers,  in  the  flesh;  but  it  was  also  much  more  than  that.  She had  thought  of  him  each  and  every  day  for  months  and  now  here  he  was  standing  in front  of  her,  even  more  rugged,  more  desirable  than  she  had  remembered.  What seemed  many  minutes  later  to  Anna  but  was  only  a  second  or  two,  she  found  she was  still  holding  his  hand.  Hers  was  damp  with  sweat.  She  pulled  away.

Eleftheria  bustled  in  now  with  a  tray  of  glasses  and  a  row  of  little  plates  piled with  olives,  cubes  of  feta  cheese,  almonds  and  warm  spinach  pies.  It  was  a  miracle that  she  had  produced  such  an  array  of  meze  in  a  matter  of  moments,  but nevertheless  she  apologised  for  not  being  able  to  honour  them  with  a  more elaborate  feast.  She  continued  to  bustle  about  as  she  removed  an  elaborate decanter  of  ouzo  from  the  sideboard  and  poured  everyone  a  drink.

They  all  took  a  seat.  Anna  perched  on  the  edge  of  hers;  Manoli  sat  back, comfortable,  totally  at  ease.  The  room  was  filled  with  a  warm  orange  light  cast through  the  lace  curtains  by  the  setting  sun  and  though  conversation  was  stilted, Anna  kept  some  sort  of  dialogue  going.  She  knew  it  was  her  role  in  this  situation.

It  was  hard  to  tell  whether  Anna  really  cared,  but  it  had  certainly  never occurred  to  Maria  that  she  did  not.

She  had  always  made  plenty  of  excuses  for  her  sister's  apparent  lack  of concern:  her  distance  from  Plaka,  her  new  role  as  a  wife,  and  other  duties  that Maria  presumed  she  must  have  on  an  estate  such  as  this.  She  knew  now  that  similar changes  were  going  to  affect  her.  It  would  be  a  great  help  if  Anna  would  begin  to play  more  of  a  role  with  their  father,  and  at  least  try  to  see  him  more  often.  She  was about  to  broach  the  subject  when  there  were  voices  in  the  hallway.

Alexandras  and  Andreas  had  returned  from  an  inspection  of  their  land  up  on the  Lasithi  plateau,  and  though  the  cousins  saw  each  other  regularly  to  discuss  the affairs  of  the  estate,  they  embraced  now  like  long-­‐lost  friends.  More  drinks  were poured  and  the  two  men  of  the  house  sat  down.

Maria  detected  a  tension  but  could  not  put  her  finger  on  the  cause.  Anna seemed  perfectly  happy  making  conversation,  but  she  could  not  help  noticing  that most  of  her  comments  were  directed  at  Manoli  rather  than  her.  Perhaps  it  was  just the  positions  in  which  they  were  seated.  Manoli  was  opposite  Anna,  while  Andreas and  Maria  sat  to  one  side  on  a  long  upholstered  bench  with  Eleftheria  between them.

Manoli  had  forgotten  the  strength  of  his  attraction  to  Anna.  There  was something  so  gloriously  coquettish  about  her,  and  he  recalled  those  lunchtime  trysts with  something  approaching  nostalgia.  Even  though  he  was  now  an  officially engaged  man,  the  old  rogue  in  Manoli  still  lurked  close  to  the  surface.

Eleftheria  could  see  a  difference  in  Anna.  So  often  she  could  be  sulky  and monosyllabic,  but  tonight  she  was  animated,  her  cheeks  flushed,  and  even  in  this half-­‐light  she  could  see  that  there  was  a  breadth  to  her  smile.  Her  appreciation  of everything  that  Manoli  said  was  almost  fawning.

As  usual,  Manoli  dominated  the  conversation.  Anna  tried  not  to  be  infuriated when  he  kept  referring  to  Maria  as  his  'beautiful  fiancée',  concluding  that  he  was doing  it  deliberately  to  annoy  her.  He  was  still  teasing  her,  she  thought,  still  playing with  her  as  he  had  done  all  those  months  ago,  and  making  it  obvious  that  he  had  not forgotten  their  flirtation.  The  way  he  was  looking  at  her  now,  leaning  forward  to speak  to  her  as  though  there  was  no  one  else  in  the  room,  made  that  quite  plain.  If only  there  was  no  one  else  in  the  room.

This  hour  she  had  spent  in  the  company  of  Manoli  was  both  heaven  and  hell.

It  was  mostly  wedding  talk.  When  the  service  was  going  to  be,  who  was  to  be invited,  and  Andreas's  role  as  koutnbaros.  It  was  almost  dark  by  the  time  Maria  and Manoli  rose  to  go.  Their  eyes  had  adjusted  to  the  gloaming,  and  only  now  did Eleftheria  put  on  one  of  the  dim  table  lamps  so  that  they  could  make  their  way  from the  room  without  tripping  on  rugs  or  bumping  into  side'tables.

It  was  a  casual,  throwaway  question,  but  somehow  full  of  malice.  Anna  knew perfectly  well  that  a  Wednesday  in  September  was  the  same  for  Maria  as  a Wednesday  in  April,  June  or  August,  or,  for  that  matter,  a  Monday  or  a  Tuesday.  She was  engaged  in  the  same  pattern  of  domestic  activities  for  six  days  every  week  and, apart  from  Sundays,  it  didn't  matter  in  the  slightest  when  Anna  came.  Also,  Maria had  expected  Anna  to  suggest  something  a  little  sooner.  She  was  impeccable  in  her reply,  however.

Damn  her  for  mentioning  the  island!  thought  Anna.  She  felt  they  had  all  done well  over  the  past  five  years  to  make  sure  that  the  full  extent  of  their  connection with  the  leper  colony  had  not  reached  the  ears  of  the  Vandoulakis  family.  She  knew too  that  it  was  now  as  much  in  Maria's  interest  to  keep  their  past  quiet  as  it  was  in hers.  Why  couldn't  they  all  just  forget  about  it?  Everyone  knew  that  Giorgis  made his  deliveries  to  Spinalonga  and  ferried  the  island's  doctor.  Wasn't  that  shameful enough,  without  it  being  constantly  referred  to?

There  were  final  embraces  and  Manoli  and  Maria  eventually  drove  away.  Even if  Anna  had  seemed  edgy  at  times,  Maria  felt  that  perhaps  the  ice  had  begun  to thaw.  She  always  tried  not  to  judge  her  sister,  and  to  contain  her  criticisms,  but  she was  not  a  saint.

Such  knowledge  of  Anna  puzzled  Maria.  He  spoke  of  her  sister  as  someone  he understood.  Anna  was  not  a  complex  person,  but  even  so  it  surprised  her  that Manoli  could  make  such  an  accurate  observation.

Maria  was  now  counting  the  days  until  her  marriage.  There  were  only  four weeks  to  go.  She  wished  they  would  pass  more  quickly,  but  the  fact  that  she  would be  leaving  her  father  still  weighed  heavily  on  her  mind  and  she  resolved  to  do everything  she  possibly  could  to  ease  the  transition.  The  most  practical  step  she could  take  would  be  to  tidy  up  the  house  for  when  Giorgis  would  be  there  alone. She  had  put  this  task  off  during  the  summer  months  when  the  air  both  outside  and inside  shimmered  in  the  soaring  temperatures.  It  was  much  cooler  now,  the  perfect day  to  do  such  a  job.

It  was  also  the  day  that  Anna  had  promised  to  visit.  There  were  still  some  of

her  possessions  in  the  house  and  she  might  want  to  take  them  when  she  went  home again.  Some  were  her  childhood  toys.  Perhaps  Anna  would  need  them  soon,  mused Maria.  Surely  there  would  be  a  baby  in  the  Vandoulakis  home  before  long.

A  spring-­‐clean  in  autumn-­‐time.  The  small  house  was  generally  tidy—Maria always  saw  to  that—but  there  was  an  old  dresser  stuffed  with  bowls  and  plates  that were  rarely  used  but  could  do  with  a  wash,  furniture  that  needed  a  polish, candlesticks  that  looked  tarnished  and  many  picture  frames  that  she  had  not  dusted for  months.

As  Maria  worked,  she  listened  to  the  radio,  humming  along  to  the  music  that crackled  over  the  airwaves.  It  was  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.

One  of  her  favourite  Mikis  Theodorakis  songs  was  on  the  radio.  Its  energetic bouzouki  made  an  ideal  accompaniment  to  cleaning,  so  she  turned  the  volume  up  as high  as  it  would  go.  The  music  drowned  out  the  sound  of  the  door  being  opened, and  with  her  back  turned,  Maria  did  not  see  Anna  slip  in  and  take  a  seat.

Anna  sat  there  for  some  ten  minutes  watching  Maria  work.  She  had  no intention  of  helping  her,  got  up  as  she  was  in  a  dress  of  finest  white  cotton embroidered  with  tiny  blue  flowers.  What  perverse  satisfaction  she  derived  from seeing  her  sister  toil  in  this  way,  but  how  she  could  seem  so  happy  and  carefree, singing  while  she  scrubbed  shelves,  made  no  real  sense  to  Anna.  When  she  thought of  the  man  Maria  was  about  to  marry,  however,  she  understood  perfectly.  Her  sister must  be  the  happiest  woman  in  the  world.  How  she  hated  that.  She  shifted  in  her seat,  and  Maria,  suddenly  hearing  the  scrape  of  wood  on  the  stone  floor,  started.

Maria  climbed  down  from  the  chair  and  took  off  her  apron.

Maria  busily  halved  a  few  lemons,  squeezing  them  hard  into  a  jug,  and  diluted the  juice  with  water,  vigorously  stirring  in  sugar  as  she  did  so.  They  both  drank  two glasses  before  either  of  them  spoke  again.

She  could  barely  contain  her  jealousy  of  Maria  and  this  single  sentence  carried all  her  resentment.  Even  she  no  longer  relished  her  childlessness.  The  abandoned

lemon  skins  which  lay  crushed  and  dry  on  the  table  in  front  of  her  were  no  less barren  and  bitter  than  she.

Anna  had  no  intention  of  confiding  in  Maria.  It  was  the  last  thing  she  planned to  do.  She  had  come  to  see  her  father,  not  to  have  a  tete-­‐a-­‐tete  with  her  sister.

As  Anna  turned  to  leave,  Maria  noticed  that  her  sister's  back  was  damp,  the fine  fabric  of  her  tightly  fitting  dress  transparent  with  sweat.  That  there  was something  troubling  her  was  as  crystal  clear  as  the  water  in  a  rock  pool,  but  Maria realised  that  she  was  not  going  to  find  out.  Perhaps  Anna  would  confide  in  Savina and  Maria  could  find  out  indirectly  what  the  problem  was.  For  so  many  years  her older  sister's  emotions  had  been  easy  to  read;  they  were  like  the  posters  that  went up  on  every  tree  and  building  advertising  the  time  and  date  of  a  concert.  Nothing had  been  hidden.  Now  everything  seemed  so  tightly  wrapped  up,  so  swaddled  and secret.

Maria  continued  cleaning  and  polishing  for  an  'hour  or  so  longer  until  Giorgis returned.  Perhaps  for  the  first  time,  she  did  not  feel  anguished  about  leaving  him. He  looked  strong  for  a  man  of  his  age  and  she  knew  for  sure  that  he  would  survive without  her  being  there.  Nowadays  he  did  not  seem  too  bowed  down  with  the world's  worries,  and  she  knew  the  companionship  of  his  friends  in  the  village  bar meant  that  lonely  evenings  were  thankfully  rare.

At  that  moment  Anna  walked  in.  She  embraced  her  father  warmly  and  the two  sat  down  to  chat  as  Maria  made  drinks  for  them  both.  Their  conversation skimmed  all  the  surfaces.  What  had  Anna  been  doing?  Had  she  finished  all  the  work on  her  two  houses?  How  was  Andreas?  The  questions  Maria  wanted  to  hear  her father  asking—Was  Anna  happy?  Why  did  she  so  rarely  come  to  Plaka?—went unasked.  Not  a  word  of  Maria's  forthcoming  wedding  was  mentioned,  not  the slightest  reference  was  made  to  it.  The  hour  went  quickly  and  then  Anna  rose  to  go. They  said  their  farewells  and  Giorgis  accepted  an  invitation  to  visit  the  Elounda house  for  Sunday  lunch  in  just  over  a  week's  time.

After  supper,  when  Giorgis  had  gone  to  the  kafenion,  Maria  decided  to  do  one last  task.  She  kicked  off  her  shoes  to  climb  on  to  a  rickety  chair  so  that  she  could reach  into  the  back  of  a  tall  cupboard  and,  as  she  stepped  up,  she  noticed  a  strange mark  on  her  foot.  Her  heart  missed  a  beat.  In  some  lights  it  might  scarcely  have been  visible.  It  was  like  a  shadow  but  in  reverse,  a  patch  of  dry  skin  that  was  slightly paler  than  the  rest.  It  almost  looked  as  though  she  had  burned  her  foot  in  the  sun

and  the  skin  had  peeled  off  to  leave  the  lighter  pigment  underneath.  Perhaps  it  was nothing  at  all  to  worry  about,  but  she  felt  sick  with  anxiety.  Maria  usually  bathed  at night,  and  in  the  dim  light  such  a  thing  could  have  gone  unnoticed  for  months.  She would  confide  in  Fotini  later,  but  she  did  not  plan  to  worry  her  father  about  it  yet. They  all  had  quite  enough  to  think  about  at  the  moment.

That  night  was  the  most  troubled  Maria  had  ever  endured.  She  lay  awake almost  until  dawn.  She  could  not  know  for  certain  and  yet  she  entertained  little doubt  about  this  patch.  The  hours  of  darkness  passed  with  aching  slowness  as  she tossed  and  turned  and  fretted  with  fear.  When  she  finally  fell  into  a  brief  and  fitful sleep,  she  dreamt  of  her  mother  and  of  huge  stormy  seas  which  wrecked  Spinalonga as  though  it  was  a  great  ship.  It  was  a  relief  when  day  broke.  She  would  go  and  see Fotini  early.  Her  friend  was  always  up  by  six  o'clock,  tidying  away  dishes  from  the night  before  and  preparing  food  for  the  following  one.  It  seemed  she  worked  harder than  anyone  in  the  village,  which  was  especially  tough  on  her  given  that  she  was now  in  the  third  trimester  of  her  pregnancy.

She  stopped  working  and  they  sat  down  together  at  the  big  table  in  the kitchen.

Maria  looked  up  at  Fotini,  the  shadows  under  her  eyes  as  dark  as  her untouched  coffee.  Her  eyes  welled  with  tears.

Fotini  leaned  over.  She  now  understood  why  her  friend  had  looked  so  anxious this  morning.  From  the  leaflets  regularly  distributed  in  Plaka,  everyone  round  here was  familiar  with  the  first  visible  symptoms  of  leprosy,  and  this  looked  very  like  one of  them.

Fotini  was  calm.

Father  would  know."

Maria  returned  home.  It  was  only  eight  o'clock  but  Giorgis  was  already  out, and  she  knew  she  would  have  to  wait  until  the  evening  to  speak  to  him.  She  would distract  herself  by  continuing  with  the  work  she  had  begun  the  day  before,  and  she threw  herself  into  it  with  renewed  vigour  and  energy,  polishing  furniture  until  it gleamed  and  picking  the  dust  with  her  fingernail  from  the  darkest  corners  of  every cupboard  and  drawer.

At  around  eleven  o'clock  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  It  was  Anna.  Maria had  already  been  awake  for  seven  hours.  She  was  exhausted.

She  crossed  the  room  and  there,  sure  enough,  concealed  beneath  a  cushion, was  a  small  bag  in  the  same  fabric  as  the  dress  she  had  been  wearing  the  day before.

Maria  needed  a  rest.

Anna  stood  looking  at  her,  transfixed.  Maria  shifted  uncomfortably  and climbed  down  from  the  stool.  Her  sister's  eyes  followed  her  but  they  were  trained on  her  bare  feet.  She  had  noticed  the  sinister  mark  and  it  was  too  late  for  Maria  to conceal  it.

Maria  was  not  going  to  fight  with  her  sister,  who  now  bent  down  to  have  a closer  look  at  her  foot.

may  be  nothing."

Anna's  tone  was  distinctly  bullying,  and  the  thought  even  crossed  Maria's mind  that  she  was  relishing  the  thought  of  her  sister  being  leprous.

With  that,  she  was  gone.  The  door  banged  shut  behind  her.  Apart  from Maria's  pounding  heart,  a  faint  whiff  of  French  perfume  was  the  only  evidence  that Anna  had  ever  been  there.

That  night,  Maria  showed  Giorgis  her  foot.

He  said  little  more  than  that,  but  his  stomach  churned  with  fear.

Chapter  Fifteen

WITHIN  A  WEEK  of  writing,  Giorgis  had  received  a  reply  from  Doctor  Kyritsis.

Dear  Kyrie  Petrakis,

Thank  you  so  much  for  writing  to  me.  I  am  sorry  to  hear  of  your  concern  about your  daughter  and  would  be  very  pleased  to  see  you  both  for  an  appointment.  I  shall expect  you  on  Monday  17th  September  at  midday  .

I  would  also  like  to  express  my  sorrow  that  your  lovely  wife  Eleni  passed  away. I  know  it  was  some  years  ago,  but  I  only  recently  heard  the  sad  news  from  Dr Lapakis,  with  whom  I  am  once  again  in  contact.

With  kind  regards.

Yours  sincerely,

Nikolaos  Kyritsis

The  appointment  was  only  a  few  days  away,  which  was  a  relief  to  both  father and  daughter  as  they  were  both,  by  now,  thinking  of  little  else  other  than  the  mark on  Maria's  foot.

After  breakfast  on  that  Monday  morning,  they  set  off  on  the  three-­‐hour  trip to  Iraklion.  No  one  thought  it  strange  that  the  two  of  them  should  be  going  on  such a  long  journey  together  and  assumed  it  was  on  some  kind  of  business  connected  to the  forthcoming  wedding.  Brides-­‐to-­‐be  had  to  buy  gowns  and  all  sorts  of  other finery,  and  what  smarter  place  to  go  than  Iraklion?  chattered  the  women  on  their doorsteps  that  evening.

It  was  a  long  and  often  windswept  journey  along  the  coast,  and  as  they approached  the  city,  and  the  mighty  Venetian  harbour  came  into  view,  Maria wished  more  than  anything  that  they  had  no  cause  to  be  here.  In  her  entire  life  she had  not  seen  such  dust  and  chaos,  and  the  noise  of  trucks  and  construction  work

deafened  her.  Giorgis  had  not  visited  the  city  since  the  war,  and  apart  from  the hefty  city  walls,  which  had  stubbornly  withstood  German  bombardment,  most  of  it had  changed  beyond  recognition.  They  drove  around  in  a  state  of  confusion, catching  glimpses  of  spacious  squares  with  fountains  playing  in  their  centre,  only  to pass  the  same  point  some  time  later  and  realise  to  their  irritation  that  they  had been  going  round  in  circles.  Eventually  they  spotted  the  newly  built  hospital  and Giorgis  pulled  up  outside.

It  was  ten  minutes  before  midday,  and  by  the  time  they  had  negotiated  the labyrinthine  corridors  of  the  hospital  and  found  Dr  Kyritsis's  department,  they  were late  for  their  appointment.  Giorgis,  particularly,  was  flustered.

A  nurse  was  there  to  greet  them  and  took  some  details  as  they  sat  in  the stifling  corridor.  Dr  Kyritsis  would  be  with  them  shortly.  The  two  of  them  sat  in silence,  breathing  in  the  unfamiliar  antiseptic  smells  that  characterised  the  hospital. They  had  little  conversation  to  make  but  there  was  plenty  to  watch  as  nurses busded  about  in  the  corridor  and  the  occasional  patient  was  wheeled  by.  Eventually the  nurse  came  to  escort  them  into  the  office.

If  the  war  had  transformed  the  face  of  Iraklion,  it  had  left  an  even  greater mark  on  Dr  Kyritsis.  Though  his  slim  figure  was  unchanged,  the  thick  black  hair  had turned  silver-­‐grey  and  the  previously  unlined  face  now  bore  clear  signs  of  age  and overwork.  He  looked  every  one  of  his  forty-­‐two  years.

Maria  began,  nervously  at  first,  to  describe  her  symptoms.

Maria  looked  across  at  her  father.  Since  the  discovery  of  the  first  mark,  she had  found  several  others.  No  one  ever  saw  her  undressed,  and  she  had  had  huge difficulty  craning  her  neck  to  examine  her  own  back  in  a  small  bedroom  mirror,  but even  in  the  dim  light  she  had  made  out  several  other  blemishes.  The  patch  on  her foot  was  no  longer  the  only  one.

some  skin  smears."

Dr  Kyritsis  got  up  and  Maria  followed  him  into  his  surgery,  leaving  Giorgis alone  in  the  office  to  contemplate  the  anatomical  drawings  that  lined  the  walls.  First of  all  Kyritsis  examined  the  lesion  on  her  foot  and  afterwards  those  on  her  back.  He then  tested  them  for  sensitivity,  first  using  a  feather  and  then  a  pin.  There  was  no doubt  in  his  mind  that  there  was  some  impairment  to  nerve  endings,  but  whether  it was  leprosy  he  was  not  one  hundred  per  cent  certain.  He  made  detailed  notes  and then  sketched  on  an  outline  of  the  body  where  the  patches  had  been  found.

Maria  sat  in  silence  as  Kyritsis  and  a  nurse  prepared  slides  and  gathered  the required  instruments.  Only  a  month  ago  she  had  been  showing  off  the  latest  items from  her  trousseau  to  her  friends,  some  silk  stockings  which  floated  across  their hands,  lighter  than  air,  as  transparent  as  dragonfly  wings.  She  had  tried  them  on  and they  slipped  over  her  skin,  so  gossamer  fine  it  was  as  though  her  slim  legs  were  still naked;  the  dark  seam  that  traced  the  back  of  her  leg  was  the  only  clue  to  their existence.  She  had  then  tried  on  the  shoes  she  was  to  wear  on  her  wedding  day,  and now  the  same  foot  that  had  slipped  into  that  delicate  shoe  was  to  be  cut  open.

The  scalpel  was  razor  sharp.  It  penetrated  her  skin  by  no  more  than  two millimetres  but  in  her  mind  the  incision  was  magnified.  It  felt  as  though  she  was being  sliced  apart  like  meat  as  the  doctor  gathered  enough  tissue  pulp  from  below the  surface  of  the  skin  to  put  on  the  slide  and  examine  under  a  microscope.  She winced  and  her  eyes  watered  with  pain  and  fear.  Kyritsis  then  took  a  smear  from  her back,  and  the  nurse  quickly  applied  some  antiseptic  ointment  and  cotton  wool.

Once  the  bleeding  had  stopped,  Maria  was  helped  from  the  couch  by  the nurse  and  they  returned  to  Dr  Kyritsis's  office.

In  spite  of  the  long  journey  involved,  both  father  and  daughter  knew  that  they did  not  want  to  receive  such  news  by  post.

Before  they  left  the  hospital,  another  appointment  was  made.  Dr  Kyritsis would  expect  them  at  the  same  time  the  following  week.  His  professionalism  was absolute  and  he  had  given  no  hint  of  what  he  expected  the  result  to  be.  He  certainly did  'not  want  to  worry  them  unnecessarily,  nor  did  he  wish  to  give  them  false  hope, and  his  manner  was  therefore  neutral,  almost  indifferent.

It  was  the  longest  week  of  Maria's  life.  Only  Fotini  knew  that  her  friend  was

living  on  the  edge  of  a  precipice.  She  tried  to  occupy  herself  with  as  many  practical tasks  as  possible,  but  nothing  was  enough  to  distract  her  from  what  might  happen the  following  Monday.

The  Friday  before  they  were  due  to  return  to  Iraklion,  Anna  called  on  her.  She was  eager  to  know:  had  Maria  been  to  have  tests?  What  were  the  results?  Why  did she  not  know?  When  were  they  going  to  hear?  There  was  no  implied  sympathy  or concern  in  her  questions.  Maria  answered  her  sister  in  monosyllables  and  eventually Anna  went  on  her  way.

As  soon  as  her  sister  was  out  of  sight,  Maria  rushed  off  to  see  Fotini.  She  had been  disturbed  by  the  almost  vindictive  note  of  enthusiasm  she  had  detected  in Anna's  reaction  to  the  situation.

For  a  few  days  Maria  had  hidden  herself  away.  She  had  sent  a  message  to Manoli  that  she  was  unwell  and  would  not  be  able  to  see  him  until  the  following week.  Fortunately,  he  did  not  question  it,  and  when  he  saw  Giorgis  at  the  bar  in Plaka,  his  future  father-­‐in-­‐law  supported  her  story  and  assured  Manoli  that  his daughter  would  be  better  before  long.  Not  being  able  to  see  Manoli  made  Maria miserable.  She  missed  his  gaiety  and  felt  leaden  with  misery  at  the  prospect  that their  wedding  might  now  be  in  jeopardy.

Monday  arrived,  eventually.  Maria  and  Giorgis  repeated  the  journey  to Iraklion,  but  this  time  found  the  hospital  more  easily  and  were  soon  sitting  outside Kyritsis's  office  once  again.

It  was  his  turn  to  be  late.  The  nurse  came  out  to  see  them  and  apologised  for the  delay.  Dr  Kyritsis  had  been  detained  but  would  be  with  them  within  half  an  hour, she  said.  Maria  was  nearly  beside  herself.  So  far  she  had  managed  to  contain  her anxiety,  but  the  thirty  minutes  she  now  had  to  wait  took  her  beyond  the  limits  of endurance,  and  she  paced  up  and  down  the  corridor  to  try  and  calm  herself.

Eventually  the  doctor  arrived,  profusely  apologetic  that  he  had  made  them wait,  and  ushered  them  straight  into  his  office.  His  entire  demeanour  seemed  so different  from  the  last  visit.  Maria's  file  was  on  his  desk  and  he  opened  it  and  shut  it again,  as  though  there  was  something  he  needed  to  check.  There  was  not,  of  course. He  knew  exactly  what  he  had  to  say  and  there  was  no  reason  to  keep  these  people waiting  any  longer.  He  came  straight  to  the  point.

He  was  not  sure  for  whom  the  news  was  more  devastating,  the  daughter  or the  father.  The  girl  was  the  spitting  image  of  her  late  mother,  and  he  was  keenly aware  of  this  cruel  repetition  of  history.  He  hated  these  moments.  Of  course  there were  emollient  phrases  that  he  could  use  to  soften  the  blow,  such  as:  'It's  not  too advanced  so  we  may  be  able  to  help  you',  or  'I  think  we've  caught  it  early'.  The

announcement  of  bad  news,  however  it  was  delivered,  was  still  just  that:  bad  news, catastrophic  and  cruel.

The  pair  sat  in  silence,  their  worst  fears  realised.  In  their  minds  they  both pictured  Spinalonga,  knowing  for  certain  now  that  this  was  to  be  Maria's  final destination,  her  destiny.

Although  she  had  initially  made  herself  ill  with  worry,  over  the  past  few  days Maria  had  tried  to  persuade  herself  that  all  would  be  well.  To  imagine  the  worst would  have  been  unbearable.

Kyritsis  knew  that  he  must  fill  the  gaping  silence  that  had  opened  up  in  the room,  and  while  the  terrible  news  sank  in,  he  gave  them  some  reassurance.

Maria  stared  at  the  floor.  She  could  hear  the  doctor  speaking  but  he  sounded as  though  he  was  a  very  long  distance  away.  It  was  only  when  she  heard  her  name that  she  looked  up.

What  is  he  saying?  thought  Maria.  That  I  am  effectively  condemned  to  death but  that  it  will  take  me  a  long  time  to  die?

For  the  first  time  since  she  had  entered  the  room,  Maria  looked  directly  at Kyritsis.  She  could  see  from  his  steady  gaze  that  he  was  unafraid  of  the  truth,  and that  whatever  needed  to  be  told,  he  would  not  fail  to  tell  her.  For  her  father's  sake, if  not  her  own,  she  must  be  brave.  She  must  not  cry.

At  this  point  Giorgis  spoke  up.

had  to  do  and  where  she  would  be  spending  the  rest  of  her  life.  Not  with  Manoli near  Elounda,  but  alone  on  Spinalonga.  For  a  moment  she  had  an  urge  to  get  on with  it  all.  During  the  last  week  she  had  been  in  limbo,  but  now  she  knew  what  was to  happen.  It  was  all  so  certain.

Kyritsis  opened  the  door  for  them.

They  both  listened  to  his  words  of  comfort.  It  was  kind  of  him  to  be  so solicitous,  but  it  did  not  help.

Maria  and  Giorgis  emerged  from  the  hospital  into  the  bright  mid-­‐afternoon sun.  All  around  them  people  went  about  their  business,  oblivious  to  the  grief  of  the two  individuals  who  stood  there.  The  lives  of  all  those  going  to  and  fro  were  the same  now  as  they  had  been  when  they  got  up  that  morning.  This  was  just  another ordinary  day.  How  Maria  envied  them  the  trivial  tasks  of  their  routine  that  in  a  few days  would  be  lost  to  her.  In  the  space  of  an  hour,  her  life  and  her  father's  had changed  totally.  They  had  arrived  at  the  hospital  with  a  scrap  of  hope  and  had  left  it with  none  at  all.

Silence  seemed  the  easiest  place  to  hide.  For  a  while  at  least.  An  hour  or  so into  the  journey,  however,  Maria  spoke.

They  talked  about  what  needed  to  be  done  before  Maria  left.  There  was  little. With  her  wedding  imminent,  everything  was  already  prepared  for  her  departure.

When  they  arrived  back  in  Plaka,  Anna's  car  was  parked  outside  their  house. She  was  the  last  person  in  the  world  Maria  wanted  to  see.  She  would  much  rather have  sought  comfort  from  Fotini.  Anna,  however,  still  had  a  key  and  had  let  herself into  the  house.  It  was  almost  dark  by  now  and  she  had  been  sitting  in  the  twilight waiting  for  their  return.  There  was  no  mistaking  that  their  news  was  bad.  Their downcast  faces  as  they  walked  through  the  door  said  it  all,  but  Anna,  insensitive  as ever,  shattered  their  silence.

Anna  was  momentarily  confused.  Positive?  That  sounded  good,  so  why  the glum  faces?  She  was  in  a  quandary,  and  realised  that  she  hardly  knew  herself  what the  best  result  would  be.  If  her  sister  did  not  have  leprosy  she  would  marry  Manoli. For  Anna  that  would  be  an  unwelcome  outcome.  If  Maria  did  have  leprosy,  it  would immediately  affect  Anna's  status  in  the  Vandoulakis  family.  They  would  inevitably discover  that  Maria  was  not  the  first  Petrakis  to  inhabit  the  island  of  Spinalonga. Neither  was  a  desirable  outcome,  but  she  could  not  decide  which  was  the  lesser  of the  two  evils.

The  words  were  stark.  Even  Anna  now  let  the  silence  linger.  All  three  of  them standing  in  this  room  knew  exactly  what  this  meant,  and  there  was  no  need  for questions.

With  that  he  left.  His  daughters  sat  on  together  for  a  while,  though  they  had little  to  say  to  each  other.  Anna  would  see  her  parents-­‐in-­‐law  later  that  evening  and fretted  over  whether  she  should  say  anything  to  them  before  Giorgis  had  the opportunity.  Would  it  soften  the  blow  if  she  told  them  the  news  herself?

Although  it  was  now  late,  Giorgis  knew  Manoli  would  be  at  the  bar  in  the village.  He  strode  in  and  spoke  directly;  bluntly  even.

They  withdrew  to  a  table  in  the  corner  of  the  bar,  out  of  earshot  of  everyone else.

The  word  thundered  round  the  room,  silencing  everyone  in  it.  It  was  a  word that  most  here  were  used  to,  though,  and  within  a  few  minutes  conversations around  the  room  had  resumed.

What  should  Giorgis  tell  him?  It  could  take  many  years  before  the  symptoms of  leprosy  made  themselves  evident,  and  it  was  very  possible  that  Maria  had  been infected  by  her  mother  all  that  time  ago.  He  thought  of  Anna  and  the  implications this  might  have  for  her.  The  chances  of  her  having  leprosy  as  well  were infinitesimally  small,  but  he  knew  that  the  Vandoulakis  family  might  need  some persuasion  of  that.

Manoli  moved  his  chair  away  from  Giorgis.  It  was  an  unconscious  gesture,  but one  full  of  meaning.  This  was  not  a  man  who  was  about  to  give  comfort,  nor  one who  needed  any  himself.  Giorgis  looked  at  him  and  was  surprised  by  what  he  saw.  It was  not  the  crumpled  figure  of  a  broken-­‐hearted  man  just  given  the  news  that  he could  not  marry  the  woman  of  his  dreams.  Manoli  was  shocked,  but  by  no  means

destroyed.

He  felt  very  sad  for  Maria,  but  it  was  not  the  end  of  his  world.  Though  he  had loved  her,  he  had  also  passionately  loved  a  dozen  other  women  in  his  life,  and  he was  realistic.  His  affections  would  sooner  or  later  find  another  object;  Maria  had  not been  his  one  and  only  true  love.  He  did  not  believe  in  such  an  idea.  In  his experience,  love  was  a  commodity,  and  if  you  were  born  with  it  in  ample  supply, there  was  always  plenty  left  for  the  next  woman.  Poor  Maria.  Leprosy,  as  far  as Manoli  knew,  was  the  most  terrible  fate  for  any  human  being  but,  in  heaven's  name, he  might  have  caught  the  same  disease  if  she  had  discovered  it  any  later.  God forbid.

The  two  men  talked  for  a  while  before  Giorgis,  took  his  leave.  He  had  to  be  up very  early  to  call  on  Alexandras  and  Eleftheria.  When  he  arrived  at  the  Vandoulakis house  the  following  morning  the  four  of  them  were  already  waiting  for  him.  A nervous-­‐looking  maid  led  Giorgis  in  to  the  gloomy  drawing  room  where  Alexandras, Eleftheria,  Andreas  and  Anna  all  sat  like  wax-­‐works,  cold,  silent,  staring.

Knowing  that  it  was  only  a  matter  of  time  before  the  truth  of  her  family history  came  out,  Anna  had  confessed  to  Andreas  that  her  mother  had  died  on Spinalonga.  She  calculated  that  her  honesty  might  appear  to  be  a  virtue  in  this situation.  She  was  to  be  disappointed.  Even  though  Alexandras  Vandoulakis  was  an intelligent  man,  his  views  on  leprosy  were  no  different  from  those  of  an  ignorant peasant.  In  spite  of  Anna's  protestations  that  leprosy  could  only  be  transmitted through  close  human  contact,  and  that  even  then  the  chances  of  catching  it  were small,  he  seemed  to  believe  the  age-­‐old  myth  that  the  disease  was  hereditary  and that  its  presence  in  a  family  was  a  curse.  Nothing  would  deter  him  from  this.

Eleftheria  tried  to  restrain  her  husband,  but  he  was  determined  to  continue.

There  was  not  one  word  of  concern  for  Maria,  not  a  moment's  thought  for her  plight.  The  Vandoulakis  family  had  closed  ranks,  and  even  the  kindly  Eleftheria sat  silently  now,  afraid  that  her  husband  would  turn  his  wrath  on  her  if  she  spoke  in defence  of  the  Petrakis  family.  It  was  time  for  Giorgis  to  go,  and  he  left  his daughter's  home  for  the  last  time,  in  silence.  On  the  drive  back  to  Plaka,  his  chest heaved  with  sobs  as  he  lamented  the  final  fragmentation  of  his  family.  It  was  now as-­‐  good  as  destroyed.

Chapter  Sixteen

WHEN  GIORGIS  ARRIVED  home,  he  found  that  Fotini  was  already  there helping  Maria.  They  both  looked  up  from  their  conversation  as  he  walked  in,  and knew  without  asking  that  the  encounter  with  the  Vandoulakis  family  had  been difficult.  Giorgis  looked  even  more  pale  and  battered  than  they  had  expected.

In  its  way,  what  Giorgis  said  was  true.  It  just  missed  a  great  deal  out.  What was  the  point  of  telling  Maria  that  they  never  wanted  to  see  him  again,  that  they would  deign  to  keep  Anna  within  the  family  but  as  far  as  they  were  concerned  her father  was  no  longer  part  of  it?  Even  Giorgis  understood  the  importance  'of  dignity and  good  name,  and  if  Alexandras  Vandoulakis  felt  that  the  Petrakis  family  was  in danger  of  besmirching  his,  what  option  did  he  have?

Giorgis's  neutral  words  almost  matched  Maria's  state  of  mind.  There  had been  a  dreamlike  quality  to  the  past  few  days,  as  though  these  events  were  not really  happening  to  her  but  to  someone  else.  Her  father  described  to  her  Manoli's reaction  to  the  news  and  she  had  no  trouble  reading  between  the  lines:  he  was  sad, but  not  demented  with  grief.

Giorgis  left  the  two  women  to  get  on  with  their  preparations  for  Maria's departure,  though  there  was  little  to  do.  It  was  only  a  few  weeks  ago  that  she  had been  preparing  her  trousseau,  so  boxes  already  stood  in  the  corner  of  the  room packed  with  her  possessions.  She  had  been  careful  not  to  take  anything  that  Giorgis might  need  himself,  but  she  had  anticipated  that  the  place  where  Manoli  lived lacked  much  of  what  made  a  house  a  home,  and  there  were  many  items  of  a domestic  kind  carefully  stowed  into  the  boxes:  bowls,  wooden  spoons,  her  scales, scissors  and  an  iron.

What  she  had  to  decide  now  was  what  to  remove  from  the  boxes.  It  seemed unfair  to  take  the  things  that  people  had  given  her  when  she  was  going  to  a  leper colony  rather  than  her  marital  home  in  an  olive  grove,  and  what  use  on  Spinalonga were  those  presents  of  nightwear  and  lingerie  that  had  been  given  to  her  for  her trousseau?  As  she  lifted  them  out,  all  these  frivolous  luxury  items  seemed  to  belong to  another  life,  as  did  the  embroidered  cloths  and  pillowcases  that  she  had  spent  so long  working  on.  As  she  held  these  in  her  lap,  Maria's  tears  dripped  on  to  the  finely stitched  linen.  All  those  months  of  excitement  had  come  to  an  end,  and  the  cruelty of  the  turnaround  stung  her.

bravely,  as  though  she  was  getting  ready  to  go  on  a  long  and  agreeable  journey.

They  spent  the  day  going  over  what  Maria  might  need  on  the  island.  It  was  an effective  distraction  from  the  impending  catastrophe  of  her  departure.  Fotini  kept up  a  gentle  flow  of  conversation  that  lasted  until  it  was  dark.  Neither  of  them  had left  the  house  all  day,  but  now  the  moment  came  for  Fotini  to  depart.  She  would  be needed  at  the  taverna,  and  besides,  she  felt  that  Maria  and  her  father  should  be alone  that  evening.

Once  Fotini  had  gone,  Maria  was  alone  for  the  first  time  in  several  days.  She spent  the  next  few  hours  rereading  her  mother's  letters,  from  time  to  time  glancing out  of  the  window  and  catching  sight  of  Spinalonga.  The  island  was  waiting  for  her. Soon  all  her  questions  about  what  it  was  like  on  the  leper  colony  would  be answered.  Not  long  now,  not  long.  Her  reverie  was  disturbed  by  a  sharp  knock  on the  door.  She  was  not  expecting  anyone,  and  certainly  no  one  who  would  knock quite  so  forcefully.

It  was  Manoli.

He  did  not  hold  out  his  hands  or  embrace  her.  Not  that  she  would  have expected  either.  What  she  would  have  hoped  for  was  a  greater  sense  of  sorrow.  His

demeanour  confirmed  to  Maria  what  she  had  half  suspected,  that  Manoli's  great passion  would  soon  find  another  recipient.  Her  throat  tightened.  She  felt  as  though she  had  swallowed  broken  glass  and  was  no  more  able  to  speak  than  cry.  His  eyes would  not  meet  hers.  "Goodbye,  Maria,"  he  mumbled.  "Goodbye."Within  moments he  had  gone  and  once  again  the  door  was  closed.  Maria  felt  as  hollow  as  the  silence that  once  again  filled  the  house.

Giorgis  was  yet  to  return.  He  had  spent  the  last  day  of  his  daughter's  freedom engaged  in  normal  humdrum  activities,  mending  his  nets,  cleaning  his  boat  and ferrying  Dr  Lapakis.  It  was  on  his  return  journey  with  the  doctor  that  he  told  him  the news.  He  said  it  so  casually  that  Lapakis  did  not,  at  first,  take  it  in.

It  was  perfectly  usual  for  Maria  to  accompany  her  father  on  the  occasional delivery,  so  Lapakis  did  not  react  at  first,  and  the  last  few  words  were  lost  in  the wind.

Lapakis,  though  he  tried  to  conceal  it,  was  aghast.

Giorgis  nodded,  concentrating  now  on  guiding  the  boat  into  Plaka's  small harbour.  Lapakis  stepped  out  of  the  boat.  He  had  met  the  lovely  Maria  so  many times  and  was  shocked  by  the  news.  He  felt  he  had  to  say  something.

The  elderly  fisherman  sounded  preternaturally  calm,  as  normal  as  if  he  was making  arrangements  for  any  other  day.  This  was  how  people  conducted themselves  in  the  first  few  days  of  bereavement,  thought  Lapakis.  Perhaps  it  was just  as  well.

Maria  had  made  supper  for  her  father  and  herself,  and  at  about  seven  in  the evening  they  sat  down  opposite  each  other.  It  was  the  ritual  of  the  meal  that mattered  tonight,  not  the  eating,  since  neither  of  them  had  any  appetite.  This  was to  be  their  last  supper.  What  did  they  talk  about?  They  spoke  of  trivial  things,  such as  what  Maria  had  packed  in  her  boxes,  as  well  as  more  important  ones  like  when she  would  next  see  her  father  on  the  island  and  how  often  Savina  would  expect  him for  supper  at  the  Angelopoulos  house  each  week.  Anyone  eavesdropping  would have  thought  that  Maria  was  simply  moving  out  to  live  in  another  house.  At  nine  in

the  evening,  both  exhausted,  they  retired  to  bed.

By  six-­‐thirty  the  following  morning,  Giorgis  had  carried  all  of  Maria's  boxes down  to  the  quayside  and  loaded  them  on  to  his  boat.  He  returned  to  the  house  to collect  her.  Still  vivid  in  his  mind,  as  though  it  had  happened  only  yesterday,  was Eleni's  departure.  He  remembered  that  May  day  when  the  sun  had  shone  on  the crowd  of  friends  and  school  children  as  his  wife  had  waved  goodbye  to  them.  This morning  there  was  deadly  silence  in  the  village.  Maria  would  simply  disappear.

A  cold  wind  whipped  through  the  narrow  streets  of  Plaka  and  the  chill  of  the autumnal  air  encircled  Maria,  paralysing  her  body  and  mind  with  a  numbness  that almost  blocked  her  senses  but  could  do  nothing  to  alleviate  her  grief.  As  she stumbled  the  last  few  metres  to  the  jetty  she  leaned  heavily  on  her  father,  her  gait that  of  an  old  crone  for  whom  every  step  brought  a  stab  of  pain.  But  her  pain  was not  physical.  Her  body  was  as  strong  as  any  young  woman  who  had  spent  her  life breathing  the  pure  Cretan  air,  and  her  skin  was  as  youthful  and  her  eyes  as  intensely brown  and  bright  as  those  of  any  girl  on  this  island.

The  little  boat,  unstable  with  its  cargo  of  oddly  shaped  bundles  lashed together  with  string,  bobbed  and  lurched  on  the  sea.  Giorgis  lowered  himself  in slowly,  and  with  one  hand  trying  to  hold  the  craft  steady  reached  out  with  the  other to  help  his  daughter.  Once  she  was  safely  on  board  he  wrapped  her  protectively  in  a blanket  to  shield  her  from  the  elements.  The  only  visible  indication  then  that  she was  not  simply  another  piece  of  cargo  were  the  long  strands  of  dark  hair  that  flew and  danced  freely  in  the  wind.  He  carefully  released  his  vessel  from  its  mooring— there  was  nothing  more  to  be  said  or  done—and  their  journey  began.  This  was  not the  start  of  a  short  trip  to  deliver  supplies.  It  was  the  beginning  of  Maria's  one-­‐way journey  to  start  a  new  life.  Life  on  Spinalonga.

Chapter  Seventeen

AT  THE  MOMENT  when  Maria  wanted  time  to  stand  still  it  seemed  to  move faster  than  ever,  and  soon  she  would  be  dumped  in  a  cold  place  where  the  waves broke  on  the  shore.  For  once  she  had  willed  the  boat's  engine  to  stall,  but  the  gulf between  mainland  and  island  was  covered  in  moments  and  there  was  no  turning back.  She  wanted  to  cling  to  her  father,  plead  with  him  not  to  leave  her  stranded here,  alone  apart  from  two  crates  into  which  her  life  was  now  packed.  But  her  tears had  been  spent.  She  had  saturated  Fotini's  shoulder  many  times  since  her  initial discovery  of  the  mark  on  her  foot,  and  her  pillow  was  limp  from  the  tears  she  had shed  over  the  past  two  unhappy  nights.  Now  was  not  the  time  for  weeping.

For  a  few  minutes  they  stood  there  alone.  Giorgis  was  not  going  to  leave  her until  someone  came.  He  was  now  as  familiar  with  the  routine  for  new  arrivals  on  the island  as  the  islanders  themselves,  and  knew  that  in  due  course  they  would  be  met.

He  held  both  her  hands  in  his.  He  was  bold  these  days,  and  particularly  so

with  his  daughter.  To  hell  with  it  if  he  got  leprosy.  Perhaps  that  would  be  the  kindest solution  because  he  could  then  come  and  live  with  Maria.  The  real  problem  if  that happened  would  be  the  deliveries  to  Spinalonga.  They  would  be  hard  pushed  to  find anyone  else  to  make  them,  and  that  would  cause  untold  hardship  and  misery  on  the island.

He  indicated  that  she  should  follow  him  up  the  few  steps  into  the  tunnel.  Only a  few  weeks  earlier,  in  Agios  Nikolaos,  she  had  been  watching  a  Hollywood  film where  the  heroine  had  swept  up  in  a  limousine  and  was  led  along  a  red  carpet  into  a grand  hotel  while  a  porter  dealt  with  her  luggage.  Maria  tried  to  imagine  herself  in that  very  scene.

Giorgis  wanted  to  put  the  moment  of  parting  behind  him.

One  or  other  of  them  had  to  turn  away  first,  and  Giorgis  waited  for  his daughter  to  make  that  move.  He  had  always  regretted  his  hasty  departure  when Eleni  arrived  on  the  island  fourteen  years  ago.  So  great  had  been  his  grief  that  he had  set  off  in  his  boat  before  they  had  even  said  goodbye,  but  today  he  must  have more  courage,  for  his  daughter's  sake.  Giorgis  knew  so  much  about  the  island  now, whereas  all  those  years  ago  his  visits  there  had  been  just  a  job,  a  functional  trip  once or  twice  a  week  to  drop  boxes  off  on  the  quayside  and  then  make  a  hasty  retreat.  In the  intervening  years  his  view  of  it  all  had  been  given  a  human  dimension,  and  he had  followed  developments  on  the  island  as  no  other  man  outside  it  ever  had.

Nikos  Papadimitriou  had  been  island  leader  ever  since  the  election  in  1940 when  Petros  Kontomaris  had  finally  stood  down,  and  he  had  now  held  the  position for  even  longer  than  his  predecessor.  He  had  achieved  great  things  on  Spinalonga and  the  island  had  gone  from  strength  to  strength,  so  few  were  surprised  when  he was  re-­‐elected  by  an  almost  unanimous  vote  each  spring.  Maria  recalled  the  day  her

father  had  transported  the  Athenians  to  Spinalonga.  It  had  been  one  of  the  most dramatic  episodes  of  that  era,  in  a  life  rarely  punctuated  by  much  excitement.  Her mother  had  written  a  great  deal  about  the  handsome,  dark-­‐haired  island  leader  and all  he  did  to  change  the  island.  Now  his  hair  was  grey,  but  he  still  had  the  same curled  moustache  that  Eleni  had  described.

Maria  followed  Papadimitriou  into  the  tunnel.  He  walked  slowly,  leaning heavily  on  his  stick,  and  eventually  they  saw  the  light  at  the  other  end.  Maria's emergence  from  the  darkness  of  the  tunnel  into  her  new  world  was  as  much  of  a surprise  for  her  as  for  any  new  arrival.  In  spite  of  her  mother's  letters,  which  had been  full  of  description  and  colour,  nothing  had  prepared  her  for  what  she  now  saw. A  long  road  with  a  row  of  shops,  all  with  freshly  painted  shutters,  houses  with window  boxes  and  urns  full  of  late-­‐flowering  geraniums,  and  one  or  two  grander homes  with  carved  wooden  balconies.  Though  it  was  still  too  early  for  many  people to  be  up,  there  was  one  early  riser.  The  baker.  The  fragrance  of  freshly  baked  bread and  pastries  filled  the  street.

They  turned  left  into  a  small  side  street,  which  in  turn  led  into  a  courtyard with  houses  opening  off  it.  Papadimitriou  opened  the  door  of  one  of  these  and ducked  to  get  inside.  They  had  been  built  by  the  Turks,  and  anyone  of Papadimitriou's  stature  was  more  than  a  head  taller  than  the  original  inhabitants.

The  interior  of  the  house  was  bright  and  ordered.  There  was  a  kitchen  off  the main  room  and  stairs  that  led  up  to  another  floor.  Maria  even  caught  a  glimpse  of  a separate  bathroom  beyond  the  kitchen.

The  two  women  shook  hands.  In  spite  of  everything  that  Eleni  had  told  her  to the  contrary  in  her  many  letters,  Maria  had  still  expected  the  place  to  be  inhabited by  the  lame  and  the  deformed,  and  she  was  surprised  at  the  woman's  elegance  and beauty.  Katerina  was  younger  than  her  husband  and  Maria  surmised  that  she  must be  in  her  late  forties.  Her  hair  was  still  dark,  and  she  had  pale,  almost  unlined  skin.

The  table  was  set  with  embroidered  white  linen  and  fine  patterned  china. When  they  were  all  seated,  Katerina  lifted  a  splendid  silver  pot  and  a  steady  stream of  hot  black  coffee  filled  the  cups.

There  was  a  plate  of  fresh  pastries  on  the  table  and  Maria  devoured  one hungrily.  She  had  eaten  very  little  for  several  days.  She  was  hungry  for  information too.

replied  Katerina.  "Everyone  thought  so.  Nearly  everyone  anyway."

Katerina  paused.

Papadimitriou  stood  up.  It  was  now  after  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning  and  it was  time  for  the  island  leader  to  be  in  his  office.

Maria  tightened  her  shawl  about  her  shoulders  as  they  left  the  house.  When they  turned  into  the  main  street,  it  was  a  very  different  scene  from  the  one  she  had first  seen.  People  came-­‐  and  went  about  their  business,  on  foot,  with  mules  or  with donkey  and  cart.  Everyone  looked  busy  and  purposeful.  A  few  people  looked  up  and nodded  in  Katerina  and  Maria's  direction,  and  some  of  the  men  lifted  their  hats.  As wife  of  the  island  leader,  Katerina  merited  special  respect.

By  now  the  shops  were  open.  Katerina  pointed  them  all  out  and  chatted busily  about  the  people  who  owned  them.  Maria  was  hardly  likely  to  remember  all this  information,  but  Katerina  loved  the  details  of  their  lives  and  relished  the intrigue  and  gossip  that  circulated.  There  was  the  pantopoleion,  the  general  store that  sold  everything  for  the  house,  from  brooms  to  oil  lamps,  and  had  many  of  its wares  displayed  in  profusion  at  the  front  of  the  building;  a  grocer  whose  windows were  piled  high  with  cans  of  olive  oil;  the  mahairopoieion,  the  knife-­‐maker;  the  raki store;  and  the  baker,  whose  rows  of  freshly  baked  golden  loaves  and  piles  of  coarse Cretan  rusks,  paximithia,  drew  in  every  passer-­‐by.  Each  shop  had  its  own  hand-­‐

painted  sign  giving  the  owner's  name  and  what  he  offered  inside.  Most  important  of all,  for  the  men  of  the  island  at  least,  was  the  bar,  which  was  run  by  the  youthful and  popular  Gerasimo  Mandakis.  Already  a  few  customers  sat  in  groups  drinking coffee,  whilst  their  tangled  mounds  of  cigarettes  smouldered  in  an  ashtray.

Just  before  they  came  to  the  church,  there  was  a  single-­‐storey  building  which Katerina  told  Maria  was  the  school.  They  peered  in  through  the  window  and  saw several  rows  of  children.  At  the  front  of  the  class,  a  young  man  stood  talking.

Katerina  laughed.  "No,  not  over  St  Pantaleimon's  dead  body.  The  children  did not  want  her  back  and  neither  did  most  of  the  elders.  For  a  while  one  of  my  fellow Athenians  took  over,  but  he  then  died.  Your  mother  had  trained  another  teacher, however,  and  he  was  waiting  in  the  wings.  He  was  very  young  when  he  started  but the  children  adore  him  and  hang  on  his  every  word."

As  occasionally  happened  with  leprosy,  Dimitri's  symptoms  had  hardly developed  since  he  had  first  been  diagnosed,  and  now  here  he  was,  in  charge  of  the school.  Maria  felt  a  momentary  pang  of  resentment  that  the  dice  had  been  so heavily  loaded  against  her  mother.

They  would  not  go  in  and  interrupt  the  class.  Katerina  knew  there  would  be another  opportunity  for  Maria  to  meet  Dimitri.

The  two  women  continued  on  up  the  main  street.  High  up  above  them  on  the hill  towered  the  hospital,  the  biggest  building  of  all.

They  walked  round  to  the  north  side  of  the  island,  where  human  habitation ran  out  and  eagles  soared  in  the  sky  above.  Here  Spinalonga  took  the  full  blast  of the  wind  from  the  northeast  and  the  sea  crashed  on  the  rocks  far  below  them, sending  its  spray  high  into  the  air.  The  texture  of  the  water  changed  here,  from  the usual  calmness  of  the  channel  that  divided  Spinalonga  from  Plaka  to  the  gallSping white  horses  of  the  open  sea.  Hundreds  of  miles  away  lay  the  Greek  mainland  and, in  between,  dozens  of  small  islands,  but  from  this  vantage  point  there  was  nothing. Just  air  and  sky  and  birds  of  prey.  Maria  was  not  the  first  to  look  over  the  edge  and wonder,  just  for  a  moment,  what  it  would  be  like  to  hurl  herself  off.  Would  she  hit the  sea  first  or  be  dashed  against  the  serrated  edges  of  the  rocks?

It  began  to  drizzle  now  and  the  path  was  becoming  slippery.

As  they  descended  the  path,  Maria  noticed  dozens  of  separate,  carefully cultivated  areas  of  land  where,  against  the  odds  created  by  the  elements,  people were  growing  vegetable  crops.  Onions,  garlic,  potatoes  and  carrots  were  all sprouting  on  this  windswept  hillside  and  their  neat  weed-­‐free  rows  were  an indication  of  how  much  effort  and  attention  went  into  the  process  of  nursing  them out  of  this  rocky  landscape.  Each  allotment  was  a  reassuring  sign  of  hope  and showed  that  life  was  tolerable  on  this  island.

They  passed  a  tiny  chapel  that  looked  across  the  huge  expanse  of  sea  and finally  reached  the  walled  cemetery.

Katerina  had  not  meant  her  words  to  sound  so  blunt,  but  in  any  case  Maria did  not  react.  She  was  keeping  her  emotions  in  check.  It  was  someone  else  who  was walking  around  the  island.  The  real  Maria  was  far  away,  lost  in  thought.

The  graves  were  all  unmarked,  for  the  simple  reason  that  they  were  shared. There  were  too  many  deaths  here  to  allow  anyone  the  luxury  of  solitude  in  the afterlife.  Unlike  most  graveyards,  which  were  situated  around  the  church  so  that  all who  worshipped  were  constantly  reminded  that  they  would  die,  this  one  was secluded,  secret.  No  one  on  Spinalonga  really  needed  a  memento  mori.  They  all knew  too  well  that  their  days  were  numbered.

Just  before  they  came  full  circle  they  passed  a  house  that  was  the  grandest Maria  had  seen  on  the  island.  It  had  a  large  balcony  and  a  porticoed  front  door. Katerina  paused  to  point  it  out.

Maria  recognised  the  name  immediately.  Elpida  Kontomaris  had  been  her

mother's  best  friend.  The  harsh  fact  was  that  her  mother  seemed  to  have  been outlived  by  nearly  all  around  her.

There  had  been  a  long  period  after  Eleni's  death  when  even  Maria  had resented  the  amount  of  time  that  her  father  spent  going  to  the  colony;  she  had  no interest  in  it  once  her  mother  had  gone.  Now,  of  course,  she  felt  some  remorse.

From  almost  all  points  on  her  walk  the  village  of  Plaka  had  remained  in  sight, and  Maria  knew  that  she  would  have  to  start  disciplining  herself  not  to  glance  over there.  What  good  would  it  do  to  be  able  to  see  what  activities  people  were  engaged in  across  the  water?  From  now  on  nothing  over  there  had  anything  to  do  with  her, and  the  quicker  she  got  used  to  that,  the  better.

By  now  they  had  returned  to  the  small  cluster  of  houses  where  they  had begun.  Katerina  led  Maria  towards  a  rust-­‐coloured  front  door  and  took  a  key  from her  pocket.  It  seemed  as  dark  inside  as  out,  but  with  the  flick  of  a  switch  the  room was  cheered  up  just  a  little.  There  was  a  dampness  about  it,  as  though  it  had  been uninhabited  for  some  time.  The  fact  was  that  the  previous  incumbent  had languished  in  the  hospital  for  several  months  and  never  recovered,  but  given  the sometimes  dramatic  recovery  that  could  take  place  after  even  the  most  virulent lepra  fever,  it  was  island  practice  to  retain  people's  homes  until  there  was  no further  possible  hope.

The  room  was  sparsely  furnished:  one  dark  table,  two  chairs  and  a  'sofa' against  the  wall  which  was  made  of  concrete  and  covered  with  a  heavy  woven  cloth. Little  other  evidence  of  the  previous  inhabitant  remained,  except  a  glass  vase containing  a  handful  of  dusty  plastic  flowers  and  an  empty  plate  rack  on  the  wall.  A shepherd's  hut  in  the  mountains  would  have  been  more  hospitable.

Maria  was  determined  to  hide  her  feelings  about  this  hovel  and  could  only  do so  if  she  was  left  her  on  her  own.  She  would  need  to  be  firm.

With  that  she  was  gone.  Maria  was  glad  to  be  alone  with  her  own  thoughts. Katerina  had  been  well-­‐meaning  but  she  detected  a  hint  of  fussiness  and  had  begun to  find  her  twittering  voice  faintly  irritating.  The  last  thing  Maria  wanted  was  for anyone  to  tell  her  how  to  arrange  her  house.  She  would  turn  this  miserable  place

into  a  home  and  she  would  do  so  herself.

The  first  thing  she  did  was  to  pick  up  the  vase  of  pathetic  plastic  roses  and empty  it  into  the  bin.  It  was  then  that  despondency  overtook  her.  Here  she  was  in  a room  that  smelt  of  decay  and  the  damp  possessions  of  a  dead  man.  She  had  held herself  in  check  until  this  moment  but  now  she  broke  down.  All  those  hours  of  self-­‐ control  and  false  good  cheer  for  her  father,  for  the  Papadimitrious  and  for  herself had  been  a  strain,  and  the  awfulness  of  what  had  happened  now  engulfed  her.  It was  such  a  very  short  journey  that  had  marked  the  end  of  her  life  in  Plaka  and  yet the  greatest  distance  she  had  ever  travelled.  She  felt  so  far  from  home  and everything  that  was  familiar.  She  missed  her  father  and  her  friends  and  lamented more  than  ever  that  her  bright  future  with  Manoli  had  been  snatched  away.  In  this dark  room  she  wished  she  was  dead.  For  a  moment  it  did  occur  to  her  that  perhaps she  was  dead,  since  hell  could  not  be  a  gloomier  or  less  welcoming  place  than  this.

She  went  upstairs  to  the  bedroom.  A  hard  bed  and  a  straw  mattress  covered with  stained  ticking  were  all  the  room  contained,  except  for  a  small  wooden  icon  of the  Virgin  clumsily  nailed  to  the  rough  wall.  Maria  lay  down,  her  knees  pulled  in towards  her  chest,  and  sobbed.  How  long  she  remained  so  she  was  not  sure,  since she  eventually  fell  into  fitful,  nightmarish  sleep.

Somewhere  in  the  profound  darkness  of  her  deep  underwater  dream,  she heard  the  distant  sound  of  booming  drums  and  felt  herself  being  pulled  to  the surface.  Now  she  could  hear  that  the  steady  percussive  beat  was  not  a  drum  at  all but  the  insistent  sound  of  someone  knocking  on  her  door  downstairs.  Her  eyes opened  and  for  several  moments  her  body  seemed  unwilling  to  move.  All  her  limbs had  stiffened  in  the  cold  and  it  was  with  every  ounce  of  her  will  that  she  raised herself  off  the  bed  and  stood  upright.  This  sleep  had  been  so  profound  that  her  left cheek  bore  the  clear  impression  of  two  mattress  buttons  and  nothing  would  have woken  her  except  for  what  she  now  realised  was  the  sound  of  someone  almost battering  down  the  door.

She  descended  the  narrow  staircase  and  as  she  drew  back  the  latch  and opened  the  door,  still  in  a  state  of  semi-­‐consciousness,  she  saw  two  women standing  there  in  the  twilight.  One  of  them  was  Katerina;  the  other  was  an  older woman.

The  final  words  she  blurted  out  were  'almost  involuntary,  but  there  was  a strong  basis  for  them.  In  the  past  there  had  been  a  few  newcomers  who  had  tried  to kill  themselves,  some  of  them  successfully.

Maria  opened  the  door  wide  and  stepped  aside  to  let  the  two  women  in.

The  women  held  on  to  each  other's  hands.

Katerina  surveyed  the  room.  It  looked  exactly  as  it  had  done  many  hours  ago. Maria's  boxes  stood  unopened  and  it  was  obvious  that  she  had  not  even  attempted to  unpack  them.  It  was  still  a  dead  man's  house.  All  Elpida  Kontomaris  saw  was  a bewildered  young  woman  in  a  bare,  cold  room  at  just  the  time  of  day  when  most people  were  eating  a  warm  meal  and  anticipating  the  familiar  comfort  of  their  own bed.

Maria  gave  an  involuntary  shudder.  Chilled  by  her  situation  and  the  dampness of  the  room,  she  had  no  hesitation  in  accepting.  She  remembered  passing  Elpida's house  earlier  that  day  and  with  her  womanly  eye  for  detail  recalled  the  elaborate lace  curtains  that  had  covered  the  windows.  Yes,  that  was  where  she  would  like  to be  tonight.

For  the  next  few  nights  she  slept  in  Elpida  Kontomaris's  house  and  during  the day  would  return  to  the  place  which  was  to  become  her  own  home.  She  worked hard  to  transform  it,  whitewashing  her  walls  and  recoating  the  old  front  door  with  a bright,  fresh  green  that  reminded  her  of  the  beginning  of  spring  rather  than  the  tail-­‐ end  of  autumn.  She  unpacked  her  books,  her  photographs,  and  a  selection  of  small pictures  which  she  hung  on  the  wall,  and  ironed  her  embroidered  cotton  cloths, spreading  them  on  the  table  and  on  the  comfortable  chairs  that  Elpida  had  decided she  no  longer  needed.  She  put  up  a  shelf  and  arranged  her  jars  of  dried  herbs  on  it, and  made  the  previously  filthy  kitchen  a  hostile  place  for  germs  by  scrubbing  it  until it  gleamed.

That  first  dark  day  of  despondency  and  despair  was  left  behind,  and  though she  dwelt  for  many  weeks  on  what  she  had  lost,  she  began  to  see  a  future.  She thought  much  of  what  life  with  Manoli  would  have  been  like  and  began  to  question how  he  would  have  reacted  in  difficult  times.  Although  she  missed  his  levity  and  his ability  to  make  a  joke  in  any  situation,  she  could  not  imagine  how  he  would  ever have  tolerated  adversity  if  it  had  come  their  way.  Maria  had  only  tasted  champagne once,  at  her  sister's  wedding.  After  the  first  sip,  which  was  full  of  fizz,  the  bubbles had  disappeared,  and  she  reflected  on  whether  marriage  to  Manoli  would  have been  rather  like  that.  She  would  never  know  now  and  gradually  she  gave  him  less and  less  thought,  almost  disappointed  in  herself  that  her  love  seemed  to  evaporate by  the  day.  He  was  not  part  of  the  world  that  she  now  occupied.

She  told  Elpida  about  her  life  from  the  day  her  mother  had  left:  how  she  had

looked  after  her  father,  about  her  sister's  marriage  into  a  good  family,  and  about her  own  courtship  and  engagement  to  Manoli.  She  talked  to  Elpida  as  though  she was  her  own  mother,  and  the  older  woman  warmed  to  her,  this  girl  she  had  already known  from  her  mother's  descriptions  all  those  years  before.

Having  overslept  and  missed  it  on  the  first  afternoon,  Maria  went  later  that week  for  her  appointment  with  Lapakis.  He  noted  her  symptoms  and  drew  the location  of  her  lesions  on  a  diagrammatic  outline  of  the  body,  comparing  his observations  with  the  information  that  Dr  Kyritsis  had  sent  him  and  noting  that there  was  now  an  additional  lesion  on  her  back.  This  alarmed  him,  Maria  was  in good  general  health  at  present,  but  if  anything  happened  to  change  this,  his  original hopes  that  she  had  a  good  chance  of  survival  might  come  to  nothing.

Three  days  later  Maria  went  to  meet  her  father.  She  knew  that  he  would  have set  off  punctually  at  ten  to  nine  to  bring  Lapakis  across,  and  by  five  minutes  to  she could  just  about  make  out  his  boat.  She  could  see  that  there  were  three  men aboard.  This  was  unusual.  For  a  fleeting  moment  she  wondered  if  it  was  Manoli, breaking  all  the  rules  to  come  and  visit  her.  As  soon  as  she  could  distinguish  the figure  in  the  boat,  however,  she  saw  that  it  was  Kyritsis.  For  a  moment  her  heart leapt,  for  she  associated  the  slight,  silver-­‐haired  doctor  with  the  chance  of  a  cure.

As  they  bumped  gently  into  the  buoy,  Giorgis  threw  the  rope  to  Maria,  who tied  it  expertly  to  a  post  as  she  had  done  a  thousand  times  before.  Though  he  had been  anxious  about  his  daughter,  he  was  careful  to  conceal  it.

He  paused  to  look  at  her.  This  young  woman  seemed  so  out  of  place  here.  So perfect  and  so  incongruous.

Nikos  Papadimitriou  had  come  to  the  quayside  to  meet  the  two  doctors,  and while  Maria  stayed  to  talk  to  her  father,  the  three  men  disappeared  through  the tunnel.  It  was  fourteen  years  since  Nikolaos  Kyritsis  had  last  visited,  and  the transformation  of  the  island  astonished  him.  Repairs  to  the  old  buildings  had  been started  even  then,  but  the  result  had  exceeded  his  expectations.  When  they  reached the  hospital,  he  was  even  more  amazed.  The  original  building  was  just  as  it  had been,  but  a  huge  extension,  equal  in  size  to  the  whole  of  the  old  building,  had  been put  up.  Kyritsis  remembered  the  plans  on  Lapakis's  office  wall  all  those  years  ago and  saw  immediately  that  he  had  fulfilled  his  ambition.

The  leader  left  them  now  and  Lapakis  showed  Kyritsis  proudly  around  his  new hospital.  The  rooms  in  the  new  wing  were  lofty,  with  windows  that  reached  from

floor  to  ceiling.  In  the  winter,  the  sturdy  shutters  and  thick  walls  shielded  patients from  battering  rains  and  howling  gales,  and  in  the  summer  the  windows  were thrown  open  to  receive  the  soothing  breeze  that  spiralled  up  from  the  sea  below. There  were  only  two  or  three  beds  to  each  room  and  the  wards  had  been designated  for  either  men  or  women.  Everywhere  was  spotlessly  clean,  and  Kyritsis noticed  that  each  room  had  its  own  shower  and  washing  cubicle.  Most  of  the  beds were  occupied  but  the  atmosphere  in  the  hospital  was  generally  still  and  quiet.  Only a  few  patients  tossed  and  turned,  and  one  moaned  softly  with  pain.

Most  of  the  islanders  knew  that  drug  treatments  were  being  worked  on,  but little  seemed  to  have  come  their  way.  Some  were  sure  that  within  their  lifetime  a cure  would  be  found,  though  for  many  whose  limbs  and  faces  were  deformed  by  the disease  it  was  no  more  than  a  dream.  A  few  had  volunteered  to  have  minor operations  to  improve  the  effects  of  paralysis  on  their  feet  or  to  have  major  lesions removed,  but  more  than  that  they  did  not  really  expect.

a  short-­‐term  project—we  probably  wouldn't  begin  to  inject  for  several  months. What  do  you  think?"

Kyritsis  took  himself  back  to  the  quayside.  It  was  now  midday  and  Giorgis would  be  there  to  collect  him  as  arranged.  A  few  heads  turned  to  look  at  him  as  he made  his  way  back  down  the  street,  past  the  church,  the  shops  and  the  kafenion. The  only  strangers  these  people  ever  saw  were  newcomers  to  the  island,  and  no newcomer  ever  walked  with  such  purpose  in  his  stride  as  this  man.  As  the  doctor emerged  from  the  tunnel  and  the  choppy  late  October  sea  came  into  view,  he  saw the  little  boat  bobbing  up  and  down  a  hundred  metres  or  so  off  the  shore,  and  a woman  standing  on  the  quayside.  She  was  looking  out  to  sea  but  heard  his  step behind  her  and  turned.  As  she  did  so,  her  long  hair  blew  up  in  wisps  around  her  face and  two  large  oval  eyes  gazed  at  him  with  hope.

Many  years  earlier,  before  the  war,  Kyritsis  had  visited  Florence  and  seen Boticelli's  captivating  image  of  the  Birth  of  Venus.  With  the  grey-­‐green  sea  behind her  and  her  long  hair  caught  by  the  wind,  Maria  strongly  evoked  the  painting. Kyritsis  even  had  a  framed  print  on  his  wall  at  home  in  Iraklion,  and  in  this  young woman  he  saw  the  same  shy  half-­‐smile,  the  same  almost  questioning  incline  of  the head,  the  same  just-­‐born  innocence.  Such  beauty  in  real  life,  however,  he  had  never seen.  He  was  stopped  in  his  tracks.  At  this  moment  he  was  not  regarding  her  as  a patient  but  as  a  woman,  and  he  thought  her  more  beautiful  than  anyone  he  had ever  seen.

Maria  held  the  boat  fast  for  a  moment  as  the  doctor  climbed  in,  and  then  she released  it  and  tossed  him  the  rope.  As  Kyritsis  caught  it  he  looked  up  at  her.  He needed  one  more  glimpse,  just  to  make  quite  sure  he  had  not  been  dreaming.  He had  not.  The  face  of  Venus  herself  could  not  have  been  more  perfect.

Chapter  Eighteen

AUTUMN  IMPERCEPTIBLY  TURNED  to  winter  and  the  musky  smell  of  wood

smoke  pervaded  the  air  on  Spinalonga.  People  went  about  their  daily  business wrapped  from  head  to  foot  in  every  woollen  layer  they  possessed  to  defend themselves  from  the  cold,  for  whichever  way  the  wind  blew  this  small  island  caught its  full  force.

In  Maria's  house  the  spirits  of  past  inhabitants  had  been  banished.  Every picture,  cloth  and  piece  of  furniture  was  now  hers,  and  a  glass  dish  of  lavender  and rose  petals  in  the  middle  of  the  table  scented  the  air  with  its  sweet  fragrance.

To  Maria's  surprise,  her  first  few  weeks  on  the  island  passed  quickly.  There was  one  moment  alone  that  left  her  with  a  distinct  sense  of  unease.  She  had  just moved  out  of  Elpida's  warm  and  rather  grandly  furnished  home  into  her  own  more familiar  surroundings.  As  she  turned  the  corner  from  the  small  alleyway  into  the main  street  to  buy  some  groceries  she  physically  collided  with  another  woman.  She was  much  smaller  than  Maria,  and  as  they  stepped  away  from  each  other  Maria  saw that  she  was  considerably  older  too.  Her  face  was  furrowed  with  deep  lines  and  so gaunt  that  her  ear-­‐lobes,  which  were  greatly  enlarged  by  leprosy,  were  monstrously accentuated.  The  old  woman's  walking  stick  had  gone  flying  halfway  across  the street.

Dark  beady  eyes  glared  into  Maria's.

There  was  a  note  of  triumph  in  her  voice,  and  Maria  immediately  realised  that this  bent  crone  was  her  mother's  old  enemy.

The  two  women  went  their  separate  ways.  Maria  continued  up  the  hill  to  the bakery,  and  when  she  glanced  back  to  see  where  Kyria  Kroustalakis  had  gone,  she saw  that  she  was  standing  at  the  bottom  of  the  street  by  the  old  communal  tap, staring  up  at  her.  Maria  quickly  looked  round  again.  She  shuddered.

It  was  Katerina,  who  had  seen  the  collision  between  Maria  and  her  mother's old  enemy.

The  two  women  continued  up  the  street  together,  and  Maria  decided  that  she

would  give  Kristina  Kroustalakis  no  further  thought.  She  had  already  seen  that  many people  on  Spinalonga  accepted  their  situation,  and  the  last  thing  any  of  them needed  was  someone  who  undermined  this.

A  more  welcome  encounter  with  part  of  her  mother's  past  was  her  first meeting  with  Dimitri  Limonias.  Elpida  invited  them  to  her  home  one  evening  and both  approached  the  meeting  with  some  trepidation.

Several  hours  passed  as  the  two  talked  about  the  island,  the  school  and  Eleni. Dimitri  had  been  lucky.  During  his  time  on  Spinalonga  he  had  enjoyed  the  loving care  of  Eleni  and  then  Elpida.  One  was  an  experienced  mother  and  the  other  had treated  him  as  the  precious  child  she  had  always  yearned  for,  giving  him  love  and attention  that  sometimes  almost  swamped  him.  Maria  was  glad  to  have  met  this quasi-­‐half-­‐brother  and  the  pair  would  often  meet  for  coffee  or  even  for  supper, which  she  would  cook  while  Dimitri  enthused  about  his  work.  He  currently  had fourteen  children  in  the  school  and  aimed  to  get  them  reading  by  seven  years  old. Spending  time  with  someone  who  was  driven  by  his  working  life  made  Maria  realise that  being  a  leper  was  not  going  to  dominate  her  every  waking  hour.  A  fortnightly appointment  at  the  hospital,  a  compact  house  to  keep  neat  and  tidy,  a  small allotment  to  tend  to.  Along  with  the  meetings  with  her  father,  these  were  the cornerstones  of  her  single,  childless  existence.

To  start  with,  Maria  was  nervous  about  telling  her  father  that  she  had  struck up  a  friendship  with  Dimitri.  It  might  seem  like  a  betrayal,  as  the  family  lore  had always  been  that  it  was  this  boy  who  had  infected  Eleni.  Giorgis  had  spent  enough time  with  Lapakis  to  know  that  this  was  not  necessarily  the  case,  so  when  Maria made  her  confession  that  she  was  now  Dimitri's  friend,  her  father's  reaction  was unexpected.

company  too.  He's  read  every  book  in  the  library."

This  was  no  mean  feat.  The  library  now  had  over  five  hundred  books,  most  of them  sent  from  Athens,  but  Giorgis  was  unimpressed  by  this.  There  were  other things  he  wanted  to  know.

It  was  always  the  same  story,  Maria  thought.  Promised  meetings  and  last-­‐ minute  cancellations.  It  was  a  pattern  Giorgis  expected  now,  but  from  afar  Maria continued  to  be  annoyed  by  her  sister's  callous  disregard  for  the  man  who  had struggled  so  hard  to  bring  them  up.

Within  a  month  Maria  knew  she  needed  something  to  occupy  her  and  picked a  battered  notebook  off  her  shelf.  It  contained  all  her  handwritten  instructions  on the  use  of  herbs.  For  healing  and  cure,  she  had  written  on  the  title  page  in  her  neat, schoolgirl  script.  In  the  context  of  leprosy,  those  words  looked  so  nai've,  so optimistic,  so  entirely  far-­‐fetched.  There  were,  however,  plenty  of  other  ailments that  people  suffered  from  on  Spinalonga,  from  stomach  disorders  to  coughs,  and  if she  could  relieve  them  of  those  as  she  had  done  so  successfully  in  her  old  life,  then it  would  be  a  worthwhile  contribution.

Maria  was  bubbling  over  with  news  of  her  plans  when  Fotini  came  to  visit  her one  day,  telling  her  how  she  planned  to  scour  the  uninhabited,  rocky  part  of  the island  for  herbs  as  soon  as  spring  came.

It  was  time  for  her  to  go.  Maria  looked  down  at  her  friend's  swollen  belly.

Fotini  was  nearing  the  end  of  her  pregnancy  and  beginning  to  worry  about  the rough  waters  she  had  to  cross  to  see  her  friend.

By  now  Giorgis  had  established  a  firm  routine  for  seeing  his  daughter  on Spinalonga.  Though  Maria  was  comforted  by  the  idea  that  her  father  came  and  went sometimes  several  times  a  day,  it  made  no  sense  for  her  to  see  him  each  time.  She knew  it  would  be  wrong  for  both  of  them  to  meet  so  often;  it  would  be  to  pretend that  life  was  going  on  just  as  it  had  before,  simply  in  a  different  location.  They decided  to  limit  themselves  to  three  encounters  a  week,  on  Mondays,  Wednesdays and  Fridays.  These  days  were  the  high  points  of  her  week.  Monday  would  be  Fotini's day  once  she  had  resumed  her  visits,  Wednesday  was  the  day  Dr  Kyritsis  visited,  and on  Fridays  she  saw  her  father  alone.

In  mid  January  Giorgis  brought  the  exciting  news  that  Fotini  had  given  birth  to a  son.  Maria  wanted  all  the  details.

By  the  following  week,  Maria  had  embroidered  a  tiny  pillowcase  with  the baby's  name  and  date  of  birth  and  filled  it  with  dried  lavender.  Put  it  in  his  cradle, she  wrote  in  a  note  to  Fotini.  It'll  help  him  to  sleep.

By  April,  Fotini  was  ready  to  come  and  see  Maria  again.  Even  with  her  new responsibilities  as  a  mother,  she  still  knew  the  minutiae  of  everything  that  happened in  Plaka  and  her  antennae  were  well  tuned  to  the  comings  and  goings  of  its inhabitants.  Maria  loved  to  hear  the  gossip  but  also  listened  intently  as  her  friend

described  the  trials  and  pleasures  of  her  new  state  of  motherhood.  For  her  part  she shared  all  that  took  place  on  Spinalonga,  and  their  talks  always  lasted  for  well  over an  hour,  with  hardly  a  pause  for  breath.

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.

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  it.  It  wouldn't  be  allowed."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 sonic  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.

The  last  comment  may  have  been  flippant,  but  Maria  still  expressed  concern.

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.

Maria,  usually  so  steadfast  at  controlling  her  emotions,  had  a  catch  in  her voice.  Giorgis  stood  to  go.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Maria  found  herself  being  defensive.

The  two  women  sat  in  silence  for  a  moment,  until  Maria  got  up.  She pretended  to  busy  herself  with  washing  their  glasses  but  nothing  took  her  mind away  from  what  Fotini  had  just  told  her.  She  was  thoroughly  agitated,  suddenly remembering  her  sister's  rather  edgy  behaviour  all  those  months  ago  when  she  and Manoli  had  visited.  It  was  perfectly  feasible  that  there  might  be  something  going  on between  them.  She  knew  her  sister  was  more  than  capable  of  such  infidelity.

With  sheer  vexation  she  twisted  the  cloth  round  and  round  inside  the  glasses until  they  squeaked.  As  ever  her  thoughts  were  with  her  father.  She  felt  keenly, even  in  anticipation,  his  ever-­‐deepening  shame.  As  for  Anna,  was  she  not  the  only one  of  the  three  Petrakis  women  who  still  had  the  possibility  of  a  normal,  happy life?  Now  it  sounded  as  though  she  was  doing  everything  she  could  to  throw  it  all away.  Maria's  eyes  pricked  with  tears  of  anger  and  frustration.  She  would  hate Fotini  to  think  that  she  was  jealous.  She  knew  Manoli  would  never  be  hers  but  it  was hard  nevertheless  to  bear  the  idea  of  him  being  with  her  sister.

don't,  but  I  do  care  about  my  sister's  behaviour.  What's  to  become  of  her?  Does  she really  think  that  Andreas  will  never  find  out?"

The  two  sat  in  silence  for  a  moment  before  Maria  changed  the  subject.

They  continued  to  chat,  though  Fotini's  revelation  about  Anna  weighed heavily  on  their  minds.

The  relationship  between  Anna  and  Manoli  did  not,  as  Fotini  predicted,  fade out.  On  the  contrary,  the  spark  between  them  was  rekindled  and  a  fire  soon smouldered.  Manoli  had  been  entirely  faithful  to  Maria  while  they  were  engaged  to be  married.  She  was  perfect,  a  virgin,  his  Agia  Maria,  and  undoubtedly  she  would have  made  him  a  happy  man.  Now  she  was  a  fond  memory.  The  first  few  weeks after  Maria  had  gone  to  Spinalonga  he  had  been  listless  and  unhappy,  but  the  period of  mourning  the  loss  of  his  fiancée  soon  passed.  Life  had  to  go  on,  he  had  thought  to himself.

Like  a  moth  to  a  flame  he  was  drawn  back  to  Anna.  She  was  still  there  in  that house,  so  close,  so  needy  and  somehow  so  gift-­‐wrapped  in  her  tightly  fitted  ribbon-­‐ trimmed  dresses.

It  was  around  lunch  time  one  day,  his  old  habitual  visiting  time,  when  Manoli let  himself  into  the  kitchen  at  the  big  house  on  the  estate.

His  confidence  that  she  would  be  pleased  to  see  him  was  matched  by  her arrogance.  She  had  known  that  he  would  come,  sooner  or  later.

Alexandras  Vandoulakis  had  recently  handed  the  entire  estate  over  to  his  son. This  gave  Andreas  huge  responsibilities  and  less  and  less  time  at  home,  and  soon Manoli  was  seen  leaving  his  cousin's  house  more  often  than  just  on  alternate  days. He  was  now  there  every  day.  Antonis  was  not  the  only  person  aware  of  this.  Many of  the  estate  workers  knew  about  it  too.  There  was  a  double  safety  net  that  Anna and  Manoli  relied  on:  Andreas  was  too  busy  to  notice  anything  himself,  and  it  was worth  more  than  any  man's  job  to  approach  their  boss  with  tales  about  his  wife.  For these  reasons  they  could  enjoy  each  other  with  impunity.

There  was  nothing  that  Maria  could  do  and  the  only  influence  Fotini  had  was to  urge  her  brother  to  keep  it  to  himself.  If  Antonis  mentioned  it  to  their  father, Pavlos,  then  it  was  bound  to  reach  Giorgis,  since  the  two  men  were  great companions.

Between  Fotini's  visits,  Maria  tried  to  put  her  sister  to  the  back  of  her  mind. Her  inability  to  influence  the  situation  was  not  determined  only  by  the  distance between  them.  She  knew  that  even  if  she  was  still  on  the  mainland,  Anna  would have  been  doing  just  what  she  liked.

Maria  began  to  look  forward  to  the  days  when  Kyritsis  came  across,  and always  made  sure  she  was  at  the  quayside  to  meet  her  father  and  the  silver-­‐haired doctor.  One  fine  summer  day  Kyritsis  stopped  to  talk.  He  had  heard  from  Dr  Lapakis of  Maria's  skills  with  herbal  cures  and  tinctures.  A  firm  believer  in  modern  medicine, he  had  long  been  sceptical  about  the  power  of  the  sweet,  gentle  flowers  that  grew on  the  mountainsides.  What  strength  could  they  possibly  have  when  compared  with twentieth-­‐century  drugs?  Many  of  the  patients  he  saw  on  Spinalonga,  however, talked  of  the  relief  they  had  experienced  through  some  of  Maria's  concoctions.  He was  prepared  to  relax  his  cynicism,  and  told  her  so.

Chapter  Nineteen

THE  DOCTOR'S  SMILE  changed  the  climate  around  him.  Kyritsis  had  not  been given  to  smiling  in  the  past.  Other  people's  misery  and  anxiety  were  the cornerstones  of  his  life  and  rarely  gave  him  cause  for  levity  or  pleasure.  He  lived alone  in  Iraklion,  working  long  days  in  the  hospital,  and  the  few  waking  hours  he  had outside  it  were  spent  reading  and  sleeping.  Now,  at  last,  there  was  something  else  in his  life:  the  beauty  of  a  woman's  face.  To  the  hospital  staff  in  Iraklion  and  to  Lapakis and  the  lepers  who  were  now  regular  patients  he  was  just  the  same  as  he  always had  been:  a  dedicated,  single-­‐minded  and  unnervingly  serious—some  would  say humourless—scientist.  For  Maria  he  had  become  a  different  person.  Whether  he would  be  her  salvation  in  the  long  term  she  did  not  know,  but  he  saved  her  in  a small  way  every  time  he  crossed  the  water  by  making  her  pulse  quicken.  She  ''was  a woman  again,  not  just  a  patient  waiting  on  this  rock  to  die.  Though  the temperatures  began  to  drop  during  those  first  days  of  autumn,  Maria  felt  an increasing  warmth  in  Nikolaos  Kyritsis.  When  he  arrived  on  the  island  each Wednesday  he  would  stop  to  talk  to  her.  First  of  all  it  would  be  just  for  five  minutes, but  as  time  went  on  it  was  for  longer  on  each  occasion.  Eventually,  meticulous about  punctuality  and  the  need  to  be  on  time  for  his  ho'spital  appointments,  he began  to  arrive  earlier  on  the  island  to  allow  himself  enough  time  to  see  Maria. Giorgis,  who  always  rose  at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning,  was  perfectly  happy  to  bring Kyritsis  over  at  eight-­‐thirty  rather  than  nine  and  observed  that  the  days  when  Maria

had  come  to  talk  to  him  on  Wednesdays  were  over.  She  still  met  the  boat,  but  not  to see  her  father.

Usually  a  man  of  few  words,  Kyritsis  talked  to  Maria  about  his  work  back  in Iraklion  and  explained  the  research  with  which  he  was  involved.  He  described  how the  war  had  interrupted  everything  and  told  her  what  he  had  been  doing  during those  years,  painting  a  detailed  description  for  her  of  a  war-­‐blasted  city  where  every last  trained  medical  person  was  required  to  be  on  duty  almost  round  the  clock  to care  for  the  sick  and  wounded.  He  told  her  about  his  travels  to  international conferences  in  Egypt  and  Spain  where  the  world's  experts  on  leprosy  treatment gathered  to  share  their  ideas  and  to  give  papers  on  their  latest  theories.  He  told  her about  the  various  cures  that  were  currendy  being  tried  out  and  what  he  really thought  of  them.  Occasionally  he  had  to  remind  himself  that  this  woman  was  a patient  and  might  eventually  be  a  recipient  of  the  drug  therapy  that  was  being trialled  on  Spinalonga.  How  strange,  he  sometimes  found  himself  thinking,  to  have found  such  friendship  on  this  small  island.  Not  only  his  old  friend,  Christos  Lapakis, but  this  young  woman  too.

For  her  part  Maria  looked  at  him  and  listened,  but  offered  very  little  of  her own  life  in  return.  She  felt  she  had  little  to  share.  Her  existence  had  become  so small,  so  limited,  so  narrowly  focused.

As  Kyritsis  saw  it,  people  on  Spinalonga  were  living  a  life  that  he  might  almost have  envied.  They  came  and  went  about  their  business,  sat  in  the  kafenion,  saw  the latest  films,  went  to  church  and  nurtured  friendships.  They  lived  in  a  community where  everyone  knew  each  other  and  had  a  common  bond.  In  Iraklion  he  could  walk the  length  of  the  bustling  street  every  day  for  a  week  and  not  see  a  familiar  face.

As  vital  to  Maria  as  the  conversations  with  Dr  Kyritsis  were  her  weekly meetings  with  Fotini,  but  these  she  anticipated  half  with  dread  these  days.

Fotini  was  right.  Anna  was  spending  many  an  evening  perfectly  coiffed, manicured  and  poured  into  immaculately  well-­‐fitted  dresses,  playing  the  twin  roles of  good  wife  to  her  husband  and  welcoming  hostess  to  his  cousin.  It  was  no  more than  Andreas  expected  of  her.  She  carried  the  situation  off  effortlessly  and  the chances  of  her  fluffing  a  line  or  casting  a  giveaway  glance  were  almost  non-­‐existent. For  Anna  the  undercurrents  only  added  to  the  frisson  of  being  on  an  imaginary stage,  and  on  the  days  when  her  parents-­‐in-­‐law  were  there  it  created  additional

tension,  increasing  her  excitement  and  the  sublime  thrill  of  concealment.

For  Anna  there  was  no  conflict  in  this  situation.  Since  she  had  no  choice  in  the matter  of  her  passion  for  Manoli,  her  infidelity  was  almost  justified.  He  had appeared  unannounced  in  her  life  and  her  reaction  had  been  spontaneous.  Free  will played  no  part  in  her  response  to  him  and  it  had  never  occurred  to  her  that  it  could. Manoli's  presence  electrified  her,  aroused  every  hair  on  her  body  and  made  every square  centimetre  of  her  soft,  pale  skin  yearn  to  be  touched.  It  could  never  be  any other  way.  I  can't  help  it,  she  said  to  herself  as  she  brushed  her  hair  in  the  morning on  the  days  when  Andreas  had  left  for  the  furthest  area  of  the  estate  and  she expected  Manoli  to  appear  in  her  kitchen  at  lunchtime.  There  is  nothing  I  can  do. Manoli  was  her  husband's  blood  relative.  With  all  the  will  in  the  world  she  could  not have  driven  him  away.  She  was  a  trapped  but  uncomplaining  victim,  and  even though  it  was  happening  under  his  own  roof  Andreas  had  not  the  slightest  inkling that  Anna  was  betraying  him  in  his  own  bed,  with  the  framed  Stephana,  the marriage  crowns,  witnessing  her  act  of  perfidy.

Andreas  did  not  spend  much  time  thinking  about  Manoli.  He  was  glad  that  he had  returned  from  his  travels  but  he  left  any  worrying  about  him  to  his  dear  mother, who  fretted  that  her  nephew  was  in  his  thirties  and  not-­‐yet  married.  Andreas  was sorry  that  the  marriage  to  his  wife's  sister  had  encountered  such  an  insurmountable obstacle,  but  he  supposed  that  sooner  or  later  his  cousin  would  find  another suitable  woman  to  bring  into  the  family.  As  for  Eleftheria,  she  was  sorry  that  her nephew's  sweet  bride  had  been  snatched  away  but  was  even  sorrier  to  have  a nagging  suspicion  that  some  affinity  existed  between  Manoli  and  her  daughter-­‐in-­‐ law.  She  could  not  quite  define  it  and  indeed  sometimes  told  herself  it  was  in  her imagination.  It  was  as  fleeting  as  a  shape  in  a  cloud.

Maria  shuddered  to  think  of  how  Anna  might  be  behaving.  Her  sister  had never  bothered  with  caution  and  nothing  would  change  that  now.  Her  real  concern, however,  was  not  Anna  herself  but  the  impact  of  her  behaviour  on  their  father. There  was  not  one  secure  element  in  that  poor  dear  man's  life,  she  thought.

The  women  tried  to  talk  of  other  things,  but  conversation  always  began  and ended  with  talk  of  Anna's  infidelity  and  speculation  on  how  long  it  would  be  before Anna  cast  a  careless  glance  in  Manoli's  direction  that  might  just  make  Andreas

pause  for  a  moment  and  wonder.  Little  by  little,  any  residual  feelings  Maria  might have  had  for  Manoli  evaporated.  The  only  certainty  she  had  was  that  there  was nothing  she  could  possibly  do.

It  was  now  late  October.  The  winter  winds  were  gaining  strength  and  would soon  penetrate  the  thickest  overcoats  and  the  heaviest  of  woollen  wraps.  It  seemed to  Maria  that  it  was  uncivilised  to  stand  here  in  the  perishing  cold  talking  to  Dr Kyritsis,  but  the  thought  of  giving  up  their  conversations  was  unbearable.  She  loved talking  with  this  man.  They  seemed  never  to  run  out  of  things  to  say,  even  though she  felt  she  had  so  little  of  interest  to  tell  him.  She  could  not  help  comparing  the way  he  spoke  to  her  with  the  way  Manoli  had  talked.  Her  fiancé's  every  sentence had  been  full  of  playful  banter,  but  with  Kyritsis  there  was  not  a  flicker  of  flirtation.

It  was  as  though  she  had  disturbed  him  from  a  reverie.

They  walked  together  through  the  tunnel.  Though  he  was  the  doctor  and  she the  patient,  they  walked  side  by  side,  like  equals.  Both  of  them  had  passed  through the  Venetian  walls  a  hundred  times,  but  this  was  a  different  kind  of  journey.

Kyritsis  had  not  walked  a  street  like  this  in  the  company  of  a  woman  for  years, and  Maria,  walking  along  with  a  man  who  was  not  her  father,  felt  self-­‐conscious  in  a way  she  thought  she  had  left  behind  with  childhood.  Someone  might  see  her  and jump  to  the  wrong  conclusion.  "It's  the  doctor!"  she  wanted  to  shout,  desperate  to spare  herself  from  gossip.

Quickly  she  showed  the  way  into  the  small  alleyway  close  to  the  end  of  the tunnel  and  they  entered  her  house.  Maria  began  making  coffee.  She  knew  Kyritsis did  not  have  long  and  would  want  to  be  punctual  for  his  first  appointment.

While  Maria  busied  herself  finding  sugar,  cups  and  saucers,  Kyritsis  looked about  the  room.  It  was  much  more  comfortable  and  colourful  than  his  own  small, apartment  in  Iraklion.  He  noticed  the  embroidered  cloths,  the  picture  of  the  young Kyria  Petrakis  with  Maria  and  another  girl  on  the  wall.  He  saw  a  neat  row  of  books,  a jug  containing  leafy  sprigs  from  an  olive  tree  and  bunches  of  lavender  and  herbs hanging  to  dry  from  the  ceiling.  He  saw  order  and  domesticity  and  felt  warmed  by

them  both.

Now  that  they  were  on  Maria's  terrain,  he  felt  he  could  get  her  to  talk  about herself.  There  was  one  burning  question  he  wanted  to  ask.  He  knew  so  much  about the  disease,  its  symptoms,  its  epidemiology,  its  pathology,  but  of  course  he  did  not know  what  it  really  felt  like  to  have  leprosy  and  until  now  he  had  never  thought  of asking  one  of  his  patients.

The  question  seemed  so  personal,  but  Maria  did  not  hesitate  to  answer.

As  she  said  this,  her  mind  went  back  to  that  cold  autumn  morning  when  she had  left  Plaka  to  come  to  Spinalonga.  Life  on  a  leper  colony  had  certainly  not  been what  she  had  wished  for,  but  she  paused  for  a  moment  and  wondered  what  it would  have  been  like  had  she  married  Manoli.  Would  that  have  been  another  kind of  prison?  What  sort  of  man  would  betray  his  own  family?  What  Judas  would  abuse the  kindness  and  hospitality  that  had  been  shown  him?  She  had  been  taken  in  by  his charm  but  realised  now  that  circumstances  might  have  spared  her.  This  was  a  man with  whom  she  had  not  once  had  a  conversation  that  touched  anything  deeper  or broader  than  the  olive  harvest,  the  music  of  Mikis  Theodorakis  or  whether  to  attend the  saint's  day  celebrations  in  Elounda.  Such  joie  de  vivre  had  attracted  her  at  first but  she  realised  that  perhaps  there  was  no  more  to  him  than  that.  Life  with  Manoli might  have  been  just  another  kind  of  life  sentence,  no  better  than  the  one  she  was condemned  to  on  Spinalonga.

When  she  had  finished  speaking,  Maria  poured  coffee  into  a  cup  and  passed  it to  Kyritsis.  She  noticed,  too  late,  that  his  hand  trembled  violently,  and  when  he  took the  coffee,  the  cup  clattered  to  the  ground.  A  dark  puddle  spread  across  the  stone floor  and  there  was  an  awkward  silence  before  Maria  rushed  to  the  sink  to  get  a cloth.  She  sensed  his  profound  embarrassment  and  was  keen  to  relieve  him  of  it.

It  was,  in  fact,  a  special  cup,  one  of  the  set  that  her  mother  had  brought  from Plaka,  but  Maria  realised  that  she  did  not  mind  at  all.  It  was  almost  a  relief  that Kyritsis  was  not  so  perfect,  not  as  impeccable  in  every  way  as  he  outwardly

appeared.

Maria's  outburst  was  spontaneous,  and  more  enthusiastic  than  she  had  really intended.  It  surprised  Dr  Kyritsis,  but  it  also  surprised  her.  Now  they  were  even. Both  had  lost  their  composure.

Maria's  eyes  looked  into  the  doctor's  so  imploringly  that  he  could  do  nothing but  accept.  She  took  another  cup  from  the  rack,  and  this  time,  once  the  coffee  was poured  into  it,  she  left  it  on  the  table  for  him  to  pick  up  safely.

They  both  sipped  without  speaking.  Sometimes  there  is  awkwardness  in silence,  but  not  this  time.  Eventually  Maria  broke  the  spell.

Dr  Kyritsis  knew  his  answer  was  somehow  gauche  and  that  it  implied  he  was only  interested  in  coming  because  of  the  quality  of  her  coffee.  That  was  not  at  all how  it  was  meant  to  sound.

As  she  cleared  the  cups  and  swept  the  floor  to  remove  the  last  shards  of  the broken  cup,  Maria  heard  herself  humming.  The  sensation  could  only  be  described  as a  lightness  of  heart,  an  unfamiliar  feeling  in  a  grey  place,  but  she  would  enjoy  it  and hope  against  hope  that  it  would  remain  with  her.  All  day  she  felt  as  though  her  feet did  not  quite  touch  the  ground.  She  had  much  to  do  but  each  task  felt  a  pleasure.  As soon  as  she  had  tidied  up,  she  bundled  some  of  her  herb  jars  into  a  rough  basket and  set  off  to  see  Elpida  Kontomaris.

The  elderly  woman  rarely  locked  her  door,  and  Maria  let  herself  in.  She  found Elpida  in  bed,  pale  but  propped  up  on  her  pillows.

For  the  first  time  in  weeks,  Elpida  Kontomaris  was  beginning  to  feel  well again.  The  griping  stomach  aches  she  had  been  suffering  from  finally  seemed  to  be on  the  wane,  and  there  was  no  doubt  in  her  mind  that  her  improvement  was  due  to the  soothing  herbal  medicines  that  Maria  had  been  preparing  for  her.  Though  the skin  on  her  elderly  face  sagged  and  her  clothes  hung  off  her  like  limp  rags,  her appetite  was  beginning  to  return  and  she  could  now  imagine  a  time  when  she  might eat  properly  again.

As  soon  as  she  had  made  sure  that  Elpida  was  comfortable,  Maria  was-­‐  gone. She  would  return  that  evening  to  ensure  that  her  patient  took  her  next  dose,  but meanwhile  she  would  spend  the  day  at  'the  block',  as  it  was  unaffectionately known.  The  large  apartment  building  situated  at  the  end  of  the  main  street  was  still unpopular.  It  felt  lonely  and  desolate  up  there  at  the  top  of  the  hill.  People preferred  the  cosiness  of  the  small  Turkish  and  Italian  houses.  The  proximity  of  the older  houses  to  each  other  helped  promote  a  sense  of  community  which  mattered more  to  them  than  bright  strip  lighting  and  modern  shutters.

Today  Maria  went  there  because  four  of  the  apartments  were  home  to  lepers who  could  no  longer  fend  for  themselves.  These  were  the  cases  whose  ulcerated feet  had  led  to  amputation,  whose  claw-­‐like  hands  rendered  them  incapable  of  even the  simplest  domestic  tasks  and  whose  faces  were  deformed  beyond  recognition.  In any  other  situation,  the  lives  of  these  disfigured  individuals  would  have  been abjectly  miserable.  Even  now  several  of  them  lived  on  the  very  brink  of  despair,  but the  efforts  of  Maria  and  a  few  other  women  like  her  never  allowed  them  to  go  over it.

What  these  people  cherished  more  than  anything  was  their  privacy.  For  one young  woman,  whose  nose  had  been  destroyed  by  leprosy  and  whose  eyes  were held  permanently  open  through  facial  paralysis,  the  stares  of  her  fellow  colonists were  insupportable.  Occasionally  she  went  out  at  night  and  crept  into  the  church, alone  with  the  dark  icons  and  the  comforting  smell  of  melted  candlewax;  but otherwise,  she  would  never  go  out,  except  for  the  very  short  monthly  walk  to  the hospital,  where  Lapakis  would  chart  any  changes  to  her  lesions  and  prescribe  drugs to  help  lure  her  mind  and  body  from  an  almost  permanently  wakeful  state  into  one of  short  but  blissful  sleep.  Another,  slightly  older  woman  had  lost  one  of  her  hands. She  was  paying  the  highest  price  for  the  severe  burns  she  had  inflicted  on  herself while  cooking  for  her  family  only  a  few  months  before  coming  to  the  island.  Dr Lapakis  had  done  everything  he  could  to  try  and  heal  the  ulcerated  wounds,  but  the

infection  had  got  the  better  of  both  of  them  and  his  only  choice  had  been  to amputate.  Her  remaining  hand  was  fixed  in  a  claw.  She  could  just  about  hold  a  fork, but  she  could  not  open  a  tin  or  do  up  a  button.

Every  one  of  the  dozen  or  so  extreme  cases  who  lived  here  was  hideously scarred.  Most  of  them  had  arrived  on  Spinalonga  in  an  acute  state  of  decrepitude, and  in  spite  of  the  hospital's  best  efforts  to  ensure  that  no  long-­‐term  damage  was done  'to  them  by  the  numbing  effects  of  the  disease,  it  was  not  always  possible  to control  it.  They  matched  the  biblical  image  of  the  leper  and  were  as  far  along  the hellish  road  to  disfigurement  as  anyone  could  be  while  still  being  perceptibly human.

Maria  shopped  and  cooked  for  these  end-­‐stage  cases.  She  hardly  even noticed  their  deformities  any  more,  as  she  served  them  lunch  and,  in  some  cases, helped  to  feed  them.  Always  in  her  mind  was  the  thought  that  her  mother  might well  have  been  like  this.  No  one  had  ever  really  told  her,  but  as  she  lifted  spoons  of rice  to  their  lips,  she  hoped  that  Eleni  had  never  suffered  as  these  people  did.  She regarded  herself  as  one  of  the  lucky  ones.  Whether  or  not  the  new  drug  treatment worked  successfully,  these  people's  broken  bodies  could  never  be  mended.

Most  people  on  the  mainland  imagined  that  all  lepers  were  as  ravaged  by  the disease  as  these  extreme  cases  and  the  very  thought  of  their  proximity  repulsed them.  They  feared  for  themselves  and  for  their  children  and  had  no  doubt  that  the bacillus  that  had  infected  the  people  on  this  island  could  be  airborne  into  their  own homes.  Even  in  Plaka  there  were  people  with  such  misconceptions.  In  the  past  few years,  a  secondary  reason  for  resenting  the  colony  had  brewed.  Greatly  exaggerated stories  of  the  Athenians'  wealth  had  whipped  people  up  into  a  state  of  increasing rancour,  particularly  in  the  poorer  hillside  communities  of  Selles  and  Vrouhas  which did  not  enjoy  the  reliable  income  of  fishing  villages  such  as  Plaka.  One  minute  they feared  the  idea  that  they  too  might  end  up  on  Spinalonga;  the  next  they  seethed with  envy  at  the  idea  that  the  colonists  might  be  living  more  comfortable  lives  than they  were  themselves.  Their  fears  were  both  ill-­‐founded  and  deep-­‐rooted.

One  day  in  February  a  rumour  began  to  circulate.  It  was  sparked  by  the  idle comment  of  one  man,  and  like  a  forest  fire  from  a  single  carelessly  dropped  match  it spread  with  frightening  speed  and  soon  rampaged  through  every  nearby  village from  Elounda  in  the  south  to  Vilhadia  on  the  northern  coast.  It  was  said  that  the mayor  in  Selles  had  taken  his  ten-­‐year-­‐old  son  to  hospital  in  Iraklion.  He  was  to  have tests  for  suspected  leprosy.  Perhaps  the  disease  was  spreading  from  the  island  to the  mainland.  Within  a  day,  the  storm  clouds  of  crowd  overreaction  had  gathered.  A ringleader  in  each  village  and  the  long-­‐incubated  feelings  of  fear  and  loathing  were all  it  took  for  anger  to  boil  over,  and  people  began  to  descend  on  Plaka,  intent  on the  island's  destruction.  Their  cause  was  an  irrational  one.  If  Spinalonga  was  sacked, they  reasoned,  no  further  lepers  could  be  sent  there  and  the  Greek  government would  be  forced  to  relocate  the  colony.  They  also  imagined  that  once  threatened, the  influential  Athenians  would  insist  on  being  taken  somewhere  safer.  Either  way,

it  would  rid  them  of  this  filthy  blot  on  their  landscape.

The  mob  planned  to  take  every  fishing  boat  they  could  lay  their  hands  on  and land  under  cover  of  darkness.  By  five  o'clock  that  Wednesday  afternoon  there  was  a gathering  of  two  hundred,  mostly  men,  on  the  Plaka  quayside.  Giorgis  saw  the  first trucks  arrive  and  heard  the  commotion  as  people  spilled  out  of  them  and  made  their way  down  to  the  quayside.  Like  the  other  villagers  of  Plaka,  he  was  aghast.  It  was time  for  him  to  go  over  to  collect  Kyritsis,  but  first  he  had  to  force  his  way  through the  crowd  to  find  his  boat.  As  he  did  so,  he  caught  snatches  of  conversation.

One  of  the  ringleaders  spotted  the  old  man  getting  into  his  boat  and addressed  him  aggressively.

As  the  group  laughed  and  jeered,  Giorgis  pushed  his  boat  away  from  the  quay. His  whole  body  quaked  with  fear  and  his  hand  trembled  violently  on  the  tiller.  The little  boat  fought  hard  against  the  choppy  sea,  and  never  had  the  journey  seemed longer.  From  some  way  off  he  could  see  the  dark  silhouette  of  Kyritsis,  and eventually  he  was  bringing  the  boat  close  to  the  stony  wall.

The  doctor  did  not  bother  to  tie  the  boat  up,  but  instead  climbed  straight  in.  It had  been  an  arduous  day  and  he  was  eager  to  get  home.  In  the  half-­‐light,  he  could hardly  see  Giorgis's  face  under  his  hat,  but  the  old  man's  voice  was  unusually audible.

Kyritsis  was  dumbstruck  both  by  the  stupidity  of  these  people  and  by  fear  for the  islanders.  There  was  little  time.  He  had  a  very  swift  choice  to  make.  It  would  be wasting  valuable  minutes  if  he  went  back  inside  the  great  walls  to  warn  the  lepers. He  had  to  get  to  the  mainland  to  talk  these  lunatics  out  of  their  plan.

Giorgis  swung  the  boat  around.  This  time  the  wind  was  behind  him,  and  the caique  covered  the  distance  between  island  and  mainland  in  no  time  at  all.  By  now the  people  on  the  quayside  had  lit  their  torches,  and  as  the  small  boat  reached  the

shore  another  truckload  of  men  was  arriving.  There  was  a  ripple  of  excitement  as Giorgis  brought  the  boat  in,  and  when  Kyritsis  disembarked  the  crowd  parted  to make  way  for  a  tall,  broad-­‐shouldered  man  who  was  clearly  their  spokesman.

The  noisy  crowd  fell  silent  to  listen  to  the  exchange.

There  was  a  stir  amongst  the  crowd  and  then  it  fell  silent  again.  The  leader could  sense  that  he  had  lost  them.  Kyritsis's  firm  voice  penetrated  the  silence.

People  turned  to  each  other  and  small  huddles  formed.  One  by  one,  torches were  extinguished,  plunging  the  quayside  almost  into  darkness.  One  by  one  the crowd  walked  quietly  to  their  vehicles.  All  their  resolve  to  destroy  Spinalonga  had evaporated.

As  the  leader  made  his  way  alone  back  to  the  main  street,  he  cast  a  backward glance  at  the  doctor.

Giorgis  Petrakis  had  remained  in  his  boat  during  this  confrontation,  watching first  with  fear  and  then  with  admiration  as  Dr  Kyritsis  diffused  the  mob.  It  had seemed  so  unlikely  that  a  lone  individual  could  deter  the  force  of  this  gang  of  thugs that  had  appeared  hell-­‐bent  on  destroying  the  leper  colony.

Kyritsis  had  seemed  to  be  completely  in  control,  but  inwardly  he  had  feared for  his  own  life.  Not  just  that.  He  had  feared  for  the  life  of  every  leper  on  the  island. Once  his  heart  ceased  to  feel  that  it  would  burst  from  his  chest,  Jie  realised  there was  something  specific  that  had  given  him  the  courage  to  stand  up  to  the  crowd:  it

was  the  possibility  that  the  woman  he  loved  had  been  in  danger.  He  could  not  deny it  to  himself.  It  was  Maria  he  had  been  desperate  to  save.

Chapter  Twenty

IT  DIDNOT  take  long  for  word  to  get  around  Spinalonga  that  an  uprising against  the  island  had  been  quelled.  Everyone  soon  knew  that  Dr  Kyritsis  had  single-­‐ handedly  dispersed  a  rowdy  mob  and  for  that  he  was  the  hero  of  the  hour.  He returned  the  following  Wednesday  as  normal,  and  his  anticipation  at  seeing  Maria was  more  intense  than  ever.  The  realisation  that  he  had  such  strong  feelings  for  her had  taken  him  by  surprise,  and  he  had  thought  of  little  else  all  week.  She  was  on  the quayside  to  meet  him,  a  familiar  figure  in  her  green  coat,  and  today  a  broad  smile stretched  across  her  face.

By  now  Kyritsis  was  on  dry  land.  Every  part  of  him  wanted  to  take  her  in  his arms  and  declare  his  love,  but  such  spontaneous  behaviour  went  against  a  lifetime of  reticence  and  he  knew  that  he  could  not  do  it.

Such  unguarded  words.  He  knew  he  should  be  more  careful.

Maria  said  nothing  and  Kyritsis  had  no  idea  whether  she  had  even  heard  him. As  usual  they  walked  together  through  the  tunnel,  their  feet  crunching  on  the gravelly  surface,  and  neither  of  them  spoke.  There  was  a  silent  acknowledgement that  Kyritsis  would  come  to  her  home  for  coffee  before  going  on  to  the  hospital,  but as  they  reached  the  bend  in  the  tunnel  he  saw  immediately  that  today  something was  different.  It  was  dark  at  the  exit,  and  the  usual  view  of  Spinalonga's  main  street was  obscured.  The  reason  for  this  soon  became  clear.  A  huge  crowd  of  perhaps  two hundred  had  gathered  there.  Nearly  every  inhabitant  of  the  island  who  was  fit enough  had  made  his  or  her  way  from  home  to  greet  the  doctor.  Children,  young people  and  the  elderly  with  their  sticks  and  crutches  had  all  turned  out  that  chilly morning,  hats  on,  collars  up,  to  express  their  gratitude.  As  Kyritsis  emerged, applause  broke  out  all  around  him  and  he  stopped  in  his  tracks,  taken  aback  to  be the  centre  of  attention.  As  the  clapping  died  down,  Papadimitriou  stepped  forward.

Expectant  eyes  gazed  at  him.  They  wanted  to  hear  his  voice.

Once  again  appkuse  broke  out,  and  then  the  islanders  gradually  drifted  away and  went  about  their  daily  business.  Kyritsis  had  been  overwhelmed  by  the  ovation and  was  relieved  when  he  was  no  longer  the  centre  of  so  much  attention. Papadimitriou  was  now  at  his  side  and  walking  along  with  him.

Meanwhile,  Kyritsis  thought  of  Maria.  How  could  he  possibly  wait  until  the following  Wednesday  to  see  her?  Seven  days.  One  hundred  and  sixty-­‐eight  hours. There  was,  however,  plenty  to  distract  him.  The  hospital  was  under  pressure. Dozens  of  the  lepers  were  in  need  of  urgent  attention,  and  with  only  two  people running  the  entire  place,  Lapakis  and  Manakis  were  more  relieved  than  ever  to  see him.

On  Lapakis's  desk  was  a  tower  of  files.  He  picked  them  up  one  by  one  and gave  his  friend  and  colleague  a  brief  description  of  the  current  state  of  each  patient receiving  the  drug  treatment.  Most  of  the  fifteen  were  showing  signs  of  a  positive reaction,  though  not  all.

When  they  had  taken  a  brief  look  through  the  notes,  it  was  time  for  the  two doctors  to  do  the  ward  rounds.  It  was  a  grim  business.  One  of  the  patients,  who  was covered  with  pus-­‐filled  swellings,  wept  in  sheer  agony  as  Lapakis  applied  a  solution of  trichloracetic  acid  to  dry  the  lesions.  Another  listened  quietly  as  Kyritsis  suggested

that  the  best  way  of  dealing  with  the  dead  bones  in  his  fingers  would  be amputation,  a  simple  operation  which  could  be  done  without  anaesthetic,  such  was the  absence  of  physical  sensation  in-­‐  that  part  of  the  body.  For  another  there  was  a visible  surge  of  optimism  as  Lapakis  described  the  tendon  transplant  he  planned  to do  on  his  foot  to  enable  him  to  walk  again.  At  each  bedside,  the  doctors  agreed  with the  patient  what  the  next  stage  would  be.  For  some  it  was  the  prospect  of  pain-­‐ relieving  injections,  for  others  it  might  be  the  excision  of  lesions.

The  first  of  the  outpatients  then  began  to  arrive.  Some  merely  needed  new dressings  for  their  ulcerated  feet,  but  for  others  the  treatment  was  more  gruelling, particularly  for  a  woman  who  required  the  excision  of  a  lepromatous  growth  in  her nose  and  the  application  of  a  dozen  adrenaline  swabs  in  order  to  stem  the  bleeding.

All  of  this  took  until  mid-­‐afternoon,  and  then  it  was  time  to  see  the  patients who  were  receiving  the  new  treatment.  One  thing  was  becoming  clear.  Several months  into  the  trial,  the  new  doses  of  drug  therapy  were  producing  encouraging results  and  the  side-­‐effects  which  Dr  Kyritsis  had  been  wary  of  had  not  materialised among  most  of  these  cases.  Each  week  he  had  been  on  the  lookout  for  symptoms  of anaemia,  hepatitis  and  psychosis,  all  of  which  had  been  reported  by  other  doctors involved  in  the  administration  of  dapsone,  but  he  was  relieved  that  none  of  these were  present  here.

Lapakis  was  both  excited  and  impatient.  No  one  would  be  bold  enough  to claim  that  these  lepers  had  been  cured,  and  it  would  be  a  few  months  until  they actually  ran  tests  to  see  whether  the  leprosy  bacillus  had  been  eliminated  from  their systems.  He  had  a  gut  feeling  that  after  all  these  years  of  talk,  false  starts  and  no real  faith  in  a  cure,  a  turning  point  had  been  reached.  Resignation,  even  despair, could  now  be  replaced  with  hope.

With  every  bone  in  his  body,  he  wanted  to  make  sure  that  Maria  was  among the  list  of  names,  but  he  knew  it  would  be  unprofessional  to  exert  his  influence.  His mind  had  drifted  from  discussion  of  the  new  treatment  to  thoughts  of  when  he would  see  Maria  again.  Each  day  would  seem  an  age.

The  following  Monday,  Fotini  arrived  on  the  island  as  usual.  Maria  wanted  to

tell  her  about  the  hero's  welcome  Dr  Kyritsis  had  received  the  previous  week,  but she  could  see  that  Fotini  was  bursting  with  news.  She  had  hardly  got  inside  Maria's door  before  she  came  out  with  it.

—"Through  Antonis,  of  course.  By  all  accounts  the  estate  has  been  buzzing with  speculation  for  weeks!"

In  her  first  few  months  of  pregnancy,  Anna  had  been  racked  by  sickness.  Every morning  and  throughout  the  day  she  heaved  and  retched.  Nothing  she  ate  stayed inside  her,  and  for  several  weeks  her  doctor  was  doubtful  that  the  baby  would survive  at  all.  He  had  never  seen  a  woman  so  ill,  so  reduced  by  pregnancy,  and  once the  vomiting  subsided  there  was  a  new  problem.  She  began  to  bleed.  The  only  way she  might  save  this  baby  now  was  to  have  complete  bed-­‐rest.  It  seemed,  however, that  the  child  was  determined  to  cling  on,  and  in  her  fourteenth  week  of  pregnancy everything  stabilised.  To  Andreas's  great  relief  Anna  then  rose  from  her  bed.

The  gaunt  face  that  had  stared  back  at  Anna  from  the  mirror  only  a  month before  was  now  rounded  once  more,  and  as  she  turned  sideways  she  could  clearly see  a  bump.  Her  trademark  slim-­‐fitting  coats  and  dresses  had  been  put  in  the  back of  the  wardrobe  and  she  now  wore  more  voluminous  clothes,  under  which  her  belly slowly  swelled.

It  was  an  excuse  for  celebration  on  the  estate.  Andreas  threw  open  his  cellar, and  early  one  evening  under  the  trees  outside  the  house  all  his  workers  came  to drink  the  best  of  the  previous  year's  wine.  Manoli  was  there  too,  and  his  was  the loudest  voice  among  them  as  they  toasted  the  forthcoming  child.

Maria  listened  in  disbelief  as  Fotini  described  these  recent  events.

They  sat  in  silence  for  a  while.  The  expectation  of  a  child  was  normally  a  cause

for  great  excitement,  especially  among  women  and  close  relations.  Not  this  time, though.

Maria  had  said  the  unsayable.

The  two  women  talked  for  a  while  longer.  This  significant  family  development had  swept  other  events  aside  and  temporarily  diverted  Maria's  thoughts  from Kyritsis  and  his  gallant  behaviour  the  week  before.  For  their  first  meeting  in  many weeks,  Fotini  found  she  was  not  listening  to  Maria's  continual  chatter  about  the doctor.  "Doctor  Kyritsis  this,  Doctor  Kyritsis  that!"  she  had  teased  Maria  who  had turned  the  colour  of  a  mountain  poppy  when  Fotini  pointed  out  this  slowly  growing obsession.

When  they  got  back  to  the  quayside,  Giorgis  had  offloaded  all  the  boxes  he was  delivering  and  was  sitting  on  the  wall  under  the  tree,  quietly  smoking  a cigarette  and  surveying  the  view.

Though  he  had  sat  here  a  thousand  times,  weather  and  light  combined together  to  produce  a  different  picture  every  day.  Sometimes  the  barren  mountains that  rose  up  behind  Plaka  would  be  blue,  sometimes  pale  yellow,  sometimes  grey. Today,  with  the  low  clouds  across  the  landscape,  they  were  not  visible  at  all.  Parts  of the  sea's  surface  were  whipped  up  by  wind,  creating  areas  of  light  spray  that  swirled about  across  the  water  like  steam.  The  ocean  was  masquerading  as  a  seething cauldron  of  boiling  water,  but  in  reality  it  was  as  cold  as  ice.

The  sound  of  the  women's  voices  disturbed  him  from  his  reverie,  and  he stood  up  to  get  the  boat  ready  to  go.  His  daughter  hastened  her  step.

wonder  how  two  girls  born  of  the  same  mother  and  father  and  treated  the  same way  from  the  day  they  were  born  could  turn  out  so  differently,  but  that  was  about all  the  thought  he  had  given  to  Anna  of  late.

What  reaction  should  he  have  to  hearing  about  the  impending  arrival  of  his first  grandchild?  He  had  seen  several  of  his  friends  in  a  state  of  high  exuberance when  they  became  grandfathers.  Only  the  previous  year  his  greatest  friend  Pavlos Angelopoulos  had  celebrated  the  birth  of  Fotini's  baby  with  an  impromptu  session of  drinking  and  dancing,  and  it  seemed  that  the  entire  population  of  Plaka  had descended  on  the  bar  to  celebrate  with  him.  Giorgis  did  not  picture  himself  making merry  on  tsikoudia  when  Anna's  baby  arrived,  but  it  was,  at  least,  an  excuse  to  write to  her.  He  would  ask  Maria's  help  in  composing  a  letter  later  that  week,  but  there was  no  hurry.

Two  days  later  it  was  time  for  Kyritsis's  visit.  When  he  came  to  Spinalonga  he had  to  rise  at  five  a.m.,  and  after  his  long  journey  from  Iraklion  the  last  few  miles were  full  of  anticipation  for  the  taste  of  strong  coffee  on  his  lips.  He  could  see  Maria waiting  for  him,  and  today  he  inwardly  rehearsed  the  words  he  was  going  to  say  to her.  In  his  head  he  saw  a  version  of  himself  that  was  articulate  but  full  of  passion, calm  but  fired  with  emotion,  but  as  he  got  off  the  boat  and  was  confronted  by  the face  of  the  beautiful  woman  he  loved,  he  knew  that  he  should  not  be  so  hasty. Though  she  looked  at  him  with  the  eyes  of  a  friend,  she  spoke  to  him  with  the  voice of  a  patient,  and  as  her  doctor  he  realised  that  his  dreams  of  confessing  his  love were  but  that.  Dreams.  It  was  out  of  the  question  to  cross  the  barrier  created  by  his position.

They  walked  through  the  tunnel  as  normal,  but  this  time,  to  his  relief,  there was  no  one  cheering  him  at  the  end  of  it.  As  usual  the  cups  were  on  the  table,  and Maria  had  saved  time  by  making  the  coffee  before  he  arrived.

Kyritsis,  listening  intently  to  Maria,  resolved  to  keep  his  feelings  under control.  To  do  otherwise  would  be  wrong,  a  transgression  of  his  position.

yesterday.  He  says  he  can  already  feel  a  change."

He  wanted  to  say  that  he  hoped  she  would  be  on  that  list.  He  wanted  to  say that  all  his  years  of  research  and  testing  would  be  worthwhile  if  she  was  saved.  He wanted  to  say  that  he  loved  her.  None  of  those  words  came.

Much  as  he  would  have  loved  to  linger  in  Maria's  pretty  home,  he  had  to leave.  It  was  hard  to  face  yet  another  seven  days  before  seeing  her  again,  but  he would  not  tolerate  bad  time-­‐keeping  in  himself  or  others  and  knew  that  they  would be  waiting  for  him  up  at  the-­‐hospital.  Wednesdays  were  like  a  shaft  of  sunlight  in the  darkness  of  a  strenuous,  overworked  week  for  Dr  Lapakis  and  Dr  Manakis,  and this  made  Kyritsis's  assiduous  punctuality  even  more  important.  The  extra  workload that  had  been  created  for  these  two  doctors  in  administering  the  drug  therapy  was taking  them  over  the  edge  of  endurance.  Not  only  did  they  have  to  treat  the patients  who  were  in  lepra  reaction,  but  they  also  now  had  people  who  were suffering  from  the  side-­‐effects  of  the  drugs.  On  many  nights  now,  Lapakis  was  not leaving  the  island  until  ten  o'clock,  sometimes  returning  again  at  seven  in  the morning.  Soon  Kyritsis  would  have  to  consider  increasing  the  frequency  of  his  visits to  Spinalonga  to  twice  or  even  three  times  a  week.

Within  a  couple  of  weeks,  Dr  Lapakis  had  shortlisted  his  next  group  of candidates  for  treatment.  Maria  was  one  of  them.  One  Wednesday  in  mid-­‐March, when  the  wild  flowers  were  beginning  to  spread  across  the  slopes  on  the  north  side of  Spinalonga  and  the  tight  buds  on  the  almond  trees  were  bursting  into  blossom, Kyritsis  went  to  find  Maria  in  her  house.  It  was  six  o'clock  and  she  was  surprised  to hear  a  knock  on  the  door  at  that  time.  She  was  even  more  amazed  to  see  the  doctor standing  there,  when  she  knew  he  was  usually  hurrying  to  meet  her  father  in  order to  begin  his  long  journey  back  to  Iraklion.

The  evening  light  glowed  burnt  amber  through  the  gauze  curtains.  It  was  as though  the  village  outside  was  going  up  in  flames,  and  for  all  Kyritsis  cared  at  this moment,  this  could  have  been  the  case.  To  Maria's  surprise,  he  took  both  her  hands.

There  were  so  many  words  he  had  rehearsed,  but  when  the  moment  came  he declared  his  love  with  a  soundless  gesture.  For  Maria,  the  cool  fingers  that  grasped hers  and  lightly  pressed  them  were  more  intimate,  more  articulate,  than  any arrangement  of  words  about  love.  The  life-­‐giving  sensation  of  flesh  on  flesh  almost overwhelmed  her.

In  all  those  hours  of  discussion  when  she  and  Kyritsis  had  sat  together  talking

of  abstract  things,  she  had  been  aware  that  even  in  the  chinks  where  silence  crept  in she  felt  complete  and  content.  It  was  just  like  the  feeling  she  got  when  she  found  a lost  key  or  a  purse.  After  the  fiantic  search  and  then  the  discovery,  there  was  a sense  of  peace  and  wholeness.  That  was  what  being  with  Dr  Kyritsis  was  like.

She  could  not  help  comparing  him  with  Manoli,  whose  flamboyant  talk  and flirtatious  behaviour  flowed  out  of  him  unchecked,  like  water  from  a  burst  pipe.  On their  very  first  meeting  at  the  Vandoulakis  home,  he  had  grabbed  her  by  the  hands and  kissed  them  as  though  he  was  passionately  in  love.  Yes,  that  was  just  it:  she knew  with  absolute  certainty  that  Manoli  had  not  been  passionately  in  love  with her,  but  with  the  idea  of  being  passionately  in  love.  And  here  was  Kyritsis,  who  gave every  indication  of  not  recognising  his  own  feelings.  He  had  been  much  too  busy  and preoccupied  with  his  work  even  to  acknowledge  the  signs  or  the  symptoms.

Maria  looked  up.  Their  eyes  and  hands  were  now  locked  together.  His  was  a look  that  overflowed  with  kindness  and  compassion.  Neither  of  them  knew  how long  they  stood  like  this,  though  it  was  enough  time  for  one  era  of  their  lives  to  end and  another  to  begin.

As  he  left  her  house,  Maria  watched  Kyritsis's  slight  frame  until  it  disappeared round  the  corner  and  out  of  sight.  She  felt  she  had  known  him  for  ever.  It  was  in  fact more  than  half  her  life  ago  that  she  had  first  set  eyes  on  him,  when  he  came  to  visit Spinalonga  in  the  days  before  the  German  occupation.  Though  he  had  made  little impression  then,  she  now  found  it  hard  to  remember  what  it  had  felt  like  not  to  love him.  What  had  lived  in  that  great  space  that  Kyritsis  now  occupied?

Though  no  recognisable  words  of  love  had  been  spoken  between  Maria  and the  doctor,  there  was  still  plenty  to  tell  Fotini.  When  she  arrived  the  following Monday,  it  was  patently  obvious  to  her  that  something  had  happened  to  her  oldest friend.  Theirs  was  a  friendship  that  could  pick  up  a  subtle  sign  of  mood  change;  the merest  hint  of  unhappiness  or  ill-­‐health  was  always  betrayed  in  hair  that  seemed dull,  skin  that  was  sallow  or  eyes  that  lacked  their  usual  sparkle.  Women  noticed these  things  in  each  other,  just  as  they  noticed  a  gleam  in  the  eye  or  a  lingering smile.  Today  Maria  was  radiant.

Maria  was  conscious  that  hand-­‐holding  might  sound  insignificant  to  someone who  was  still  part  of  the  great  outside  world,  but  even  on  mainland  Crete  a  certain

formality  between  men  and  women  was  still  the  norm  for  unmarried  people.

All  of  this  might  have  seemed  feeble  evidence  of  love.  Fotini  had  never  even met  Kyritsis  properly,  so  who  was  she  to  judge?  In  front  of  her,  though,  she  had  the sight  of  her  greatest  friend  suffused  with  happiness.  That  much  was  very  real.

She  was  right.  A  handful  of  people  with  vicious  tongues  had  tried  to  spread the  word,  but  Maria  was  well  liked  on  the  island,  and  malicious  talk  only  tended  to stick  when  someone  was  already  halfway  to  being  unpopular.  What  concerned Maria  more  than  anything  was  that  people  might  think  she  was  getting  preferential treatment;  first  place  in  a  queue  for  injections,  for  example,  or  some  other  kind  of perk,  however  meagre,  would  be  enough  to  spark  jealousy.  That  would  reflect  badly on  Kyritsis  and  she  was  determined  to  ensure  that  no  criticism  attached  itself  to him.  People  like  Katerina  Papadimitriou,  who  had  proved  rather  interfering,  had seen  Kyritsis  leave  her  house  on  many  occasions,  and  for  someone  who  wanted  to be  in  control  of  everything  around  her,  this  was  disturbing.  The  leader's  wife  had done  all  she  could  to  find  out  from  Maria  why  Kyritsis  came,  but  Maria  had  been deliberately  unforthcoming.  She  had  a  right  to  her  privacy.  The  other  source  of trouble  was  Kristina  Kroustalakis,  the  unofficial  town-­‐crier,  whose  attempts  to discredit  Maria  in  some  way  had  continued  relentlessly  for  the  past  year.  She  went into  the  kafenion  every  evening  and,  on  the  basis  of  no  evidence  at  all,  dropped hints  to  anyone  she  met  that  Maria  Petrakis  was  not  to  be  trusted.

It  kept  her  going,  this  mission  to  stir  up  anger  and  discontent.  She  had  tried— and  failed—to  do  the  same  with  Maria's  mother;  now  she  would  do  her  best  to destabilise  the  daughter's  peace  of  mind.  Maria,  however,  was  strong  enough  to withstand  such  behaviour  and  enough  in  love  with  the  doctor  to  make  her happiness  untouchable.

Maria's  course  of  treatment  began  that  month.  Her  symptoms  had  been  slow to  develop  since  she  arrived  on  the  island,  with  the  anaesthetic  patches  on  her  skin spreading  only  marginally  during  the  past  eighteen  months.  Unlike  so  many  of  her fellow  islanders,  she  had  not  experienced  numbness  in  the  soles  of  her  feet  and  the palms  of  her  hands,  which  meant  she  was  unlikely  to  be  vulnerable  to  the  sores  and ulcers  which  had  cost  so  many  of  her  fellow  lepers  the  ability  to  walk  and  fend  for

themselves.  If  a  sharp  stone  found  its  way  into  her  shoe  she  soon  knew  about  it,  and her  lithe  hands  curled  around  the  handles  of  the  big  cooking  pots-­‐she  used  at  the 'block'  as  readily  as  they  had  ever  done.  This  made  her  one  of  the  lucky  ones,  but there  was,  nevertheless,  an  extraordinary  relief  in  the  sense  that,  finally,  something was  being  done  to  combat  the  disease.  Though  it  had  not  yet  devastated  her  body, it  had  already  done  plenty  of  damage  to  her  life.

The  springtime  wind,  the  Sokoros,  blew  from  the  south,  finding  its  way between  the  mountains  to  the  Gulf  of  Mirabello,  where  it  whipped  the  sea  into  a white  frenzy.  Meanwhile  on  land  the  trees,  now  full  of  leaves  in  bud,  began  to whisper.  How  much  better  a  sound  than  the  rattle  of  dry,  barren  branches.  Now  that it  was  nearly  May,  the  sun  came  out  strongly  and  reliably  each  day  and  drenched the  landscape  in  colour.  Monochrome  sky  and  rock  had  vanished  and  the  world  now put  on  its  blue,  gold,  green,  yellow  and  purple.  Throughout  early  summer,  birdsong was  noisily  exuberant,  and  then  came  two  months  when  nature  stood  still  in  the breathless  air  and  the  scent  of  roses  and  hibiscus  hung  heavily  on  the  air.  Leaves  and flowers  had  strained  to  emerge  from  dormant  winter  trees  and  plants  and  remained perfect  through  June  and  July  before  curling,  scorched  and  dry,  in  the  heat  of  the sun.

Dr  Kyritsis  continued  to  visit  Maria  at  home  once  a  week.  They  continued  to say  nothing  of  their  feelings  towards  each  other  and  there  was  an  element  of  magic in  their  silence.  It  had  the  perfect  fragility  of  a  soap  bubble  rising  into  the  sky,  so visible,  so  multicoloured,  but  best  left  untouched.  Maria  one  day  found  herself wondering  how  much  her  mother  and  father  had  ever  spoken  about  love.  She guessed  correctly  that  they  rarely  had;  in  their  happy  marriage,  there  had  seemed no  need  to  mention  something  so  certain,  so  unequivocal.

Throughout  these  summer  months  Maria,  and  now  over  half  the  population of  Spinalonga,  continued  with  the  dapsone  treatment.  They  knew  it  did  not  mean  an overnight  cure—or,  as  the  more  sardonic  of  them  called  it,  "reprieve  from  the gallows"—but  at  least  it  gave  them  hope,  and  even  those  still  waiting  for  their treatment  bathed  in  reflected  optimism.  Not  everyone  thrived,  however.  In  July, having  started  her  course  only  two  weeks  earlier,  Elpida  Kontomaris  went  into  lepra reaction.  Whether  or  not  it  was  a  consequence  of  the  drug  treatment,  the  doctors could  not  be  sure,  but  they  stopped  giving  her  the  injections  straight  away  and  did what  they  could  to  relieve  the  agony  she  was  in.  Her  temperature  raged  out  of control  and  for  ten  days  did  not  drop  below  105  degrees.  Her  body  was  now covered  in  ulcerated  sores  and  every  nerve  felt  tender;  there  seemed  to  be  no position  in  which  she  was  comfortable.  Maria  insisted  on  visiting  her  and,  against  all the  rules  of  the  hospital,  Dr  Lapakis  allowed  her  into  the  small  ward  where  the  old lady  lay,  sobbing  and  sweating  by  turns.

Through  her  half-­‐closed  eyes,  she  recognised  Maria.

Sitting  on  an  old  wooden  chair  by  her  bed,  Maria  took  the  woman's  limp hand.  Was  this,  she  wondered,  the  same  death  that  her  own  mother  had  suffered? The  same  violent  battle  where  a  weary  body  found  itself  under  attack  with  no means  of  defence?  She  had  not  been  there  to  say  farewell  to  her  mother,  but  she would  stay  with  Elpida  until  the  end.

At  some  point  during  that  hot  night,.  Athina  Manakis  came  to  relieve  her.

By  now,  Elpida's  breathing  was  shallow.  For  the  first  time,  it  seemed  that  she was  out  of  pain.  Maria  knew  she  might  not  have  long  and  did  not  want  to  miss  the moment  of  her  going.

Maria's  instincts  were  right.  A  short  while  later,  in  the  quietest  hour  of  the night,  between  the  very  last  moments  of  human  activity  and  the  first  stirring  of  the birds,  Elpida  gave  a  final  sigh  and  was  gone.  At  last  she  was  released  from  her ravaged  body.  Maria  wept  until  her  body  was  drained  of  tears  and  energy.  Her  grief was  not  just  for  the  elderly  woman  who  had  given  her  so  much  friendship  since  she had  arrived  on  the  island,  but  for  her  own  mother,  whose  last  days  might  have  been as  agonising  as  Elpida's.

The  funeral  was  an  event  which  brought  everyone  on  the  island  pouring  down to  the  litde  church  of  St  Pantaleimon.  The  priest  conducted  the  service  in  the doorway  so  that  the  hundred  or  so  who  stood  outside  in  the  sun-­‐baked  street  could share  it  with  those  who  were  crammed  into  the  cool  interior.  When  the  chanting and  prayers  were  over,  the  flower-­‐covered  coffin  was  carried  at  the  head  of  a  long procession  which  made  its  way  slowly  up  the  hill  past  the  hospital  and  the  'block' and  round  to  the  unpopulated  side  of  the  island,  where  rocks  fell  away  into  the  dark Stygian  waters.  Some  of  the  older  people  sat  on  their  wooden-­‐saddled  donkeys  to make  this  long  journey;  others  took  each  step  carefully  and  slowly,  reaching  the cemetery  long  after  the  body  had  been  lowered  into  the  ground.

It  was  the  last  week  of  July  and  the  saint's  day  for  St  Pantaleimon  was  on  the twenty-­‐seventh  of  the  month.  It  seemed  both  a  good  and  a  bad  time  for  such  a celebration.  On  the  one  hand,  with  one  of  the  most  beloved  members  of  the community  so  recently  buried,  the  patron  saint  of  healing  seemed  not  to  have  been doing  his  job.  On  the  other,  many  people  on  Spinalonga  who  had  been  receiving  the drug  treatment  were  showing  early  signs  of  recovery.  For  some,  their  lesions  no longer  seemed  to  be  spreading;  for  others,  as  blood  returned  to  tissue,  paralysis appeared  to  be  reversed.  At  least  for  a  few  it  seemed  as  though  a  miracle  might  be

about  to  take  place.  St  Pantaleimon's  birthday  party  must  go  ahead,  even  if  people thought  they  should  be  in  mourning  for  a  lost  friend.

Special  breads  and  pastries  were  baked  the  night  before,  and  on  the  day  itself people  filed  through  the  church  to  light  their  candles  and  say  a  prayer.  In  the evening  there  was  dancing  and  the  singing  of  mantinades,  and  the  half-­‐heartedness which  had  characterised  some  recent  festivals  was  absent.  When  the  wind  gusted  in their  direction,  the  people  of  Plaka  could  hear  the  occasional  strains  of  lyre  and bouzouki  as  they  drifted  across  the  water.

In  the  timescale  of  this  ancient  disease,  the  oldest  known  to  mankind,  one  or two  years  was  the  blink  of  an  eye.  But  as  Kyritsis  looked  at  Maria,  he  realised  that  it seemed  an  eternity  to  him.  It  did  to  her  too,  though  neither  of  them  was  likely  to  say so.

As  if  to  balance  death  with  birth,  news  came  at  the  end  of  August  that  Anna's baby  had  been  born.  Giorgis  arrived  one  Friday  morning  to  tell  Maria.  He  had  not yet  seen  the  child,  a  girl,  but  Antonis  had  come  hotfoot  to  Plaka  the  previous  day  to tell  him.  It  had  not  been  an  easy  birth.  Anna  had  been  ill  for  some  weeks  at  the  end of  the  pregnancy  and  the  labour  had  been  difficult  and  protracted.  Though  she  was still  weak,  the  doctor  assured  her  she  would  make  a  quick  recovery,  ready  to  have another.  Nothing  was  further  from  her  mind.  The  baby,  fortunately,  was  healthy  and now  thriving.

The  birth  of  a  child  in  the  family  had  softened  Alexandras  Vandoulakis towards  Giorgis  Petrakis  and  he  now  felt  that  it  was  an  appropriate  moment  for reconciliation.  The  old  man  had  had  sufficient  time  out  in  the  cold.  A,  few  days  later an  invitation  arrived  for  him  to  attend  the  baptism.  This  would  take  place  the following  week  and  would  be  followed  by  feasting  and  merrymaking,  for  which Cretans  needed  little  excuse.  The  arrival  of  a  child  in  the  Vandoulakis  family  after nearly  a  decade  of  waiting  was  a  reason  for  great  thanksgiving  and  celebration  in both  the  family  and  the  community  beyond  it.  No  one  welcomed  the  disruption  of

the  natural  order  which  occurred  when  the  people  who  owned  the  land  and provided  jobs  failed  to  produce  children.  Now  that  Anna  Vandoulakis  had  given  birth to  one  child,  none  doubted  that  she  would  produce  another  and  that  the  next  time it  would  be  a  boy.  That  would  ensure,  once  and  for  all,  that  the  old  patterns  would continue  for  the  next  generation.

The  baptism  took  place  in  the  same  church  in  Elounda  where  Anna  and Andreas  had  been  married  nine  years  earlier.  How  much  had  changed  since  then, reflected  Giorgis  as  he  sat  on  a  hard  wooden  seat  at  the  back  of  the  church  waiting, along  with  dozens  of  others,  for  his  daughter  and  her  husband  to  arrive  with  the baby.  He  had  arrived  as  late  as  he  could  and  now  sat  hunched  inside  his  jacket,  keen to  avoid  conversation  with  other  members  of  the  Vandoulakis  family,  whom  he  had not  seen  for  nearly  two  years  now.  Alexandras  and  Eleftheria  were  already  at  the front  of  the  church  when  he  arrived,  and  next  to  them  was  Manoli,  who  was  talking animatedly  to  the  people  in  the  row  behind  him,  his  hands  waving  about  as  he  told some  anecdote  that  left  his  audience  helpless  with  laughter.  He  was  as  handsome  as ever,  his  dark  hair  slightly  longer  than  Giorgis  remembered  it  and  his  teeth  gleaming white  against  his  tanned  skin.  He  must  miss  Maria,  he  mused,  to  have  still  not  found another  girl  to  be  his  wife.  Then  the  congregation  rose.  The  priest  had  entered  and was  processing  down  the  aisle,  followed  by  Andreas  and  Anna.  She  carried  a  tiny bundle  of  white  lace.

Giorgis  was  immediately  struck  by  the  appearance  of  his  daughter.  He expected  to  see  the  radiance  of  motherhood,  but  instead  it  was  an  almost  gaunt figure  who  wafted  past  him.  He  thought  back  to  how  Eleni  had  looked  after  the  birth of  their  two  children  and  remembered  how  she  had  maintained  a  healthy  fullness that  seemed  natural  to  someone  who  had  been  carrying  a  child  all  those  months. Anna,  however,  was  as  slim  as  a  young  vine  and  looked  as  fragile.  It  was  a  long  time since  he  had  seen  her,  but  her  physique  was  not  as  he  had  expected.  Andreas looked  just  the  same,  thought  Giorgis,  rather  stiff  and  upright  and  as  aware  as  ever of  his  place  in  the  world.

The  buzz  of  lively  chatter  stopped  and  a  hush  descended  on  the  congregation, as  though  no  one  wanted  to  wake  the  baby.  Though  she  was  blissfully  unaware  of anything  but  the  warmth  of  her  mother's  arms  around  her,  it  was  a  significant moment  for  the  child.  Until  baptised,  Sofia,  as  she  was  to  be  named,  was  exposed  to the  'evil  eye',  but  once  the  ritual  had  taken  place  her  spiritual  safety  would  be guaranteed.

As  the  rest  of  the  gathering  once  again  took  their  seats,  Manoli  stepped forward.  Aside  from  the  priest  and  the  baby,  he  was  the  key  figure  at  the  baptism: the  nonos,  the  godfather.  In  accordance  with  Cretan  tradition,  a  child  was  given  one godparent,  who  was  the  most  important  person  in  his  life  after  his  mother  and father.  As  the  congregation  watched  and  listened  to  the  priest's  incantations  and saw  the  waters  washing  away  the  baby's  nonexistent  sins,  the  spiritual  bond between  Manoli  and  Sofia  was  forged.  He  was  handed  the  baby  and  now  kissed  her

forehead.  As  he  did  so,  the  indescribably  sweet  essence  of  newborn  infant enveloped  him.  Nothing  seemed  more  natural  than  to  treasure  this  tiny  weightless being.

In  the  final  stage  of  the  ritual,  a  pure  white  ribbon  was  hung  round  Manoli's shoulders  by  the  priest  and  knotted  to  create  a  symbolic  circle  embracing  both  man and  child.  Manoli  looked  down  at  the  baby's  sweet  face  and  smiled.  She  was  awake now,  and  her  dark,  innocent  eyes  gazed  unfocused  into  his.  On  his  face  she  would have  seen  a  look  of  pure  adoration,  and  no  one  doubted  for  a  second  that  he  would forever  love  and  cherish  his  godchild,  his  precious  filiotsa.

Chapter  Twenty-­‐one

AFTER  THE  BAPTISM,  Giorgis  hung  back  as  the  crowd  made  their  way  out  of the  church's  great  double  doors  and  into  the  sunshine  outside.  He  wanted  to  see  his granddaughter  up  close  but  also  he  wanted  to  speak  with  her  mother.  Until  now Anna  had  not  even  been  aware  that  her  father  was  there,  but  as  she  turned  to  leave the  church  she  spotted  him  and  waved  enthusiastically  across  the  sea  of  people  who were  now  making  their  way  past  him,  resuming  the  conversations  they  had  started before  the  service  began.  It  seemed  like  an  age  before  she  reached  him.

She  spoke  to  him  as  though  he  were  some  old  friend  or  distant  relative  with whom  she  had  long  since  lost  touch  but  with  whom  she  was  quite  pleased  to resume  an  acquaintance.

There  was  no  point  in  being  critical  of  Anna.  There  never  had  been.  She  had always  managed  to  twist  criticism  round  and  make  the  accuser  feel  guilty;  the disingenuity  of  her  manner  was  only  what  he  had  expected.

Manoli  had  lingered  at  the  front  of  the  church  while  a  group  gathered  around him  to  admire  his  god-­‐daughter.  She  was  still  bound  to  him  within  the  white  ribbon and  he  appeared  to  have  no  intention  of  letting  her  go.  It  was  loving,  but  also proprietorial,  the  way  in  which  he  held  her  so  close.  Finally  he  made  his  way  up  the aisle  towards  the  man  who  had  so  nearly  become  his  father-­‐in-­‐law.  They  greeted each  other  and  Giorgis  studied  what  he  could  see  of  his  little  granddaughter,  who was  buried  deep  in  many  layers  of  lace  and  once  again  fast  asleep.

He  had  not  really  given  Maria  a  second  thought  for  months  but  felt  he  ought

to  enquire  after  her.

What  he  did  not  mention  was  that  most  of  the  islanders  were  now undergoing  treatment.  There  was  no  point  in  making  too  much  of  it,  because  even he  did  not  know  what  it  really  meant.  He  understood  that  the  injections  they  were having  could  alleviate  symptoms,  but  more  than  that  he  did  not  know.  He  certainly did  not  believe  in  a  cure  for  leprosy.  It  was  pure  fantasy  to  imagine  that  the  oldest disease  in  the  world  could  be  eradicated,  and  he  would  not  let  himself  indulge  in such  a  dream.

As  he  finished  speaking,  Andreas  came  over.

The  family  were  the  last  to  leave  the  church.  The  bearded  priest,  magnificent in  his  gilded  crimson  robes  and  tall  black  hat,  stood  laughing  in  the  sunshine  with  a group  of  men.  All  around  him  women  in  bright  floral  dresses  chattered  and  children ran  about,  dodging  the  adults  and  squealing  as  they  gave  chase  to  each  other.  There was  to  be  a  party  tonight  and  a  sense  of  excitement  hung  in  the  air  like  an  electric charge.

The  wall  of  shimmering  heat  that  met  Giorgis  when  he  emerged  from  the marble  coolness  of  the  church  of  Agios  Grigorios  made  him  feel  light-­‐headed.  He blinked  in  the  glare  and  beads  of  perspiration  rolled  down  his  cheeks  like  cool  tears. The  collar  of  his  woollen  jacket  prickled  uncomfortably  at  his  neck.  Was  he  to  stay with  this  crowd  and  make  merry  through  the  night?  Or  should  he  return  to  his village,  where  the  familiarity  of  every  winding  street  and  worn  front  door  gave  him comfort?  As  he  was  about  to  try  and  slip  away  unnoticed,  Anna  appeared  at  his  side.

Giorgis  believed  as  much  in  the  influence  of  fate  and  the  importance  of  trying

to  ward  off  evil  spirits  and  their  malicious  power  as  he  did  in  God  and  all  his  saints, and  not  wishing  to  bring  any  misfortune  to  this  innocent  baby  he  could  not  refuse his  daughter's  invitation.

The  party  was  already  in  full  swing  when  he  parked  his  truck  under  a  lemon tree  at  the  side  of  the  long  driveway  that  led  to  the  Vandoulakis  home.  On  the terrace  outside  the  house,  a  group  of  musicians  was  playing.  The  sounds  of  lute, lyre,  mandolin  and  Cretan  bagpipe  wove  in  and  out  of  each  other,  and  though  the dancing  had  not  yet  begun,  there  was  a  keen  sense  of  anticipation.  A  long  trestle table  was  laid  out  with  rows  of  glasses,  and  people  helped  themselves  from  barrels of  wine  and  took  platefuls  of  meze,  small  cubes  of  feta  cheese,  plump  olives  and freshly  made  dolmades.  Giorgis  stood  for  a  while  before  helping  himself  to  some food.  He  knew  one  or  two  people  and  for  a  while  engaged  in  polite  conversation with  them.

When  the  dancing  began,  those  who  wished  to  do  so  joined  in,  while  others stood  around  to  watch.  Glass  in  hand,  the  old  man  looked  on  as  Manoli  danced.  His lithe  figure  and  energetic  steps  made  him  the  centre  of  attention,  as  did  his  smile and  the  way  in  which  he  shouted  instructions  and  encouragement.  In  the  first  dance he  whirled  his  partner  round  and  round  until  it  made  onlookers  dizzy  to  watch.  The regular  thump  of  the  drum  and  the  passionate  insistence  of  the  lyre  had  the  power to  mesmerise,  but  what  held  the  audience  spellbound  was  the  spectacle  of  someone entirely  transported  by  the  rhythmic  beat  of  the  music.  They  saw  in  front  of  them  a man  with  the  rare  ability  to  live  for  the  moment,  and  his  sheer  abandon  showed  he did  not  give  a  damn  what  people  thought.

Giorgis  found  his  daughter  standing  by  his  side.  He  could  feel  the  heat  from her  body,  even  before  he  saw  she  was  there,  but  until  the  music  stopped  there  was no-­‐  purpose  in  speaking.  There  was  too  much  noise.  Anna  folded  her  arms  and unfolded  them  and  Giorgis  could  sense  her  agitation.  How  desperately  she  seemed to  want  to  be  among  the  dancers,  and  when  the  music  stopped  and  new  people filtered  into  the  circle  and  others  bowed  out,  she  quickly  slipped  in  to  take  her  place. Next  to  Manoli.

A  different  tune  struck  up.  This  one  was  more  sedate,  more  stately,  and  the dancers  held  their  heads  high  and  rocked  backwards  and  forwards  and  to  left  and right.  Giorgis  watched  for  a  few  moments.  As  he  caught  sight  of  Anna  through  the forest  of  arms  and  spinning  bodies  he  could  see  that  she  had  relaxed.  She  was smiling  and  making  comments  to  her  partner.

While  his  daughter  was  immersed  in  the  dance,  Giorgis  took  the  opportunity to  leave.  Long  after  his  small  truck  had  bumped  its  way  down  the  track  and  out  on to  the  main  road,  he  could  still  hear  the  strains  of  music  in  the  air.  Back  in  Plaka,  he stopped  at  the  bar.  It  was  where  he  would  find  the  easy  camaraderie  of  his  old friends  and  a  quiet  place  to  sit  and  think  about  the  day.

It  was  not  Giorgis  who  described  the  baptism  to  Maria  the  following  day  but Fotini,  who  had  been  given  a  detailed  description  by  her  brother,  Antonis.

Both  women  were  silent  for  a  while.  They  sipped  their  coffee  and  finally  Maria spoke.

Andreas  had  been  delighted  by  the  birth  of  Sofia,  but  became  anxious  about his  wife  during  the  next  few  months.  She  looked  ill  and  tired  but  seemed  to  perk  up when  Manoli  came  to  call.  At  the  time  of  the  baptism  Andreas  had  been  unaware  of the  strong  current  that  flowed  between  his  wife  and  cousin,  but  in  the  months  that followed  he  began  to  question  the  amount  of  time  that  Manoli  spent  in  their  home. His  position  as  a  member  of  the  family  and  now  nonos  to  Sofia  was  one  thing,  but his  frequent  presence  in  the  house  was  another.  Andreas  began  to  observe  how Anna's  mood  could  change  the  minute  Manoli  left,  from  frivolous  to  frowning,  from gay  to  grumpy,  and  noticed  how  her  warmest  smiles  were  reserved  for  his  cousin. He  tried  to  put  these  thoughts  from  his  mind  for  much  of  the  time,  but  there  were other  things  to  arouse  his  suspicion.  One  evening  he  returned  from  the  estate  to find  the  bed  unmade.  This  happened  several  more  times,  and  on  two  other occasions  he  noticed  that  the  sheets  had  only  been  roughly  straightened.

Anna  promised  to  talk  to  her,  and  for  a  time  there  was  no  more  cause  for complaint.

Life  on  Spinalonga  continued  just  as  before.  Dr  Lapakis  came  and  went  each day  and  Dr  Kyritsis  got  approval  from  the  hospital  in  Iraklion  to  increase  his  visits from  once  to  three  times  each  week.  One  particular  autumn  evening  as  he  made  his journey  from  Spinalonga  to  Plaka,  something  struck  him  forcibly.  Dusk  had  already

fallen;  the  sun  had  dropped  behind  the  mountains,  depriving  the  whole  strip  of coastline  of  its  light  and  plunging  it  into  near  darkness.  When  he  looked  round, however,  he  saw  that  Spinalonga  was  still  bathed  in  the  golden  glow  of  the  last  of the  sun's  rays.  It  seemed  to  Kyritsis  the  right  way  round.

It  was  Plaka  that  had  many  of  the  qualities  you  would  expect  of  an  island— insular,  self-­‐contained  and  sealed  against  the  outside  world—whereas  Spinalonga hummed  with  life  and  energy.  Its  newspaper,  The  Spinalonga  Star,  still  edited  by Yiannis  Solomonidis,  carried  digests  of  world  news  along  with  comment  and  opinion. There  were  also  reviews  of  films  which  were  due  to  be  shown  in  forthcoming months,  and  extracts  from  the  writings  of  Nikos  Kazantzakis.  Week  by  week  they serialised  his  visionary  book  Freedom  and  Death  and  the  inhabitants  of  the  colony devoured  every  word,  waiting  each  week  for  the  next  instalment,  which  they  would then  discuss  in  the  kafenion.  When  the  Cretan  writer  was  awarded  the  World  Peace Prize  in  June  that  year,  they  even  reprinted  his  acceptance  speech.  "If  we  do  not want  to  allow  the  world  to  sink  into  chaos,  we  must  release  the  love  which  is trapped  in  the  heart  of  all  humans,"Kazantzakis  had  said.  The  words  resonated  with readers  on  Spinalonga,  who  were  all  too  aware  of  the  mayhem  and  suffering  that they  had  been  protected  from  both  in  Greece  and  further  afield  by  being incarcerated  on  the  island  for  so  long.  Many  of  them  relished  the  chance  to  stretch their  intellects,  and  they  would  sit  for  hours  chewing  the  cud  over  the  latest  sayings of  this  literary  and  political  Goliath,  as  well  as  other  contemporary  authors.  Several of  the  Athenians  had  books  sent  out  each  month  to  augment  the  sizeable  library already  on  the  island  which  was  free  for  everyone  to  use.  Perhaps  because  they dreamed  of  leaving,  they  continually  looked  outwards,  beyond  the  place  where  they lived.

The  kafenion  and  the  taverna  overflowed  with  customers  in  the  evening  and now  even  had  competition  in  the  form  of  a  second  small  taverna.  The  allotments round  the  back  of  the  island  all  looked  as  though  they  would  yield  good  crops  that summer,  and  there  was  plenty  to  buy  and  sell  in  the  twice-­‐weekly  market.  The island  had  never  been  in  such  good  shape;  not  even  when  the  Turks  first  built  their homes  had  conditions  been  so  comfortable.

Occasionally  Maria  allowed  herself  a  moment  of  frustrated  outburst  with Fotini.

Maria  knew  her  friend  was  right.  She  had  nothing  to  lose  if  the  here  and  now could  be  enough.  One  thing  that  did  prey  on  her  mind,  however,  was  the consequence  for  her  of  being  cured.

Fotini  appeared  to  be  missing  the  point.  Maria  stared  down  at  her  hands  and then  looked  up  at  her  friend,  who  was  crocheting  the  edge  of  a  baby's  coat  as  they talked.  She  was  pregnant  again.

Maria  betrayed  none  of  her  anxiety  when  she  saw  Kyritsis.  Instead  she  used the  time  with  him  to  ask  for  advice  in  helping  the  cases  she  looked  after  in  the 'block'.  These  were  people  who  needed  immediate  relief  from  the  aches  and  pains they  endured  on  a  daily  basis.  Some  of  their  problems  were  irreversible,  but  others could  be  alleviated  with  the  right  physiotherapy.  Maria  wanted  to  make  sure  she was  advising  them  correctly  on  exercising,  since  some  of  these  cases  rarely  got  to see  a  doctor.  More  vigorously  than  ever  she  threw  herself  into  her  work.  She  was not  going  to  dwell  on  what  she  regarded  as  the  remote  possibility  of  leaving Spinalonga.  Repatriation  would  bring  such  mixed  feelings,  not  just  for  her  but  for  so many  others.  Spinalonga  was  a  safety  net  for  them,  and  the  thought  of  leaving  it was  bittersweet.  Even  when  they  were  no  longer  infectious,  many  of  them  would carry  the  scars  of  the  disease,  the  strangely  pigmented  skin,  the  twisted  hands,  the deformed  feet.  The  rehabilitation  of  such  cases  would  be  another  lifetime's  work.

Unbeknown  to  her,  the  doctors  were  testing  and  retesting  the  patients  who had  been  the  first  to  receive  the  treatment,  just  over  a  year  before.  Five  of  them appeared  to  be  entirely  free  of  the  bacillus.  One  of  these  was  Dimitri  Limonias; another  was  Theodores  Makridakis.  During  all  those  years  since  Papadimitriou  had beaten  him  to  the  position  of  leader,  Makridakis  had  maintained  his  political opposition  to  the  Athenians,  who  had  effortlessly  made  themselves  the  ruling  class. Now  portly  and  white-­‐haired,  he  still  stood  for  election,  but  each  year,  as  the support  for  Papadimitriou  became  stronger,  the  number  voting  for  Makridakis diminished.  He  hardly  minded  at  all.  Why  should  he?  The  living  conditions  for  all  of them  had  improved  exponentially  since  he  had  arrived  on  the  island  all  those  years ago,  and  he  knew  as  well  as  anyone  that  this  had  largely  been  thanks  to  his  Athenian

friends.  His  attitude  to  them  had  softened  over  the  years  and  he  only  maintained  his opposition  so  that  he  could  sustain  a  lively  debate  with  them  in  the  kafenion.

At  the  tail  end  of  a  long  and  arduous  day,  Kyritsis  and  Lapakis  sat  down  to review  some  test  results.  Something  had  become  very  obvious.

Weeks  passed  before  a  letter  came.  It  stated  that  the  patients  would  have  to test  negative  for  a  whole  year  before  they  could  be  let  off  the  island.  Kyritsis  was disappointed  by  the  delay  this  would  entail,  but  even  so  the  goal  he  was  aiming  for now  seemed  within  reach.  Over  the  next  few  months  the  tests  remained  clear,  and it  looked  as  though  the  first  dozen  could  be  gone  by  Christmas.

The  first  few  patients  greeted  the  announcement  of  their  clean  bill  of  health with  tears  of  joy.  Though  they  promised  to  keep  the  news  to  themselves  for  a  few days,  neither  Lapakis  nor  Kyritsis  imagined  for  a  moment  that  they  could  possibly  do so.

At  four  o'clock  Dimitri  arrived  and  sat  waiting  his  turn.  The  patient  before him,  the  woman  who  worked  in  the  bakery,  emerged  tear-­‐stained,  dabbing  at  her scarred  cheeks  with  a  large  white  handkerchief.  She  must  have  been  given  some  bad news,  thought  Dimitri.  At  two  minutes  past  four,  Kyritsis  put  his  head  round  the door  and  called  him  in.

Lapakis  leant  forward,  his  face  beaming.

Dimitri  knew  what  he  was  supposed  to  feel,  but  it  was  as  though  the numbness  that  used  to  afflict  his  hands  had  returned  and  this  time  taken  his  tongue. He  remembered  little  of  life  before  Spinalonga.  It  was  his  home  and  the  colonists were  his  family.  His  real  family  had  long  since  stopped  communicating  with  him  and he  would  have  no  idea  how  to  find  them  now.  His  face  had  become  very  disfigured on  one  side,  which  was  not  a  problem  here,  but  in  the  outside  world  it  would  single him  out  for  attention.  What  would  he  do  if  he  left,  and  who  would  teach  in  the school?

A  hundred  questions  and  doubts  whirled  around  in  his  mind  and  a  few

minutes  went  by  before  he  could  speak.

He  was  not  alone  in  his  reluctance  to  leave.  Others  also  feared  that  the  visible legacy  of  the  disease  would  always  remain  with  them  and  mark  them  out,  and  they needed  reassurance  that  they  might  be  able  to  reintegrate.  It  was  like  being  a guinea  pig  all  over  again.

In  spite  of  the  misgivings  of  these  few,  it  was  a  momentous  occasion  in  the island's  history.  For  more  than  fifty  years  lepers  had  come  but  never  gone,  and  there was  thanksgiving  in  the  church  and  celebration  in  the  kafenion.  Theodoras Makridakis  and  Panos  Sklavounis,  the  Athenian  who  had  set  up  the  thriving  cinema, were  the  first  to  leave.  A  small  party  gathered  by  the  entrance  to  the  tunnel  to  bid them  farewell,  and  both  of  them  fought  back  tears,  with  little  success.  What  weight of  mixed  feelings  burdened  them  as  they  shook  hands  with  the  men  and  women who  had  been  their  friends  and  companions  for  so  many  years.  Neither  of  them knew  what  life  over  that  strip  of  water  held  for  them  as  they  boarded  Giorgis's waiting  boat  to  pass  from  the  known  into  the  unknown.  They  would  travel  together as  far  as  Iraklion,  where  Makridakis  would  try  to  pick  up  the  threads  of  his  former life,  and  Sklavounis  would  take  the  boat  to  Athens,  knowing  already  that  his  former career  as  an  actor  could  not  be  resumed.  Not  the  way  he  looked  now.  Both  men would  keep  a  tight  hold  on  the  medical  papers  which  declared  them  'Clean';  there would  be  several  occasions  over  the  following  few  weeks  when  they  would  be obliged  to  show  them  in  order  to  verify  that  they  were  officially  free  of  the  disease.

Months  later,  Giorgis  brought  letters  to  Spinalonga  from  the  two  men.  Both described  the  great  hardship  of  trying  to  fit  back  into  society  and  told  how  they were  treated  as  outcasts  by  anyone  who  identified  them  as  men  who  had  once  lived in  the  leper  colony.  Theirs  were  not  encouraging  tales,  and  Papadimitriou,  who  was the  recipient,  shared  them  with  no  one.  Others  from  the  first  treatment  group  had also  now  left.  They  were  all  Cretan  and  had  been  welcomed  by  their  families  and found  new  work.

The  pattern  of  recovery  continued  during  the  following  year.  The  doctors  kept meticulous  records  of  everyone's  date  of  first  treatment  and  how  many  months  the test  had  shown  up  as  negative.

By  late  spring,  save  for  a  few  dozen  cases  who  had  reacted  so  badly  against the  treatment  that  they  had  been  obliged  to  stop  undergoing  it,  and  some  who  had not  responded  at  all,  it  was  clear  that  the  summer  could  bring  a  widespread  clean bill  of  health.  By  July  there  were  discussions  on  Spinalonga  between  the  doctors  and Nikos  Papadimitriou  regarding  how  all  this  should  be  managed.

Giorgis,  who  had  ferried  that  first  batch  of  cured  men  and  women  away  from

Spinalonga,  now  counted  the  days  until  Maria  might  be  on  his  boat  once  again.  The inconceivable  had  now  become  a  reality  and  yet  he  feared  there  might  be  some hitch,  some  unforeseen  problem  that  had  not  yet  been  envisaged.

He  kept  both  his  excitement  and  his  anxieties  to  himself  and  many  times  had to  bite  his  tongue  when  he  overheard  the  usual  tactless  banter  in  the  bar.

Those  who  had  always  been  more  openly  resentful  of  the  leper  colony remembered  with  some  shame  the  night  when  plans  to  raid  the  island  had  nearly got  out  of  hand.

In  Lapakis's  office  early  one  evening,  the  island  leader  and  the  three  doctors were  discussing  how  the  event  should  be  marked.

They  were  all  in  agreement.  Papadimitriou  would  have  his  public  display  of this  new  freedom,  and  those  who  were  yet  to  be  cured  would  be  tactfully transferred  to  the  Hospital  of  Santa  Barbara  in  Athens.  All  that  remained  now  was  to make  the  arrangements.  This  was  to  take  several  weeks,  but  a  date  was  soon  set.  It was  to  be  25  August,  the  feast  of  Agios  Titos,  the  patron  saint  of  all  Crete.  The  only one  among  them  who  harboured  any  misgivings  about  the  fact  that  Spinalonga's days  as  a  leper  colony  were  now  numbered  was  Kyritsis.  He  might  never  see  Maria again.

Chapter  Twenty-­‐two

1957

AS  THEY  WOULD  have  done  in  any  normal  year,  the  residents  of  Plaka  made

preparations  for  the  saint's  day  feast.  This  year  would  be  different,  however.  They would  be  sharing  the  celebrations  with  the  inhabitants  of  Spinalonga,  their  close neighbours  who  had  existed  only  in  their  imaginations  for  so  many  years.  For  some it  would  mean  welcoming  home  almost  forgotten  friends;  for  others  it  would  mean confronting  their  own  deep  prejudices  and  trying  to  suppress  them.  They  were  to  sit down  at  a  table  and  share  food  with  their  hitherto  unseen  neighbours.

Giorgis  was  one  of  very  few  people  who  had  known  the  reality  of  the  colony. Many  others  on  the  mainland  had  for  years  enjoyed  the  financial  benefits  of  having such  an  institution  across  the  water,  supplying  them  with  much  of  what  they consumed,  and  for  them  the  prospect  of  the  colony's  closure  meant  a  loss  of business.  Others  admitted  to  themselves  that  they  felt  a  certain  relief  at  the  thought of  Spinalonga's  demise.  The  sheer  volume  of  sick  men  and  women  over  the  water had  always  worried  them,  and  in  spite  of  the  knowledge  that  this  disease  was  less contagious  than  many  others,  they  still  feared  it  as  they  would  bubonic  plague. These  people  kept  their  minds  closed  to  the  fact  that  leprosy  could  now  be  cured.

There  were  some  who  keenly  anticipated  the  arrival  of  their  guests  for  this historic  night.  Fotini's  mother,  Savina  Angelopoulos,  still  cherished  the  memory  of her  friend  Eleni  whose  loss  she  had  grieved  for  many  years,  and  to  see  Maria  free again  would  be  pure  joy.  It  would  mean  only  one  tragedy,  not  two.  Apart  from Giorgis,  Fotini  rejoiced  more  than  anyone.  She  was  to  be  reunited  with  her  best friend.  No  longer  would  they  need  to  meet  in  the  semi-­‐darkness  of  Maria's  house  on Spinalonga.  Now  they  would  be  able  to  sit  on  the  bright  restaurant  terrace  chewing over  the  events  of  the  day  while  the  sun  went  down  and  the  moon  came  up.

In  the  steamy  heat  of  this  August  afternoon,  in  the  taverna  kitchen,  Stephanos was  cooking  up  great  metal  dishes  of  goat  stew,  swordfish  and  rice  pilaff,  and  the zakaroplastion,  the  patisserie,  was  baking  trays  of  honeysweet  baklava  and  katefi. This  would  be  the  feast  to  end  all  feasts  in  its  lavish  offerings  of  food.

Vangelis  Lidaki  relished  such  an  event.  He  enjoyed  the  emotional  temperature created  by  a  day  so  out  of  the  ordinary,  and  also  knew  what  it  must  mean  to  Giorgis, one  of  his  most  regular  if  least  talkative  customers.  It  occurred  to  him  too  that  some of  the  inhabitants  of  Spinalonga  might  become  new  citizens  of  Plaka,  swelling  the population  and  increasing  his  own  business.  Success  for  Lidaki  was  judged  by  the number  of  empty  beer  and  raki  bottles  that  rattled  around  in  his  old  crates  at  the end  of  each  day,  and  he  hoped  that  the  volume  of  these  might  swell.

Feelings  among  the  lepers  were  as  mixed  as  the  feelings  of  the  people  about to  receive  them.  Some  of  the  members  of  the  colony  dared  not  admit  even  to themselves  that  their  departure  filled  them  with  as  much  dread  as  had  their  arrival. The  island  had  given  them  undreamt-­‐of  security  and  many  dreaded  losing  that. Some  of  the  islanders,  even  though  there  was  not  a  mark,  not  a  blemish,  to  indicate that  they  had  been  leprous,  were  full  of  trepidation  that  they  would  never  be  able to  live  a  normal  life.  Dimitri  was  not  the  only  one  of  the  younger  islanders  to  have no  memory  of  anywhere  other  than  Spinalonga.  It  had  been  their  world,  with

everything  outside  it  no  more  real  than  pictures  in  a  book.  Even  the  village  they looked  at  across  the  water  each  day  seemed  little  more  than  a  mirage.

Maria  had  no  problem  remembering  life  on  the  mainland,  although  it  seemed that  the  past  she  looked  back  on  was  someone  else's,  not  her  own.  What  would become  of  a  woman  who  had  lived  the  best  part  of  her  twenties  as  a  leper  and  who would  be  considered  an  old  maid  back  on  the  mainland?  All  she  could  really  see  as she  looked  across  the  continually  churning,  undulating  waters  was  the  uncertainty of  it  all.

Some  people  on  Spinalonga  had  spent  the  month  before  departure  carefully packing  each  and  every  possession  to  take  with  them.  There  were  several  who  had received  a  warm  response  from  their  families  when  they  had  written  to  tell  them the  good  news  of  their  release  and  who  expected  a  kind  welcome.  They  knew  they would  have  somewhere  to  unpack  their  clothes,  their  china,  their  pots,  their precious  rugs.  Others  ignored  what  was  about  to  happen,  carrying  on  the  routine  of daily  life  until  the  very  last  minute  as  though  it  was  never  going  to  change.  It  was  a hotter  than  ever  August,  with  a  fierce  Meltemi  that  blew  the  roses  flat  and  sent shirts  flying  from  washing  lines  like  giant  white  gulls.  In  the  afternoons,  everything but  the  wind  was  subdued.  It  continued  to  bang  doors  and  rattle  windows  while people  slept  in  shuttered  rooms  to  escape  the  heat  of  the  sun.

The  day  for  departure  came,  and  whether  people  had  prepared  themselves  or not,  it  was  time  to  leave.  This  time  it  was  not  only  Giorgis  who  went  to  the  island, but  half  a  dozen  other  village  fishermen  who  finally  believed  they  had  nothing  to fear  and  would  help  ferry  people  away  from  Spinalonga  with  all  their  worldly possessions.  At  one  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  on  25  August,  a  small  flotilla  could  be seen  approaching  from  Plaka.

A  final  service  had  been  held  in  the  tiny  church  of  St  Pantaleimon  on  the previous  day,  but  people  had  filed  through  the  church  to  light  candles  and  mumble their  prayers  for  many  days  before  that.  They  came  to  give  thanks,  and  as  they  took deep  breaths  to  calm  their  unsteady  nerves,  inhaling  the  heady,  treacle-­‐thick  scent of  the  candles  that  flickered  around  them,  they  prayed  to  God  that  He  would  give them  the  courage  to  face  whatever  the  world  across  that  narrow  strip  of  water brought  them.

The  elderly  and  those  still  sick  were  helped  on  board  first.  Donkeys  worked hard  that  day,  plodding  back  and  forth  through  the  tunnel  bearing  people's possessions  and  pulling  carts  piled  high  with  boxes.  A  great  mountain  of  goods  built up  on  the  quayside,  turning  a  long-­‐held  dream  into  the  tangible  reality  of  departure. It  was  only  now  that  some  of  them  really  believed  this  old  life  was  ended  and  a  new one  was  to  begin.  As  they  made  their  way  through  the  tunnel  they  imagined  they could  hear  their  own  heartbeats  drumming  against  its  walls.

Kyritsis  was  officiating  on  the  quayside  in  Plaka,  ensuring  that  those  who  were still  sick  and  being  taken  back  to  Athens  to  continue  treatment  were  carefully  dealt with.

Among  the  last  few  left  on  the  island  were  Lapakis  and  Maria.  The  doctor  had needed  to  clear  up  the  final  pieces  of  paperwork  and  had  packed  all  the  necessary folders  in  a  box.  These  medical  records  gave  his  patients  a  clean  bill  of  health  and would  be  in  his  own  safe-­‐keeping  until  everyone  had  crossed  the  water.  Only  then would  he  distribute  them.  They  would  be  the  islanders'  passports  to  freedom.

Leaving  the  little  alleyway  from  her  house  for  the  final  time,  Maria  looked  up the  hill  towards  the  hospital.  She  could  see  Lapakis  making  his  way  down  the  street, struggling  with  his  cumbersome  boxes,  and  set  off  to  help  him.  All  around  her  were signs  of  hasty  departure.  Until  that  final  hour,  a  few  had  refused  to  believe  that  they were  really  leaving.  Someone  had  failed  to  fasten  a  window  and  it  now  banged  in the  breeze;  several  shutters  had  come  loose  from  their  catches  and  curtains  flapped around  them  like  sails.  Cups  and  saucers  sat  abandoned  on  tables  in  the  kafenion, and  in  the  school  room  an  open  book  lay  on  a  desk.  Algebraic  formulae  were  still scratched  in  chalk  on  the  blackboard.  In  one  of  the  shops  a  row  of  tins  remained  on a  shelf  as  if  the  shopkeeper  had  imagined  he  might  open  it  up  again  some  day. Bright  geraniums  planted  in  old  olive  oil  drums  were  already  wilting.  They  would  not be  watered  that  night.

Lapakis  knew  as  soon  as  he  had  said  it  how  hard  this  would  probably  be,  and was  embarrassed  at  his  own  thoughtlessness.  He  fumbled  his  way  towards  the words  that  he  thought  would  give  greatest  comfort.

Lapakis  was  not  to  know  it,  but  a  new  beginning  was  exactly  the  opposite  of what  Maria  wanted.  It  suggested  that  everything  of  her  old  life  on  the  island  would be  swept  away.  Why  should  he  know  that  the  most  precious  thing  of  all  was something  she  would  never  have  found  but  for  her  exile  on  this  island  and  that,  far from  wanting  to  leave  everything  of  her  life  on  Spinalonga  behind,  Maria  wanted  to take  the  best  of  it  with  her?

As  she  took  a  last  look  up  the  main  street,  acute  feelings  of  nostalgia  almost made  her  swoon.  Memories  rolled  one  after  the  other  into  her  mind,  overlapping and  colliding.  The  extraordinary  friendships  she  had  formed,  the  camaraderie  of laundry  days,  the  merrymaking  on  feast  days,  the  pleasure  of  seeing  the  latest  films, the  satisfaction  in  helping  people  who  really  needed  her,  the  unwarranted  fear when  fierce  debates  raged  in  the  kafenion,  mostly  between  the  Athenians  and usually  on  subjects  that  seemed  to  have  little  relevance  to  their  own  day-­‐to-­‐day

lives.  It  was  as  if  no  time  at  all  had  elapsed  between  the  moment  she  had  stood  on this  spot  for  the  first  time  and  now.  Four  years  ago  she  had  been  full  of  hatred  for Spinalonga.  At  the  time,  death  had  seemed  infinitely  preferable  to  a  life  sentence  on this  island,  but  now  here  she  was,  momentarily  reticent  about  leaving.  In  a  few seconds,  another  life  would  begin,  and  she  did  not  know  what  it  would  hold.

Lapakis  read  all  this  in  her  face.  For  him,  as  well,  life  was  to  bring  new uncertainties  now  that  his  work  on  Spinalonga  was  over.  He  would  travel  to  Athens to  spend  a  few  months  with  the  lepers  who  were  going  to  the  Santa  Barbara hospital  and  still  needed  treatment,  but  after  that  his  own  life  was  as  unmapped  as the  moon.

They  both  turned  now  and  walked  through  the  tunnel.  The  sound  of  their steps  reverberated  around  them.  Giorgis  was  waiting  at  the  other  end.  Drawing deeply  on  a  cigarette,  he  sat  on  the  wall  in  the  shade  of  a  mimosa  tree  watching  for his  daughter  to  emerge  from  the  tunnel.  It  seemed  as  though  she  would  never come.  Apart  from  Maria  and  Lapakis,  the  island  was  now  evacuated.  Even  the donkeys,  goats  and  cats  had  been  ferried  across  in  a  scene  reminiscent  of  Noah's Ark.  The  last  boat,  except  for  this,  had  departed  ten  minutes  earlier  and  the quayside  was  now  deserted.  Close  by,  a  small  metal  box,  a  sheaf  of  letters  and  a  full packet  of  cigarettes  had  been  dropped,  all  testimony  to  the  hurried  departure  of  the final  group.  Perhaps  there  had  been  a  hitch,  Giorgis  thought  in  a  panic.  Maybe  Maria could  not  leave  after  all.  Perhaps  the  doctor  had  not  signed  her  papers.

At  the  moment  when  these  rogue  thoughts  had  taken  on  an  uncomfortable reality,  Maria  emerged  from  the  black  semicircle  of  the  tunnel  and  ran  towards  him, her  arms  outstretched,  all  second  thoughts  and  doubts  about  leaving  the  island forgotten  as  she  embraced  her  father.  Wordlessly  he  basked  in  the  sensation  of  her silky  hair  against  his  rough  skin.

Her  possessions  were  already  loaded  on  board.  Lapakis  got  on  first  and  turned to  take  Maria's  hand.  She  put  one  foot  on  the  boat.  For  a  fraction  of  a  second  the other  remained  on  the  stony  ground,  and  then  she  lifted  it.  Her  life  on  Spinalonga was  over.

Giorgis  untethered  his  old  caique  and  pushed  it  away  from  the  quayside. Then,  nimbly  for  a  man  his  age,  he  jumped  aboard  and  swung  the  boat  around  so that  it  was  soon  heading  away  from  the  island  and  out  towards  the  mainland.  His passengers  faced  towards  the  front  of  the  boat.  They  watched  the  sharp  point  of  the prow  which,  like  an  arrow,  sped  swiftly  towards  its  target.  Giorgis  was  wasting  no time.  His  view  of  Spinalonga  was  still  all  too  clear.  The  dark  shapes  of  the  windows looked  at  him  like  hollow,  sightless  eyes  and  their  unbearable  emptiness  made  him think  of  all  those  lepers  who  had  ended  their  days  afflicted  by  blindess.  Suddenly  he had  a  vision  of  Eleni  as  she  was  the  last  time  he  ever  saw  her,  standing  on  that quayside,  and  for  a  moment  the  joy  of  having  his  daughter  close  by  him  was

forgotten.

It  was  only  a  matter  of  minutes  now  before  they  were  to  land.  The  little harbour  in  Plaka  was  crowded  with  people.  Many  of  the  colonists  had  been  greeted by  family  and  friends;  others  simply  hugged  each  other  as  they  touched  their  native land  for  the  first  time  in  as  many  as  twenty-­‐five  years.  The  noisiest  contingent  were the  Athenians.  Some  of  their  friends  and  even  colleagues  had  travelled  all  the  way from  their  city  to  celebrate  this  epoch-­‐making  day.  There  would  be  no  time  for  sleep tonight,  and  tomorrow  morning  they  would  all  make  their  way  back  to  Iraklion  for the  return  journey  to  Athens.  For  now  they  would  teach  Plaka  a  thing  or  two  about the  art  of  making  merry.  Some  of  them  were  musicians  and  had  already  practised that  morning  with  the  locals,  forming  an  impressive  orchestra  of  every  instrument, from  lyre  and  lute  and  mandolin  to  bouzouki,  bagpipe  and  shepherd's  flute.

Their  new  baby,  Petros,  in  arms,  Fotini  and  Stephanos  were  there  to  greet Maria,  along  with  Mattheos,  their  little  brown-­‐eyed  boy,  who  danced  about  with excitement  in  the  heady  atmosphere,  not  at  all  aware  of  the  significance  of  the  day but  delighted  by  the  suggestion  of  carnival  in  the  air.

He  began  to  lift  Maria's  boxes  and  load  them  on  to  his  pick-­‐up  truck.  It  was only  a  short  distance  to  the  Petrakis  house,  but  too  far  to  carry  everything  by  hand. The  two  women  crossed  the  square,  leaving  Giorgis  to  tie  up  the  boat.  They  would go  on  foot.  Trestle  tables  were  already  set  up  and  chairs  were  laid  out  in  groups. Bright  little  flags  traced  the  four  sides  of  the  square  and  fluttered  gaily  across  its diagonals.  It  would  not  be  long  before  the  party  began.

By  the  time  Maria  and  Fotini  arrived  at  the  house,  Stephanos  had  already unloaded  the  boxes,  which  now  sat  inside  the  door.  As  she  went  in,  Maria  felt  a pricking  sensation  on  the  back  of  her  neck.  Nothing  had  changed  since  the  day  she left.  All  was  immaculately  in  place  just  as  it  always  had  been:  the  same  embroidered sampler  with  its  welcoming  'Kali  Mera—"'Good  Morning"—that  her  mother  had completed  just  in  time  for  her  marriage  hung  on  the  wall  opposite  the  door  to  greet visitors,  the  same  collection  of  pans  hung  near  the  fireplace  and  the  familiar  set  of flower-­‐sprigged  china  plates  was  ranged  on  the  rack.  Inside  one  of  her  boxes  Maria would  soon  find  some  matching  ones  and  the  parts  of  the  service  would  be  united once  again.

Even  on  such  a  luminous  day,  it  was  gloomy  in  this  house.  All  the  old  familiar objects  might  still  be  in  their  places,  but  the  walls  themselves  seemed  to  have absorbed  the  profound  misery  that  had  been  endured  within  them.  They  exuded  the loneliness  of  her  father's  previous  few  years.  Everything  appeared  to  be  the  same, but  nothing  was  as  it  had  been.

When  Giorgis  walked  in  a  few  moments  later,  he  found  Stephanos,  Fotini, Petros  and  Mattheos,  who  was  clutching  a  small  posy  of  flowers,  and  Maria  all

crowded  into  the  little  house.  At  last  it  seemed  that  some  fragments  of  his  life  were fitting  back  together.  His  beautiful  daughter  was  standing  in  front  of  him,  one  out  of the  three  women  in  the  framed  photograph  he  looked  at  each  and  every  day.  In  his eyes,  she  was  lovelier  than  ever.

Maria  smiled.  They  were  the  first  flowers  she  had  been  given  since  Manoli had  presented  her  with  some  four  years  earlier,  only  a  week  before  she  had  gone  to be  tested  for  leprosy.  The  little  boy's  gesture  touched  her.

It  was  more  than  half  an  hour  later,  changed  into  a  different  dress  and  with her  hair  brushed  until  it  gleamed  more  brightly  than  the  mirror  itself,  that  Maria  felt ready  to  go  out  and  face  the  curiosity  of  the  inhabitants  of  Plaka.  Despite  the welcome  that  some  of  her  neighbours  would  give  her,  she  knew  that  others  would be  scrutinising  her  and  looking  for  signs  of  the  disease.  They  would  be  disappointed. Maria  did  not  bear  the  slightest  trace.  There  were  several  on  whom  the  disease  had taken  a  greater  toll.  Many  would  hobble  for  life  on  their  crippled  feet,  and  the unlucky  few  who  had  lost  their  sight  would  forever  be  reliant  on  their  families.  For the  majority,  however,  lesions  had  vanished,  ugly  skin  pigmentations  had  faded  to invisibility,  and  feeling  had  returned  to  the  places  where  anaesthesia  had  numbed them.

Maria  and  her  father  walked  together  towards  the  square.

Like  any  parent,  he  yearned  for  reunion  and  assumed  that  Anna  thought  it  a good  moment  to  make  up  for  her  negligence  over  the  past  few  years.  If  he  could have  two  daughters  back  instead  of  one  that  would  make  him  happier  than  ever.  For Maria,  on  the  other  hand,  a  meeting  with  Anna  tonight  was  a  prospect  that  she  did not  relish.  Celebration  not  reconciliation  was  the  purpose  of  today:  every  last  leper on  Spinalonga  was  finally  to  be  given  his  liberty.

In  her  Elounda  home,  Anna  was  preparing  herself  for  the  party  in  Plaka, carefully  pinning  her  hair  and  meticulously  applying  her  lipstick  so  that  it  followed precisely  the  curve  of  her  full  lips.  Sitting  on  her  grandmother's  lap,  Sofia  watched intently  as  her  mother  painted  her  face  until  her  cheeks  were  as  highly  coloured  as  a doll's.

Ignoring  both  his  mother  and  his  daughter,  Andreas  marched  in.

and  lifting  her  chin  to  admire  the  effect  before  spraying  herself  with  a  storm  cloud of  French  perfume.

Anna  seemed  oblivious  to  her  husband's  icy  tones.  Eleftheria  was  not.  She was  discomfited  by  the  way  her  son  addressed  his  wife.  She  had  not  heard  this coolness  of  tone  before,  nor  seen  him  give  her  such  glaring  looks,  and  she  wondered whether  Andreas  had,  at  last,  woken  up  to  the  familiarity  that  now  existed  between his  wife  and  Manoli.  She  had  once  mentioned  her  concerns  to  Alexandras.  It  was  a mistake.  He  was  angry  and  swore  to  boot  out  'that  good-­‐for-­‐nothing  Don  Juan'  if  he crossed  any  boundaries.  After  that,  Eleftheria  had  kept  her  worries  to  herself.

And  with  that  she  planted  a  perfect  imprint  of  her  lips  on  Sofia's  forehead  and left  the  room.

Andreas  was  already  waiting  in  the  car,  the  engine  revving.  He  knew  why  his wife  was  taking  such  meticulous  care  with  her  appearance,  and  it  was  not  for  him.

It  was  something  extraordinarily  small  that  had  finally  made  Andreas  face  the fact  that  his  wife  was  being  unfaithful  to  him:  an  earring  under  his  pillow.  Anna  was always  meticulous  about  removing  her  jewellery  and  carefully  laying  it  inside  a velvet-­‐lined  drawer  in  her  dressing  table  before  she  went  to  bed,  and  Andreas  knew he  would  have  noticed  if  she  had  come  to  bed  wearing  her  gold  and  diamond earrings  the  previous  night.  He  said  nothing  when  he  saw  the  glint  of  gold  against the  white  linen  as  he  climbed  between  his  otherwise  immaculate  sheets,  but  his heart  turned  to  ice.  In  that  instant,  his  philotemo,  the  very  sense  of  honour  and pride  that  made  him  a  man,  was  mortally  wounded.

Two  days  after  that  he  came  home  in  the  early  afternoon,  parking  his  car some  distance  away  and  walking  the  last  fifty  metres  to  his  house.  He  was  not surprised  to  see  Manoli's  truck  parked  outside.  He  had  known  it  would  be  there. Opening  the  front  door  quietly,  he  stepped  into  the  hallway.  A  clock  ticked  but otherwise  the  house  was  deadly  quiet.  Suddenly  the  silence  was  shattered.  A woman  wailed.  Andreas  gripped  the  banister,  repulsed,  sickened  by  the  sound  of  his wife's  ecstasy.  His  instinct  was  to  leap  the  stairs  two  at  a  time,  burst  into  his bedroom  and  tear  them  both  limb  from  limb,  but  something  stopped  him.  He  was Andreas  Vandoulakis.  He  had  to  act  in  a  more  measured  way  and  he  needed  time  to think.

As  Maria  approached  the  square  there  was  already  an  immense  crowd gathered  there.  She  spotted  Dimitri  standing  at  the  centre  of  a  small  group  along with  Gerasimo  Vilakis,  who  had  run  the  colony's  kafenion,  and  Kristina  Kroustalakis, who  was  smiling.  It  made  her  almost  unrecognisable.  All  around  was  the  buzz  of excited  talk  and  the  faint  strain  of  music  as  someone  strummed  a  bouzouki  at  the far  end  of  the  street.  Greetings  were  called  from  left  and  right  as  she  came  into  the

open  space.  She  met  many  boisterous  families  and  friends  from  Athens  and  was introduced  by  them  as  Agio,  Maria  or  'the  herbal  magician'.  The  latter  pleased  her, though  being  sanctified  most  definitely  did  not.

The  last  few  hours  had  been  so  momentous  that  she  had  given  little  thought to  Dr  Kyritsis.  There  had  been  no  goodbye,  so  she  was  sure  they  would  meet  again. It  could  not  be  soon  enough.  Coming  into  the  thick  of  the  crowd,  Maria  felt  her heart  lurch  as  though  it  might  dislodge  itself  from  her  chest.  There  he  was,  sitting  at one  of  the  long  tables  with  Lapakis.  In  the  melee  he  was  the  only  person  she  saw,  his silver  hair  almost  luminous  in  the  fading  light.  The  doctors  were  deep  in conversation,  but  eventually  Lapakis  looked  up  and  noticed  her.

Fortunately  it  was  not  a  question  she  was  really  expected  to  answer  and  if  it had  been  she  would  not  have  known  where  to  begin  or  where  to  end.  At  this moment,  Papadimitriou  and  his  wife  approached,  with  two  men  who  bore  such  a close  resemblance  to  Papadimitriou  that  it  went  without  saying  that  they  were  his brothers.  The  island  leader  wanted  his  family  to  meet  the  men  who  were responsible  for  giving  them  a  new  life.  There  would  be  a  thousand  toasts  later,  but they  wanted  to  be  the  first  to  say  thank  you.

Kyritsis  stood  back  but  Maria  could  feel  the  pressure  of  his  gaze,  and  as Lapakis  talked  to  the  Papadimitrious,  he  drew  Maria  to  one  side.

They  left  the  packed  square  where  the  cacophony  of  excited  voices  had reached  a  deafening  pitch.  As  they  walked  the  length  of  the  empty  street  towards the  church,  the  crowd  sound  became  little  more  than  a  background  hum.  A  sense  of impatience  determined  Kyritsis's  next  action.  Enough  of  this  woman's  life  had  been taken  away  by  the  disease  and  every  second  seemed  one  too  many  lost.  His restrained  bedside  manner  left  him  for  a  moment  and  boldness  took  over.  By  the entrance  to  the  church  door,  he  turned  to  face  her.

It  was  a  statement,  not  a  question.  And  it  was  as  if  no  reply  was  required.  For some  time  now,  there  had  been  no  real  doubt  in  Maria's  mind  that  Kyritsis  loved  her but  she  had  forced  herself  to  stop  imagining  that  this  might  have  some  kind  of resolution.  She  had  found  it  safer  in  the  past  few  years  to  banish  daydreams  as  soon as  they  had  started  to  take  shape  and  to  live  in  the  here  and  now  where disappointment  could  not  lay  waste  her  fantasies.

For  a  moment  she  said  nothing,  but  looked  up  at  him  as  he  held  her  by  the shoulders,  his  own  arms  outstretched.  As  though  she  needed  persuasion  that  he

meant  it,  he  filled  her  silence.

So  it  was  a  question.  The  moisture  had  drained  from  her  mouth  and  a supreme  effort  was  required  to  regain  control  of  her  tongue.

He  was  right:  they  needed  to  return  because  it  was  a  night  for  everyone  to share  before  they  went  their  separate  ways.  By  the  time  they  got  back  to  the square,  the  dancing  had  begun.  A  huge  circle  had  formed  and  a  slow  pentozali  dance was  in  progress.  Even  Giorgis  had  joined  in.  The  man  who  so  often  sat  in  the shadows  at  any  event  had  come  forward  and  now  wholeheartedly  joined  the merrymaking.

Fotini  was  the  first  to  spot  her  friend's  return  in  the  company  of  the  doctor, and  she  knew  beyond  a  shadow  of  a  doubt  that  Maria,  at  last,  had  the  opportunity for  happiness.  The  pair  had  chosen  not  to  say  anything  tonight—they  wanted Giorgis  to  be  the  first  to  know,  and  the  heady  atmosphere  of  this  panegyri  was  not where  they  wanted  to  tell  him  their  news.

When  Giorgis  came  to  find  them  at  the  end  of  the  dance,  he  had  only  one question  on  his  lips  for  Maria.

In  the  past  few  years,  he  had  more  or  less  abandoned  hope  of  his  family  ever being  together,  but  today  there  was  a  chance  of  it.  He  was  puzzled  by  Anna's continuing  absence,  though;  she  had,  after  all,  promised  to  be  here.

Fotini  was  busy  carrying  plates  of  food  to  the  table.  She  noticed  the  doctor observing  Maria  dancing  and  felt  happier  than  ever  that  her  dearest  friend  had found  such  a  fine  man.  By  now  it  was  dark,  the  wind  had  dropped  and  there  was  not a  ripple  in  the  sea.  The  temperature  seemed  not  to  have  fallen  even  by  one  degree since  that  airless  afternoon,  and  when  people  came  to  sit  out  between  dances,  they thirstily  gulped  back  tumblers  of  sharp  wine,  slopping  much  of  it  in  the  dust.  Maria

returned  from  her  dance,  found  her  place  at  Kyritsis's  side  and  they  simultaneously lifted  their  glasses.  It  was  a  silent  toast.

Anna  and  Andreas  were  nearly  in  Plaka  now.  Neither  had  spoken  throughout the  journey.  Both  were  lost  in  their  own  thoughts.  It  had  occurred  to  Andreas  that Manoli  might  resume  his  engagement  to  Maria  now  that  she  was  back,  and  as  they approached  the  village  and  could  see  the  thronging  crowd  he  broke  the  silence, taking  pleasure  in  provoking  his  wife  with  the  suggestion.

The  violence  of  Anna's  response  had  shocked  Andreas.

Anna  was  silent,  as  though  her  fury  had  momentarily  subsided.

Anna  was  now  crying  and  laughing  at  the  same  time,  hysterical.  "Years,"  she spluttered.  "Years  and  years..."

It  seemed  to  Andreas  that  Anna's  scarlet  lips  smiled  as  though  even  now  she was  lost  in  some  kind  of  ecstasy.  Her  denial  would  have  given  him  a  place  to  retreat, the  possibility  that  he  was  wrong  after  all,  but  her  admission  was  the  greatest mockery  of  all.  He  had  to  wipe  that  rictus  grin  from  her  face.

In  one  deft  movement  he  reached  inside  his  jacket  pocket  and  drew  out  his pistol.  Anna  was  not  even  looking.  Her  head  was  tilted  back,  the  round  beads  of  her necklace  vibrating  with  her  laughter.  She  was  delirious.

In  the  main  square,  Kyritsis  watched  as  the  first  of  the  fireworks  was  let  off into  the  limpid  sky.  Rockets  would  be  sent  into  the  air  every  hour  until  midnight, each  one  exploding  with  a  violent  bang  and  a  shower  of  sparks  that  were  reflected like  gems  in  the  still  sea.  As  the  first  volley  of  fireworks  came  to  an  end  there  was  a moment's  quiet  before  the  band  thought  it  worthwhile  striking  up  again.  Before they  could  do  so,  however,  there  were  two  more  loud  and  unexpected  bangs.

Kyritsis  turned  his  face  upwards,  expecting  to  see  a  shower  of  glittering  sparks descending  from  the  sky,  but  it  was  immediately  apparent  that  there  would  be none.

A  commotion  had  broken  out  around  a  car  parked  near  the  square.  It  had been  seen  drawing  up  only  a  few  minutes  earlier  and  now  a  woman  lay  sprawled  in the  passenger  seat.  Kyritsis  started  to  run  towards  it.  For  a  moment  it  seemed  as though  the  rest  of  the  crowd  was  petrified  into  inactivity.  Disbelief  that  such  an  act of  violence  could  intrude  on  this  merrymaking  almost  paralysed  them,  but  they cleared  a  path  to  let  him  through.

Kyritsis  felt  the  woman's  pulse.  Although  it  was  weak,  there  was  still  a  sign  of life.

Maria  had  worked  her  way  to  the  front  to  see  whether  there  was  anything she  could  do  to  help.  As  they  laid  the  woman  down  on  the  blanket,  she  realised  who it  was  that  they  held  in  their  blood-­‐stained  embrace.  Many  in  the  crowd  now recognised  her  too  and  there  was  a  collective  gasp  of  horror.

There  was  no  mistaking  her.  Raven  haired,  full-­‐bosomed  and  clad  in  a  dress now  soaked  with  blood  that  no  one  else  at  this  gathering  could  have  afforded  in  a month  of  feast  days,  it  was,  without  any  doubt  at  all,  Anna  Vandoulakis.  Maria  knelt down  beside  her  on  the  rug.

Someone  in  the  crowd  was  heard  to  shout:  "Find  Giorgis!"  and  seconds  later Giorgis  was  kneeling  by  Maria's  side,  weeping  silently  at  the  sight  of  his  elder daughter,  whose  life  was  ebbing  away  before  them  all.

In  a  few  minutes  it  was  all  over.  Anna  never  regained  consciousness,  but  her dying  moments  were  spent  with  the  two  people  who  loved  her  most,  praying fervently  for  her  salvation.

Maria  knew  the  answer  but  she  was  not  going  to  tell  him.  It  would  only  add  to his  grief.  Silence  and  ignorance  were  what  would  help  him  more  than  anything  at this  moment.  He  would  learn  the  truth  soon  enough.  What  would  haunt  him  always was  that  in  a  single  evening,  he  had  celebrated  the  return  of  one  daughter  and  lost the  other  for  ever.

Chapter  Twenty-­‐three

WITNESSES  SOON  EMERGED  from  the  crowd.  One  bystander  had  heard  a couple  arguing  through  the  open  window  of  the  car  when  he  had  passed  it  a  few minutes  before  the  gunshots,  and  a  woman  claimed  to  have  seen  a  man  running  off down  the  street  immediately  afterwards.  This  information  sent  a  group  of  men  off  in

the  direction  of  the  church,  and  within  ten  minutes  they  had  returned  with  their suspect.  He  still  held  the  weapon  in  his  hand,  and  made  no  attempt  to  resist  arrest. Maria  knew  his  identity  before  she  was  told.  It  was  Andreas.

There  was  a  profound  sense  of  shock  in  Plaka.  It  had  always  promised  to  be  a memorable  night,  but  not  quite  in  this  way.  For  a  while  people  stood  around  in  small groups  and  talked  in  low  voices;  it  had  not  taken  long  for  word  to  pass  around  that  it was  Maria's  sister  who  had  been  shot  dead,  and  that  Anna's  husband  had  been arrested  for  the  crime.  An  extraordinary  party  had  come  to  an  untimely  end  and there  was  no  choice  but  to  wind  up  the  evening  and  go  their  separate  ways.  The musicians  dispersed  and  the  remains  of  the  food  were  put  away;  muted  goodbyes were  said  as  the  Athenians  began  to  leave,  taken  by  their  families  and  friends  to start  a  new  life.

Those  with  shorter  distances  to  go  had  been  offered  beds  by  local  people  for the  night  and  were  to  stay  until  the  following  day,  when  they  would  start  their journeys  back  to  their  villages  and  towns  in  other  parts  of  Crete.  Andreas Vandoulakis  had  been  taken  away  under  police  escort  to  spend  the  night  in  an Elounda  cell  and  Anna's  body  was  carried  to  the  small  chapel  by  the  sea,  where  it was  to  remain  before  burial.

The  daytime  temperature  had  not  dropped.  Even  now,  when  night  was  almost giving  way  to  breaking  day,  there  was  a  breathless  warmth  in  the  air.  For  the  second time  in  twenty-­‐four  hours,  Giorgis's  small  house  was  overcrowded.  Last  time  his visitors  had  been  looking  forward  to  a  celebration.  This  time  they  prepared  for  a great  lamentation.  The  priest  had  visited  but  when  he  could  see  that  little  comfort was  to  be  given  in  such  tragic  circumstances,  he  left.

At  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  Giorgis  climbed,  exhausted,  to  his  room.  He was  numb  and  did  not  know  whether  this  was  grief  or  perhaps  a  sign  that  he  was  no longer  capable  of  feeling  at  all.  Even  Maria's  long-­‐awaited  return  felt  like  nothing now.

Kyritsis  had  stayed  for  an  hour  or  so,  but  there  was  no  more  he  could  do tonight.  Tomorrow,  which  was  already  today,  he  would  help  them  make arrangements  for  the  funeral,  but  meanwhile  he  would  snatch  a  few  hours'  sleep  in a  spare  room  above  Fotini  and  Stephanos's  taverna.

At  the  least  interesting  of  times  the  villagers  loved  to  gossip,  but  now  they scarcely  had  time  to  draw  breath.  It  was  Antonis  who  was  able  to  shed  some  light  on the  events  leading  up  to  Anna's  killing.  In  the  early  hours  of  the  morning,  when  a few  of  the  men  still  sat  around  a  table  in  the  bar,  he  related  what  he  had  observed. A  few  weeks  before,  he  had  noticed  that  Manoli  always  seemed  to  slip  away  for several  hours  in  the  middle  of  the  day.  It  was  circumstantial  evidence,  but  even  so  it might  go  some  way  towards  explaining  what  had  driven  Andreas  to  murder  his  own wife.  During  this  period,  Andreas's  mood  had  darkened  by  the  day.  He  was  ill tempered  with  everyone  with  whom  he  came  into  contact  and  his  workers  had begun  to  live  in  fear  of  him.  A  gathering  thunderstorm  rarely  brought  such  tension.

For  so  long  Andreas  had  been  kept  in  the  dark,  blissfully  unaware  of  his  wife's behaviour,  but  once  he  had  emerged  blinkingly  into  the  daylight  and  seen  the  truth, there  had  been  only  one  course  of  action.  The  drinkers  in  the  bar  were  not unsympathetic,  and  many  agreed  that  being  cuckolded  would  drive  them  to  murder. A  Greek's  manhood  would  not  stand  such  ignominy.

Lidaki  seemed  to  be  the  last  one  to  have  seen  Manoli,  who  had  now disappeared  without  trace,  though  his  precious  lyre  still  hung  on  the  wall  behind  the bar.

Later  that  morning  Antonis  went  up  to  Manoli's  home.  He  held  nothing against  this  charming  but  feckless  individual;  he  had  been  a  good  companion  and drinking  partner,  and  even  the  passing  thought  that  he  could  be  lying  in  his  house  in a  pool  of  blood  could  not  be  ignored.  If  Andreas  had  killed  his  wife,  it  might  not  have been  beyond  him  to  kill  his  cousin  too.

Antonis  peered  through  the  windows.  Everything  looked  just  as  normal:  the unruly  mess  of  a  bachelor  home,  with  pots  and  plates  piled  up  in  no  apparent  order, curtains  half  drawn,  a  trail  of  crumbs  across  the  table  and  an  uncorked,  two-­‐thirds-­‐ empty  bottle  of  wine;  all  of  this  was  what  he  would  have  expected  to  see.

He  tried  the  door  and,  finding  it  open,  ventured  inside.  Upstairs  in  the bedroom,  in  a  scene  which  might  well  have  simply  been  further  evidence  that  the person  who  lived  here  had  no  regard  for  tidiness,  there  were  signs  of  a  hasty departure.  Drawers  were  pulled  open  and  items  of  clothing  spilled  out  like  a  volcanic eruption.  Wardrobe  doors  gaped  to  reveal  an  empty  rail.  The  unmade  bed  with  its skewed  sheets  and  flattened  pillow  was  as  Antonis  might  have  expected,  but  what really  gave  him  the  clue  that  the  feeling  of  emptiness  in  the  house  was  possibly  a permanent  one  were  the  picture  frames  that  lay  face  down  on  the  surface  of  a  chest of  drawers  in  the  window.  It  looked  as  though  they  had  been  knocked  over  in  haste, and  two  of  the  frames  were  empty,  their  contents  hurriedly  ripped  out.  All  the  signs were  there.  Manoli's  truck  had  gone.  He  could  be  anywhere  in  Greece  by  now.  No one  would  be  looking  for  him.

Anna's  funeral  was  not  to  take  place  in  Plaka's  main  church,  where  Andreas

had  sought  shelter,  but  in  the  chapel  on  the  outskirts  of  the  village.  This  small building  overlooked  the  sea  and  had  an  uninterrupted  view  of  Spinalonga.  Nothing but  salt  water  lay  between  the  chapel's  burial  plot  and  the  lepers'  final  resting  place where  the  remains  of  Anna's  mother  lay  in  the  ground.

Less  than  forty-­‐eight  hours  after  the  death,  a  small,  darkly  clad  group gathered  in  the  damp  chapel.  The  Vandoulakis  family  was  not  represented.  They  had remained  firmly  within  the  four  walls  of  the  Elounda  house  since  the  murder.  Maria, Giorgis,  Kyritsis,  Fotini,  Savina  and  Pavlos  stood  with  their  heads  bowed  as  the  priest prayed  over  the  coffin.  Wafts  of  incense  billowed  from  the  censer  as  lengthy intercessions  were  said  for  the  forgiveness  of  sins  before  the  comforting  words  of the  Lord's  Prayer  were  uttered  almost  inaudibly  by  them  all.  When  it  was  time  for the  interment,  they  moved  outside  into  the  relentless  glare  of  the  sun.  Tears  and perspiration  mingled  to  flow  down  their  cheeks.  None  of  them  could  quite  believe that  the  wooden  box  soon  to  disappear  into  the  darkness  contained  Anna.

As  the  coffin  was  lowered  into  the  ground,  the  priest  took  some  dust  and scattered  it  crosswise  over  the  remains.

The  priest's  delivery  had  a  singsong  lilt.  These  words  had  been  spoken  a thousand  times,  and  they  held  the  small  congregation  spellbound  as  they  poured from  his  scarcely  parted  lips.

Fotini  contemplated  the  notion  of  a  pure  and  spotless  Virgin  interceding  on Anna's  behalf.  If  only  Anna  herself  had  remained  a  little  more  spotless,  they  might not  be  standing  here  now,  she  thought.

By  the  time  the  service  was  drawing  to  a  close,  the  priest  was  in  competition with  an  army  of  a  thousand  cicadas,  whose  unrelenting  noise  reached  a  climax  as  he came  to  the  closing  words.

A  few  minutes  passed  before  anyone  could  bring  themselves  to  move.  Maria spoke  first,  thanking  the  priest  for  conducting  the  ceremony,  and  then  it  was  time  to walk  back  into  the  village.  Maria  went  home  with  her  father.  He  wanted  sleep,  he said.  That  was  all  he  wanted.  Fotini  and  her  parents  would  return  to  the  taverna  to find  Stephanos,  who  had  been  minding  Petros  and  playing  with  the  carefree Mattheos  on  the  beach.  It  was'the  quiet  mid-­‐afternoon  hour.  Not  a  soul  stirred.

Kyritsis  would  wait  for  Maria  on  a  shady  bench  in  the  square.  Maria  needed  to get  away  from  Plaka  just  for  a  few  hours  and  they  planned  to  drive  to  Elounda.  It would  be  the  first  journey  she  had  made  in  four  years,  apart  from  the  short  one

which  had  brought  her  from  Spinalonga  to  the  mainland.  She  yearned  for  an  hour  or so  of  privacy.

There  was  a  small  kafenion  she  remembered  by  the  water's  edge  in  Elounda. Admittedly  it  had  been  somewhere  she  used  to  go  with  Manoli,  but  that  was  all  in the  past  now.  She  would  not  let  thoughts  of  him  follow  her.  As  they  were  shown  to a  table  where  the  sea  lapped  gently  on  the  rocks  below  them,  the  events  of  the  past forty-­‐eight  hours  already  seemed  distant.  It  was  as  though  they  had  happened  to someone  else,  somewhere  else.  When  she  looked  across  the  water,  however,  she could  clearly  see  Spinalonga.  From  here  the  empty  island  looked  just  the  same  as  it ever  had,  and  it  was  hard  to  believe  it  was  now  completely  devoid  of  human  life. Plaka  was  out  of  sight,  concealed  behind  a  rocky  promontory.

It  was  the  first  opportunity  Maria  and  Kyritsis  had  had  to  be  alone  since  the moment  outside  the  church  on  the  night  of  the  feast.  For  perhaps  one  hour  her  life had  held  such  promise,  such  a  future,  but  now  she  felt  that  this  great  step  forward had  been  counteracted  by  several  back.  She  had  never  even  addressed  the  man  she loved  by  his  Christian  name.

When  he  looked  back  on  this  moment  some  weeks  later,  Kyritsis  blamed himself  for  rushing  in.  His  overexcitement  at  the  prospect  of  their  future  together bubbled  over  into  talk  of  his  apartment  in  Iraklion  and  how  he  hoped  it  would  be adequate  for  them.

He  took  her  hands  across  the  table  and  held  them.  She  looked  troubled.  Of course  she  did.  They  had  just  buried  her  sister,  and  here  he  was,  impatient  as  a child,  wanting  to  talk  about  the  practicalities  of  their  life  together.  Clearly  Maria needed  more  time.

How  comforting,  the  sensation  of  his  hands  clasping  hers,  full  of  such  warmth and  generosity,  she  thought.  Why  couldn't  they  just  remain  here  at  this  table  for ever?  No  one  knew  where  they  were.  Nothing  could  disturb  them.  Except  her conscience,  which  had  followed  them  here,  and  now  nagged  at  her.

The  words  seemed  to  Kyritsis  to  have  come  out  of  the  clear  blue  sky.  He  was shocked.  Within  minutes,  though,  he  saw  it  made  perfect  sense.  How  could  he  have expected  everything  to  continue  on  its  former  path,  given  the  dramatic  events  of the  past  two  days?  He  was  a  fool.  How  could  this  woman,  whom  he  had  been  drawn to  as  much  by  her  integrity  and  selflessness  as  by  her  beauty,  be  expected  to  leave her  bereaved  and  distressed  father?  For  his  whole  life  rationality  had  ruled  him,  and the  one  moment  when  he  had  denied  it  to  let  his  emotions  take  their  turn,  he  had stumbled.

One  part  of  him  wanted  to  protest,  but  instead  he  held  on  to  Maria's  hands

and  gently  squeezed  them.  He  then  spoke  with  such  understanding  and  forgiveness that  it  almost  broke  her  heart.

It  was  the  truth,  but  even  more  so  was  what  he  said  next.

The  owner  of  the  kafenion  kept  his  distance  from  their  table.  He  was  aware that  the  woman  had  broken  down  in  tears  and  he  did  not  like  to  intrude  on  his customers'  privacy.  There  had  not  been  any  raised  voices,  which  was  unusual  for  a row,  but  it  was  then  that  he  observed  the  sombre  way  in  which  the  couple  were dressed.  Except  for  old  widows,  black  was  unusual  for  a  summer's  day,  and  it dawned  on  him  that  perhaps  they  were  in  mourning.

Maria  eased  her  hands  away  from  Kyritsis's  grasp  and  sat  with  her  head bowed.  Her  tears  flowed  freely  now  and  ran  down  her  arms,  her  neck  and  between her  breasts.  She  could  not  stop  them.  The  restrained  grief  at  the  graveside  had  only temporarily  held  back  the  overwhelming  sorrow  that  now  burst  its  dam  and  would not  abate  until  every  last  drop  of  it  had  poured  out  and  drained  away.  The  fact  that Kyritsis  was  so  reasonable  made  her  weep  all  the  more  and  made  her  decision  all the  more  lamentable.

Kyritsis  sat  looking  at  the  top  of  Marias  bowed  head.  When  the  shaking  had subsided,  he  touched  her  gently  on  the  shoulder.

They  walked  away  from  their  table,  hand  in  hand,  Maria's  head  resting  on Kyritsis's  shoulder.  As  they  drove  back  to  Plaka,  in  silence,  the  sapphire-­‐blue  water still  sparkled,  but  the  sky  had  begun  to  change.  It  had  started  its  subtle  transition through  azure  to  pink,  and  the  rocks  took  on  the  same  warm  tones.  At  last  this terrible  day  was  beginning  to  fade.

When  they  reached  the  village,  the  doctor  spoke.

He  was  right.  There  was  too  much  finality  about  the  word.  How  could something  that  had  never  really  begun  come  to  an  end?

Maria  nodded.

It  was  pointless  prolonging  the  moment.  The  sooner  Kyritsis  went,  the  better it  would  be  for  both  of  them.  He  parked  outside  Maria's  house  and  got  out  to  open the  passenger  door.  Face  to  face  they  stood,  and  then  for  a  few  seconds  they  held each  other.  They  did  not  so  much  embrace  as  cling  to  each  other,  like  children  in  a storm.  Then,  with  great  strength  of  will,  they  simultaneously  released  each  other. Maria  immediately  turned  away  and  went  into  her  house.  Kyritsis  climbed  back  into his  car  and  drove  away.  He  would  not  stop  until  he  got  back  to  Iraklion.

The  unbearable  silence  inside  the  house  quickly  drove  Maria  back  out  into  the street.  She  needed  the  sound  of  the  cicadas,  a  dog  barking,  the  buzz  of  a  scooter, squeals  of  children.  All  of  these  greeted  her  as  she  walked  towards  the  centre  of  the village  where,  in  spite  of  herself,  she  glanced  up  the  street  to  check  whether Kyritsis's  car  was  still  in  sight.  Even  the  trail  of  dust  his  wheels  sent  into  the  air  had already  settled.

Maria  needed  Fotini.  She  walked  quickly  to  the  taverna,  where  her  friend  was spreading  the  tables  with  paper  cloths,  snapping  lengths  of  elastic  around  them  to keep  them  from  blowing  away  in  the  wind.

Fotini  was  right.  Maria  had  not  eaten  for  over  twenty-­‐four  hours,  but  she  had no  appetite  now.

Fotini  was  unconvinced.  She  put  the  list  of  things  that  needed  to  be  done before  the  first  evening  customers  arrived  to  the  back  of  her  mind.  All  of  that  could wait.  Drawing  up  another  chair,  she  sat  down  close  to  Maria  and  put  her  arm  around her.

It  was  the  note  of  kindness  in  her  voice  that  sent  Maria  shuddering  into  sobs, and  through  them  Fotini  could  make  out  a  few  words  that  gave  away  the  reason  for her  friend's  ever-­‐deepening  misery.

Maria  gradually  calmed  down.

Maria  took  a  very  deep  breath.

She  was  strong  enough  to  mean  it.  The  fates  had  been  vengeful  so  far,  but with  each  blow  Maria  became  more  resistant  to  the  next.

The  two  friends  sat  for  a  while,  and  eventually  Stephanos  came  out  and persuaded  Maria  to  eat.  If  she  was  going  to  make  such  a  sacrifice  for  her  father, then  she  might  as  well  be  strong  enough  to  be  useful.  It  was  all  completely  pointless if  she  made  herself  ill.

As  night  fell,  Maria  rose  to  go.  When  she  reached  her  house,  it  was  still shrouded  in  silence.  Creeping  up  to  the  spare  bedroom,  which  would  now  be  hers again,  she  lay  down  on  the  bed.  She  did  not  wake  until  late  the  following  morning.

Anna's  death  left  a  trail  of  other  disrupted  and  destroyed  lives.  Not  just  her sister's,  her  father's  and  her  husband's,  but  her  daughter's  too.  Sofia  was  not  yet two  years  old,  and  it  was  not  long  before  she  noticed  the  absence  of  her  parents. Her  grandparents  told  her  that  they  had  both  gone  away  for  a  while.  She  cried  at first,  and  then  began  the  process  of  forgetting.  As  for  Alexandras  and  Eleftheria Vandoulakis,  in  one  evening  they  had  lost  their  son,  their  hopes  for  the  future  and the  reputation  of  the  family.  Everything  that  had  ever  worried  them  about  Andreas marrying  beneath  his  class  had  been  fulfilled  to  the  letter.  Eleftheria,  who  had  been so  willing  to  accept  Anna  Petrakis,  had  to  face  the  bitterest  disappointment.  It  was only  a  short  time  before  Manoli's  absence  was  brought  to  their  attention  and  they worked  out  for  themselves  what  had  led  to  the  horrifying  events  of  the  feast  of Agios  Titos.  That  woman  had  brought  the  deepest  shame  on  them  all,  and  the thought  of  their  son  languishing  in  his  prison  cell  was  a  daily  torture.

Andreas's  trial  in  Agios  Nikolaos  lasted  three  days.  Maria,  Fotini  and  several other  villagers  were  called  as  witnesses,  and  Dr  Kyritsis  came  from  Iraklion  to  testify, remaining  afterwards  only  briefly  to  speak  to  Maria.  Eleftheria  and  Alexandras  sat impassively  in  the  gallery,  both  of  them  gaunt  with  anxiety  and  shame  at  being  on such  public  display.  The  circumstances  of  the  murder  were  hung  out  and  aired  for the  whole  of  Crete  to  salivate  over,  and  the  daily  newspaper  ran  every  last sensational  detail.  Giorgis  attended  throughout.  Though  he  wanted  justice  for  Anna, he  was  never  in  any  doubt  that  it  was  his  daughter's  behaviour  that  had  triggered Andreas's  violent  reaction,  and  for  the  first  time  in  fourteen  years  he  was  glad  that Eleni  was  not  there.

Chapter  Twenty-­‐four

1958

FOR  SEVERAL  MONTHS  there  was  no  communication  between  the Vandoulakis  and  Petrakis  families.  There  was  Sofia  to  consider,  however,  and  for  her sake  this  ice  age  had  to  pass.  Eleftheria  would  have  come  round  to  a  point  of reconciliation  more  speedily  than  her  husband,  but  even  Alexandras,  given  time  to reflect,  began  to  see  that  it  was  not  only  his  own  family  who  had  suffered.  He realised  that  the  damage  sustained  had  been  heavy  on  both  sides  and,  with  an almost  mathematical  precision  that  was  strictly  in  character,  he  weighed  up  their respective  losses.  On  the  Vandoulakis  side:  one  imprisoned  son,  one  disgraced nephew,  one  family  name  brought  to  ruins.  On  the  Petrakis  side:  one  dead daughter,  a  family  depleted  by  murder  and  before  that  by  leprosy.  By  his  powers  of reckoning,  the  equation  balanced.  The  person  who  stood  in  the  middle  was  Sofia, and  it  was  the  responsibility  of  all  of  them  to  knit  some  kind  of  a  life  together  for  the

little  girl.

Alexandras  eventually  wrote  to  Giorgis.

We  have  had  our  differences,  but  it  is  time  to  end  them.  Sofia  is  growing  up without  her  parents  and  the  best  thing  we  can  offer  her  is  the  love  and companionship  of  the  remaining  members  of  her  family.  Eleftheria  and  I  would  be very  happy  if  you  and  Maria  would  join  us  for  lunch  next  Sunday.

Giorgis  did  not  have  a  telephone  in  his  home,  but  he  hurried  straight  to  the bar  and  used  the  one  there.  He  wanted  to  let  Alexandras  know  immediately  that they  accepted  the  invitation  and  would  both  be  happy  to  come,  and  he  left  a message  with  the  Vandoulakis  housekeeper  to  say  so.  Maria,  however,  had  mixed feelings  when  she  read  the  letter.

Maria  was  incandescent  with  rage.

Maria  reflected  for  a  moment.  She  knew  her  father  was  right.  If  parents  did carry  the  burden  of  their  child's  mistakes,  it  would  be  a  different  world.  It  would mean  that  it  was  Giorgis's  fault  that  his  elder  daughter  had  driven  her  husband  to shoot  her  through  her  own  reckless  and  unfaithful  behaviour.  That  was  clearly absurd.  She  had  to  concede  the  point,  if  reluctantly.

Some  kind  of  rapprochement  was  forged  between  the  families  after  this,  with unspoken  acknowledgement  that  there  was  fault  on  both  sides  for  the  catastrophe that  had  damaged  them  all.  Sofia,  from  the  very  beginning,  was  well  cushioned.  She lived  with  her  grandparents  but  every  week  she  would  go  down  to  Plaka  and  spend a  day  with  her  other  grandfather  and  Maria,  who  would  dedicate  themselves  to  her entertainment.  They  would  go  out  on  boat  trips,  catch  fish  and  crabs  and  sea urchins,  paddle  in  the  sea  and  go  for  short  walks  along  the  cliff  path.  At  six  o'clock, when  they  delivered  Sofia  back  to  her  grandparents'  house  near  Elounda,  they would  all  be  tired  out.  Sofia  had  the  adoring  attention  of  three  grandparents.  In some  ways,  she  was  lucky.

As  spring  turned  into  early  summer,  Kyritsis  counted  that  two  hundred  days had  passed  since  Anna's  burial  and  the  day  he  had  driven  Maria  to  Elounda  and realised  that  their  future  was  not  going  to  be  spent  together  after  all.  Every  day  he struggled  to  stop  himself  thinking  of  what  might  have  been.  He  lived  the  same disciplined  existence  he  had  always  lived:  into  the  hospital  on  the  dot  of  seven-­‐thirty

in  the  morning  and  out  again  at  nearly  eight  at  night,  with  a  solitary  evening  of reading,  studying  and  letter-­‐writing  ahead  of  him.  It  occupied  him  thoroughly,  and many  envied  his  dedication  and  his  apparent  absorption  in  what  he  did.

Within  weeks  of  the  patients'  exodus  from  Spinalonga,  news  that  the  island was  no  longer  in  use  as  a  leper  colony  had  spread  across  Crete.  It  meant  that  many who  had  feared  to  reveal  potential  leprosy  symptoms  emerged  from  their  villages and  came  to  seek  help.  Now  that  they  knew  treatment  would  not  mean incarceration  in  the  leper  colony,  they  were  unafraid  to  reveal  themselves  and  came in  waves  to  see  the  man  who  was  known  to  have  brought  the  cure  for  leprosy  to Crete.  Though  modesty  prevented  Dr  Kyritsis  from  basking  in  this  glory,  his reputation  spread.  Once  diagnosis  had  been  confirmed,  sufferers  would  come  to him  for  regular  injections  of  dapsone,  and  usually,  in  the  space  of  a  few  months,  as doses  were  gradually  raised,  improvements  would  begin  to  show.

For  many  months  Kyritsis  continued  his  work  as  head  of  department  in  the bustling  main  hospital  of  Iraklion.  There  should  have  been  nothing  more  rewarding than  seeing  his  patients  walk  away  from  him  cured  of  the  disease  and  discharged  for good.  All  he  felt,  however,  was  a  terrible  emptiness.  He  felt  this  in  the  hospital  and he  felt  it  in  his  home,  and  each  day  became  more  of  an  effort  than  the  last  as  he dragged  himself  from  his  bed  and  back  to  the  hospital.  He  even  began  to  question whether  he  really  had  to  administer  the  drugs  himself.  Could  someone  else  not  take his  place?  Was  he  really  needed?

It  was  during  this  time  of  feeling  dispensable  inside  the  hospital  and  empty outside  it  that  he  received  a  letter  from  Dr  Lapakis,  who,  since  Spinalonga  had closed,  was  now  married  and  had  taken  up  the  post  of  head  of  derma-­‐ tovenereology  at  the  general  hospital  in  Agios  Nikolaos.

My  dear  Nikolaos,

I  wonder  how  you  are.  Time  has  gone  so  quickly  since  we  all  left  Spinalonga and  in  all  those  months  I  fully  intended  to  get  in  touch  with  you.  Life  is  busy  back here  in  Agios  Nikolaos  and  the  hospital  has  greatly  expanded  since  I  was  here  full time.  Do  come  and  see  us  if  you  would  like  a  break  from  Iraklion.  My  wife  has  heard so  much  about  you  and  would  love  to  meet  you.

Yours,  Christos

It  set  Kyritsis  thinking.  If  someone  he  respected  as  much  as  Christos  Lapakis found  fulfilment  working  in  Agios  Nikolaos,  then  perhaps  the  choice  was  his.  If  Maria was  not  able  to  come  to  him,  he  would  have  to  go  to  her.  Every  Tuesday,  Crete's daily  newspaper  carried  advertisements  for  hospital  vacancies  and  each  week  he would  scan  them,  hoping  to  find  work  closer  to  the  woman  he  loved.  The  weeks passed  and  several  suitable  jobs  were  advertised  in  Hania,  but  these  would  take  him even  further  from  his  desired  destination.  Disenchantment  set  in,  until  one  day  he received  another  letter  from  Lapakis.

Dear  Nikolaos,

I  hope  all  is  well  with  you.  You'll  think  me  henpecked  I  am  sure,  but  I  am planning  to  give  up  my  job  here.  My  wife  wants  to  live  closer  to  her  parents  in Rethimnon  so  we  shall  be  moving  in  the  next  few  months.  It  just  occurred  to  me  that you  might  be  interested  in  taking  over  my  department.  The  hospital  is  expanding rapidly  and  there  could  be  a  bigger  opportunity  later  on.  Meanwhile,  I  thought  I should  let  you  know  of  my  plans.

Yours,  Christos

Although  nothing  had  ever  been  said,  Lapakis  knew  that  his  colleague  had formed  a  bond  with  Maria  Petrakis,  and  he  had  been  dismayed  to  learn  that  Kyritsis had  returned  to  Iraklion  alone.  He  surmised  that  Maria  had  felt  obliged  to  stay  with her  father  and  regarded  the  whole  situation  as  a  terrible  waste.

Kyritsis  read  and  reread  the  letter  before  putting  it  into  the  top  pocket  of  his white  coat,  where  he  reached  for  it  several  times  during  the  day  and  ran  his  eyes over  the  words  again  and  again.  Although  a  job  in  Agios  Nikolaos  would  close  all kinds  of  doors  in  his  career,  there  was  one  door  in  his  life  which  would  open:  the opportunity  to  live  closer  to  Maria.  That  night  he  wrote  to  his  old  friend  and  asked him  how  he  should  pursue  this  opportunity.  There  were  formalities  to  be  attended to,  other  candidates  to  be  interviewed  and  so  on,  Lapakis  replied,  but  if  Kyritsis could  write  a  formal  letter  of  application  within  the  week,  then  it  was  likely  that  he would  be  considered  for  the  post.  The  truth  of  it,  as  both  of  them  well  knew,  was that  Kyritsis  was  overqualified  for  the  job.  Moving  from  the  headship  of  a department  in  a  city  hospital  to  the  same  position  in  a  smaller  hospital  meant  that no  one  doubted  he  could  do  the  job,  and  the  hospital  was  delighted,  if  slightly mystified,  that  someone  of  his  calibre  and  reputation  should  have  applied.  He  was summoned  for  interview  and  it  was  only  a  matter  of  days  before  he  then  received confirmation  that  they  would  like  to  award  him  the  post.

Kyritsis's  plan  was  to  establish  himself  in  his  new  life  before  he  contacted Maria.  He  did  not  want  her  to  raise  any  objections  to  the  apparent  turnaround  in  his career  and  planned  simply  to  present  the  situation  as  a  fait  accompli.  Less  than  a month  later,  now  established  in  a  small  house  not  far  from  the  hospital,  he  set  off  to Plaka,  which  was  only  twenty-­‐five  minutes'  drive  away.  It  was  a  Sunday  afternoon  in May,  and  when  Maria  opened  her  front  door  to  see  Kyritsis  standing  there,  she paled  with  surprise.

A  small  voice  then  piped  up.  It  seemed  to  come  from  Maria's  skirt,  and  a  face appeared  from  behind  her  at  not  much  higher  than  knee  level.

Maria  moved  aside  and  Kyritsis  stepped  over  the  threshold.  She  looked  at  his

back  as  he  passed  her,  the  same  neat,  straight  back  that  she  had  watched  so  many times  when  he  had  left  her  home  to  walk  up  the  main  street  of  Spinalonga  to  the hospital.  Suddenly  it  seemed  only  a  moment  since  she  had  been  on  the  island,  day-­‐ dreaming  of  a  future.

Maria  trembled  as  she  laid  out  cups  and  saucers,  and  they  clattered  noisily. Soon  she  and  Kyritsis  were  as  comfortably  seated  as  they  could  be  on  the  hard wooden  chairs,  sipping  their  coffee  just  as  they  used  to  on  Spinalonga.  Maria struggled  in  vain  to  think  of  something  to  say.  Kyritsis,  however,  came  straight  to  the point.

She  almost  choked  on  the  words.  Astonishment  and  delight  mingled  in  equal measure  as  she  struggled  to  imagine  the  implications  of  his  announcement.

The  little  girl  disappeared  upstairs  to  fetch  her  toy,  and  now  Kyritsis  leaned forward.  For  the  third  time  in  her  life  Maria  heard  the  words:  "Marry  me."

She  knew  that  Giorgis  was  able  to  look  after  himself  now.  They  had  come  to term's  with  Anna's  death  and  Sofia  had  brought  pleasure  and  distraction  into  their lives.  The  distance  to  Agios  Nikolaos  meant  that  Maria  could  visit  her  father  several times  a  week  and  still  see  Sofia  as  well.  It  took  less  than  a  second  for  all  of  this  to  go through  her  head,  and  before  she  took  her  next  breath  she  had  given  him  her answer.

Giorgis  returned  soon  after.  He  had  not  been  as  happy  since  the  day  he learned  that  Maria  was  cured.  By  the  next  day,  news  had  travelled  all  around  Plaka that  Maria  Petrakis  was  to  marry  the  man  who  had  cured  her,  and  preparation  for the  wedding  began  immediately.  Fotini,  who  had  never  lost  hope  in  the  prospect  of Maria  and  Kyritsis  marrying,  threw  herself  into  the  plans.  She  and  Stephanos  were to  host  the  party  before  the  wedding  service  and  their  friends  would  all  crowd  into the  taverna  for  a  great  feast  afterwards.

They  set  a  date  with  the  priest  for  two  weeks  hence.  There  was  no  reason  to wait  any  longer.  The  couple  had  a  house  to  move  into,  they  had  known  each  other for  some  years  and  Maria  already  had  a  trousseau,  of  sorts.  She  also  had  a  dress,  the one  she  had  bought  for  her  wedding  with  Manoli.  For  five  years  it  had  lain  in  the bottom  of  a  chest,  wrapped  in  layers  of  tissue.  A  day  or  two  after  Kyritsis's  second proposal,  she  unfolded  it,  shook  out  the  creases  and  tried  it  on.

It  still  fitted  as  beautifully  as  it  had  done  on  the  day  it  was  purchased.  She  was physically  unchanged.

On  the  eve  of  the  wedding  the  two  women  were  together  at  Fotini's,  planning how  Maria  should  wear  her  hair.

Maria  was  holding  the  dress  up  to  herself  in  front  of  the  long  mirror  in  Fotini's bedroom.  The  frothy  tiers  of  its  full,  lacy  skirt  cascaded  around  her  like  a  fountain and  the  fabric  swished  about  her  ankles.  With  her  head  thrown  back,  she  began  to twirl  around  like  a  child.

Only  when  she  was  dizzy  did  Maria  stop  spinning  and  throw  herself  backwards on  to  the  bed.

There  was  a  knock  on  the  bedroom  door  and  Stephanos  put  his  head  into  the room.

The  two  women  laughed,  and  Maria  jumped  off  the  bed,  throwing  the  dress across  a  chair.  Both  of  them  raced  downstairs  after  Stephanos,  giggling  like  the children  they  had  once  been,  their  excitement  at  the  prospect  of  Maria's  big  day filling  the  air.

They  woke  up  to  a  clear  May  day.  Every  last  inhabitant  of  the  village  emerged to  follow  the  bridal  procession  the  short  distance  from  Maria's  home  to  the  church at  the  other  end  of  the  village.  They  all  wanted  to  be  sure  that  the  beautiful  dark woman  in  white  was  safely  conducted  to  the  ceremony  and  that  nothing,  this  time, would  get  in  the  way  of  her  and  a  happy  marriage.  The  doors  of  the  church  were  left open  during  the  ceremony  and  the  crowd  craned  their  necks  to  catch  a  glimpse  of the  proceedings  at  the  far  end  of  the  aisle.  Dr  Lapakis  was  the  best  man,  the koumbaros.  He  was  a  familiar  figure  in  Plaka—people  remembered  his  daily  comings and  goings  to  Spinalonga—but  fewer  villagers  remembered  Kyritsis.  His  presence had  been  a  fleeting  one,  though  they  were  all  well  aware  of  his  significance  in  the evacuation  of  the  leper  colony.

As  the  pair  stood  at  the  altar,  the  priest  crowned  them  with  the  woven  halos of  flowers  and  grasses.  There  was  absolute  silence  in  the  church  and  the  crowd standing  in  the  sunshine  outside  were  hushed  as  they  strained  to  hear  the  words.

They  all  then  listened  as  the  priest  read  from  the  familiar  marriage  texts,  St Paul's  letters  to  the  Ephesians  and  to  St  John.  There  was  nothing  hurried  or perfunctory  about  the  service.  This  was  the  most  solemn  and  binding  of  ceremonies and  its  duration  reinforced  its  significance  to  the  two  who  stood  at  the  altar.  Over  an hour  later,  the  priest  drew  the  proceedings  to  a  close.

A  resounding  'Amen'  reverberated  through  the  church  and  finally  the  deed was  done.  Sugared  almonds  were  distributed  to  everyone  in  the  congregation  and all  of  those  who  had  stood  outside.  They  were  a  symbol  of  the  abundance  and  joy that  everyone  hoped  Maria  and  Kyritsis  would  now  enjoy.  There  was  not  a  soul  who wished  them  anything  else.

Giorgis  had  sat  in  the  front  pew  of  the  church  with  Eleftheria  and  Alexandras Vandoulakis.  It  was  a  public  symbol  of  their  reconciliation,  and  between  them  sat little  Sofia,  charmed  and  excited  by  the  pageantry  and  colour  of  the  wedding.  For Giorgis  there  was  a  strong  sense  of  a  new  beginning  and  a  certainty  that  all  the  woes of  the  past  were  firmly  behind  him.  It  was  the  first  time  in  years  that  he  had  felt  at peace.

When  Maria  emerged,  crowned,  with  her  silver-­‐haired  groom,  the  crowd cheered  and  then  trailed  after  them  in  the  sunshine  to  the  taverna,  where  the merrymaking  would  begin.  The  feast  that  Stephanos  laid  on  for  all  the  guests  that night  was  munificent.  Wine  flowed  and  corks  popped  from  bottles  of  tsikoudia  long into  the  night.  Under  the  stars,  the  musicians  plucked  and  bowed  until  the  dancers' feet  were  numb.  There  were  no  fireworks.

They  spent  the  first  two  nights  of  their  marriage  in  a  grand  hotel  overlooking the  harbour  in  Agios  Nikolaos  but  were  both  eager  to  begin  the  next  stage  of  their lives.  Maria  had  been  to  the  house  which  was  to  be  their  marital  home  on  several occasions  in  the  two  weeks  leading  up  to  the  wedding.  It  would  be  the  first  time  she had  lived  in  a  big  bustling  town  and  she  relished  the  prospect  of  this  change.  The house  was  on  a  steep  hill  close  to  the  hospital  and  had  a  wrought-­‐iron  balcony  and floor-­‐to-­‐ceiling  windows,  as  did  all  the  others  in  the  street.  It  was  a  tall,  narrow house  with  two  flights  of  stairs,  and  the  paintwork  was  the  palest  aquamarine.

Dr  Kyritsis  himself  was  new  to  the  town,  so  it  did  not  attract  gossip  when  he brought  home  his  bride,  and  the  place  was  sufficiently  far  from  Maria's  old  home  for her  to  be  able  to  start  afresh.  No  one  knew  of  her  medical  history  here,  except  her husband.

Fotini  was  the  first  to  visit,  with  Mattheos  and  baby  Petros,  and  Maria  proudly showed  her  round.

The  house  was  grander  and  more  spacious  than  any  in  Plaka  and  the  furniture less  rough  and  ready  than  the  village  style  which  most  people  still  had  at  that  time. The  kitchen  too  was  a  good  deal  more  sophisticated  than  the  one  Maria  had  been brought  up  with:  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  had  a  fridge,  a  modern  cooker  and an  electricity  supply  that  did  not  suddenly  shut  down  with  no  notice.

For  a  few  months,  life  could  not  have  been  more  perfect.  Maria  loved  her  new home  on  the  hill  near  the  hospital,  and  soon  it  was  decorated  to  her  taste  and  hung with  the  samplers  she  had  embroidered  as  well  as  framed  photos  of  her  family.  One morning  in  early  September,  however,  she  heard  the  bell  of  their  newly  installed telephone.  It  was  Giorgis,  who  rarely  rang  her,  so  she  knew  immediately  that something  was  amiss.

In  the  past  few  months  Giorgis  had  grown  close  to  the  Vandoulakis  couple, and  Maria  could  detect  the  sorrow  in  his  voice.  There  had  been  no  warning  of  illness and  no  signs  of  the  stroke  which  had  taken  the  elderly  woman  so  suddenly  and unexpectedly.  The  funeral  was  held  a  few  days  later,  and  it  was  only  at  the  end  of the  ceremony,  when  Maria  saw  her  little  niece  hand  in  hand  with  her  two grandfathers,  that  the  reality  of  the  situation  dawned  on  her.  Sofia  needed  a mother.

She  could  not  shake  the  thought  off.  It  followed  her,  stuck  to  her  like  the spines  of  a  thistle  clinging  to  wool.  The  little  girl  was  only  just  three  years  old—what was  to  happen  to  her?  Suppose  Alexandras  died  too?  He  was  at  least  ten  years  older than  Eleftheria  had  been  so  it  was  perfectly  possible  that  this  could  happen,  and  she knew  Giorgis  would  never  manage  to  look  after  her  on  his  own.  As  for  her  father,  in spite  of  Andreas's  plea  for  leniency  at  the  trial,  the  judge  had  passed  a  harsh sentence  that  ensured  he  would  not  be  out  of  prison  until  Sofia  was  at  least  sixteen.

As  they  sipped  their  glasses  of  wine  in  the  semi-­‐darkness  of  the  Vandoulakis drawing  room  in  Elounda,  a  room  that  seemed  purpose-­‐made  for  mourning,  with  its forbidding  family  portraits  and  heavy  furniture,  the  solution  seemed  more  and  more perfect.  This  was  not  the  time  to  discuss  it  with  anyone,  although  she  now  ached  to share  it.  It  felt  as  though  the  walls  themselves  murmured  as  people  adopted  the low,  restrained  tones  of  those  who  felt  that  even  the  clink  of  a  glass  might  ruin  the strict  sobriety  of  the  atmosphere.  All  the  while  Maria  wanted  to  stand  on  a  chair  and make  an  announcement  about  what  she  wanted  to  do,  but  she  had  to  wait  an  hour or  so  until  it  was  time  to  leave  before  confiding  in  Kyritsis.  Before  they  were  even  in their  car  she  seized  his  arm.

There  was  no  need  for  her  to  say  any  more.  Kyritsis  had  been  mulling  over  the very  same  possibility.

Only  two  days  later,  having  telephoned  ahead  to  let  him  know  they  would  like to  come,  Maria  and  Nikolaos  Kyritsis  found  themselves  once  again  in  Alexandras Vandoulakis's  drawing  room.  The  once  statuesque  man  seemed  to  have  shrunk since  the  funeral,  when  he  had  held  his  head  high  and  proud  throughout  the  service.

Maria  paled.  Perhaps  they  had  made  a  terrible  faux  pas  in  coming.

Alexandras  Vandoulakis  had  spent  decades  being  in  command,  but  even  so  it astonished  them  that  he  had  so  completely  taken  charge  of  the  situation.  They  did not  have  to  say  another  word.

For  a  few  moments  Maria  struggled  to  speak,  but  Kyritsis  managed  to  say everything  that  was  necessary.

The  next  day,  when  Kyritsis  had  finished  work  at  the  hospital,  he  and  Maria returned  to  the  Vandoulakis  home  and  between  them  began  to  prepare  Sofia  for the  next  stage  of  her  life.  By  the  end  of  the  following  week  she  had  moved  to  the house  in  Agios  Nikolaos.

At  first  Maria  was  nervous.  Within  a  year  of  leaving  Spinalonga  she  had become  a  wife  and  now,  almost  overnight,  the  mother  of  a  three-­‐year-­‐old.  She  need not  have  feared,  however.  Sofia  led  the  way  and  adapted  happily  to  being  with  a couple  who  were  so  much  younger  and  more  energetic  than  her  grandparents.  In spite  of  her  traumatic  start  in  life,  she  was  an  apparently  carefree  child  and  loved the  company  of  other  children,  which  she  soon  found  in  abundance  in  their  very own  street.

Kyritsis  had  also  been  anxious  about  becoming  a  parent.  Although  he  had

always  numbered  a  few  children  among  his  patients,  his  contact  with  anyone  as young  as  Sofia  had  been  limited.  The  little  girl  was  wary  of  him  too,  at  first,  but  then realised  that  with  the  slightest  provocation  she  could  make  his  serious  face  crease into  a  smile.  Kyritsis  began  to  dote  on  her  and  was  soon  frequently  castigated  by  his wife.

As  soon  as  Sofia  went  to  school,  Maria  began  to  train  to  work  in  the  hospital dispensary.  It  seemed  a  perfect  complement  to  her  work  with  natural  herbs,  which she  also  continued  to  practise.  Once  a  week  Maria,  who  had  learned  to  drive  since her  marriage,  took  Sofia  to  her  paternal  grandfather's  house,  where  she  would spend  the  night  in  the  bedroom  that  was  kept  for  her  there.  The  next  day,  when Maria  collected  her,  they  would  usually  continue  to  Plaka,  where  they  saw  Giorgis. Almost  every  visit  they  would  see  Fotini  too  and  Sofia  would  play  on  the  beach below  the  taverna  with  Mattheos  and  Petros  while  the  two  women  caught  up  on the  minutiae  of  each  other's  lives.

Life  continued  in  this  happy  and  settled  way  for  a  while.  Sofia  enjoyed  the routine  of  seeing  both  her  grandfathers  once  a  week  and  the  excitement  that growing  up  in  a  busy  harbour  town  offered  a  child.  Eventually  the  knowledge  that Maria  and  Nikolaos  were  not  her  real  parents  slipped  out  of  memory's  reach.  The house  where  they  lived  in  Agios  Nikolaos  was  all  she  would  ever  be  able  to  recollect of  early  childhood.  The  only  gap  in  any  of  their  lives  was  a  sibling  for  Sofia.  It  was  a subject  they  rarely  spoke  about,  but  it  weighed  heavily  on  Maria  that  she  had  not produced  a  child  of  her  own.

When  Sofia'  was  nine,  Alexandras  Vandoulakis  died.  He  passed  away peacefully  in  his  sleep  having  tied  up  every  last  detail  of  his  will,  leaving  the  estate  to be  split  between  his  two  daughters  and  their  families  and  a  generous  lump  sum  of money  in  trust  for  Sofia.  Three  years  later,  Giorgis  became  bed-­‐ridden  after  a  chest infection  and  moved  to  the  house  in  Agios  Nikolaos  to  be  cared  for  by  Maria.  Over the  next  two  years,  his  teenage  granddaughter  spent  hours  each  day  sitting  on  his counterpane  playing  backgammon  with  him.  One  autumn  day,  just  before  Sofia's return  from  school,  he  died.  Both  the  women  in  his  life  were  inconsolable.  Their  only real  comfort  was  to  see  the  throng  that  gathered  for  his  funeral.  It  was  held  in  Plaka, the  village  where  he  had  spent  almost  his  entire  life,  and  the  church  was  filled  with well  over  a  hundred  villagers,  who  remembered  with  great  affection  the  taciturn fisherman  who  had  borne  so  much  misfortune  so  uncomplainingly.

One  chilly  morning,  early  the  next  year,  a  typed  envelope  bearing  an  Iraklion postmark  arrived.  It  was  addressed  to  'The  Guardians  of  Sofia  Vandoulakis'.  Maria's stomach  lurched  when  she  saw  the  name.  It  was  not  one  that  Sofia  had  ever  known she  possessed  and  she  snatched  the  letter  up  from  the  doormat  and  immediately stashed  it  at  the  back  of  a  drawer.  There  was  only  one  source  for  a  letter  addressed

in  such  a  way  and  Maria  was  full  of  trepidation;  she  planned  to  wait  until  her hnsband  returned  before  finding  out  whether  her  fears  were  justified.

At  about  ten  that  night,  Nikolaos  arrived  home  from  a  long  day  at  the hospital.  Sofia  had  gone  to  bed  an  hour  earlier.  With  some  formality,  Nikolaos  slit the  envelope  with  his  silver  opener  and  drew  out  a  stiff  sheet  of  paper.

To  Whom  It  May  Concern

They  were  together  on  the  settee,  their  legs  touching,  and  Nikolaos's  hand quivered  slightly  as  he  held  the  letter  out  for  both  of  them  to  read.

We  regret  to  inform  you  that  Andreas  Vandoulakis  passed  away  on  7th January.  The  cause  of  death  was  pneumonia.  Burial  will  take  place  on  14  th  January. Please  confirm  receipt  of  this  letter  .

Yours  faithfully,

Governor,  Prison  of  Iraklion

For  a  few  moments,  neither  of  them  spoke.  But  they  read,  and  re-­‐read,  the perfunctory  note.  Andreas  Vandoulakis.  His  was  a  name  which  had  carried  such connotations  of  wealth  and  promise.  It  was  hard  to  believe,  even  after  the  dreadful events  over  a  decade  earlier,  that  the  life  of  such  a  privileged  individual  had  finally ended  in  a  damp  prison  cell.  Without  speaking,  Nikolaos  got  up,  returned  the  letter to  its  envelope  and  crossed  the  room  to  lock  it  in  his  bureau.  There  was  no  chance that  Sofia  would  ever  find  it  there.

Two  days  later,  Maria  was  the  only  mourner  as  Andreas's  coffin  was  lowered in  to  a  pauper's  grave.  Neither  of  his  sisters  attended.  They  would  not  even  have considered  it.  As  far  as  they  were  concerned,  their  brother  had  been  as  good  as dead  for  a  very  long  time.

By  now  it  was  the  late  1960s  and  the  first  wave  of  tourists  began  to  arrive  in Crete,  many  of  them  visiting  Agios  Nikolaos,  which  became  a  magnet  for  northern Europeans  beguiled  by  the  sunshine,  the  warm  sea  and  the  cheap  wine.  Sofia  was fourteen  and  becoming  wilful.  With  parents  who  were  so  conventional  and  such pillars  of  the  community,  she  soon  found  that  an  effective  way  to  rebel  was  to  hang around  in  the  town  with  boys  from  France  and  Germany  who  were  only  too  pleased to  keep  the  company  of  a  beautiful  Greek  girl  with  a  gloriously  buxom  figure  and waist-­‐length  hair.  Although  Nikolaos  hated  to  be  in  any  conflict  with  Sofia,  in  the summer  months  battles  became  an  almost  daily  occurrence.

Though  she  was  rebellious  in  other  ways,  Sofia  worked  hard  at  school,  and when  she  reached  the  age  of  eighteen  it  was  time  to  consider  university.  It  was  an opportunity  that  had  never  been  open  to  Maria  and  was  one  that  both  she  and

Nikolaos  wanted  for  her.  Maria  assumed  that  Sofia  would  go  to  Iraklion  for  her studies,  but  she  was  disappointed.  From  childhood  Sofia  had  watched  large  boats coming  and  going  from  mainland  Greece.  She  knew  that  Athens  was  where  Nikolaos had  studied,  and  this  was  where  she  wanted  to  go.  Never  having  left  Crete  herself, Maria  was  filled  with  trepidation  at  Sofia's  ambition  to  go  further  afield.

She  was  displaying  a  desire  to  travel  that  was  only  natural  for  a  girl  at  her stage  of  life.  Nowadays  everyone  of  her  age  seemed  keen  to  go  off  and  see  more  of the  world.  Maria  dreaded  it,  though.  As  well  as  her  own  fears  at  losing  Sofia,  it raised  in  her  mind  the  question  of  Sofia's  paternity.  Manoli  would  have  talked  like that,  about  Crete  being  a  small  island  on  a  very  large  planet  and  how  exciting  the possibilities  were  beyond  it.  There  was  something  strangely  familiar  about  this wanderlust.

By  the  time  June  came,  Sofia  had  made  her  decision.  She  was  going  to  Athens and  her  parents  would  not  stand  in  her  way.  At  the  end  of  August  she  would  be sailing  away.

The  night  before  their  daughter  was  to  take  the  boat  to  Piraeus,  Maria  and Nikolaos  were  sitting  in  their  garden  under  an  ancient  vine  which  dripped  with ripening  bunches  of  purple-­‐hued  grapes.  Sofia  was  out.  Nikolaos  nursed  the  last  few drops  of  a  large  balloon  of  Metaxa.

There  was  no  reply.  During  the  past  few  months  the  two  of  them  had  gone over  and  over  the  arguments  for  telling  Sofia  that  they  were  not  her  true  parents.  It was  when  Maria  had  eventually  admitted  the  possibility  that  Manoli  might  have been  Sofia's  father  that  Kyritsis  had  finally  made  up  his  mind.  The  girl  had  to  know. Now  there  was  a  chance  that  her  father  could  be  living  and  working  in  Athens,  or anywhere  else  for  that  matter,  she  had  to  be  told  the  truth.  Maria  knew  that Nikolaos  was  right  and  that  Sofia  must  be  told  before  she  left  for  Athens,  but  every day  she  deferred  the  moment.

They  sat  in  the  warmth  of  the  summer  night,  watching  moths  twirl  like ballerinas  in  the  candlelight.  Occasionally  the  silence  would  be  disturbed  by  the rustle  of  a  lizard,  its  tail  catching  a  dry  leaf  before  it  made  its  vertical  dash  up  the wall  of  the  house.  What  did  those  bright  stars  have  in  store  for  her  family? wondered  Maria.  They  seemed  always  to  be  watching,  knowing  the  next  chapter before  she  did.  It  grew  late  and  still  Sofia  did  not  return,  but  they  were  not  going  to give  up  and  retire  to  bed.  They  could  not  postpone  what  they  had  to  do  for  yet another  day.  By  a  quarter  to  eleven  the  temperature  had  dropped  and  Maria  was shivering.

Time  dragged  its  heels  for  the  next  fifteen  minutes,  but  eventually  they  heard the  front  door  slam.  Sofia  was  back.