Part 4 Chapter Twenty-­‐five

Part  4

Chapter  Twenty-­‐five

AFOTINI  REACHED  this  point  in  the  story,  she  was  suddenly  overwhelmed  by the  responsibility  of  describing  the  emotions  of  someone  who  was  more  than capable  of  telling  her  own  tale.  Although  Fotini  knew  as  well  as  anyone  else  alive how  Sofia  must  have  felt,  who  could  tell  the  story  better  than  she  who  had  taken the  blows  of  truth  first  hand?  It  was  Sofia  who,  on  that  August  night,  had  tried  and repeatedly  failed  to  catch  her  breath  when  her  parents  revealed  that  they  were  not really  her  parents  at  all;  she  who  had  had  to  face  the  fact  that  her  real  mother  was no  longer  alive,  and  that  there  was  no  certainty  about  the  identity  of  her  natural father.  She  could  never  be  sure  of  anything  ever  again.  If  the  earth  had  undulated beneath  her  feet  and  the  island  of  Crete  been  shaken  by  a  great  seismic  movement she  could  not  have  felt  more  insecure.

Fotini  realised  there  was  only  one  thing  to  do,  and  all  it  would  take  was  a phone  call  to  Sofia  in  London.  She  slipped  away,  leaving  Alexis  to  contemplate  the now  famiHar  view  of  Spinalonga.

As  soon  as  she  picked  up  the  telephone,  Sofia  knew  who  it  was  who  was calling.

There  was  a  moment's  hesitation  at  the  other  end  of  the  line.  Fotini  felt  a

sense  of  urgency.

Again,  silence  at  the  other  end.

It  was  such  a  spontaneous  invitation.  There  were  a  thousand  reasons  why Sofia  could  not  drop  everything  and  fly  out  to  Greece,  but  there  were  enough  very good  reasons  why  she  should,  and  almost  instantly  she  decided  to  put  the objections  to  one  side.  She  would  get  herself  to  Crete  by  the  following  day,  come what  may.

Sofia  had  no  problem  getting  a  seat  on  a  flight  to  Athens.  At  this  stage  of  the season  there  was  little  demand  and  there  was  a  plane  leaving  Heathrow  that afternoon.  She  hurriedly  packed  a  small  bag  and  left  a  message  on  Marcus's  answer phone  to  explain  where  she  was  going.  Take-­‐off  was  on  time,  and  by  eight  o'clock that  night  she  was  speeding  in  a  taxi  towards  Piraeus,  where  she  caught  the  night boat  to  Iraklion.  As  the  ferry  tilted  this  way  and  that  on  its  southward  course,  Sofia had  plenty  of  time  to  become  anxious  about  what  she  was  going  to  face  when  she arrived.  She  could  not  quite  believe  she  had  made  this  decision.  Going  to  Plaka would  be  a  journey  so  laden  with  memories  that  she  was  surprised  at  herself,  but Fotini  had  sounded  so  insistent.  Perhaps  it  really  was  about  time  she  faced  her  past.

The  following  morning,  less  than  twenty-­‐four  hours  since  the  telephone conversation  between  the  two  women,  Fotini  saw  a  car  drawing  up  in  the  side  road near  the  taverna.  A  well-­‐rounded  blonde  woman  stepped  out.  Though  it  was  twenty years  since  she  had  seen  her  and  her  fair  hair  could  have  thrown  her  off  the  scent, Fotini  realised  immediately  who  it  was.  She  hurried  out  to  meet  her.

As  she  had  promised,  Fotini  had  not  breathed  a  word  to  Alexis  about  her

mother's  impending  arrival,  and  when  the  younger  woman  appeared  on  the  terrace, bleary-­‐eyed  with  sleep,  she  was  astounded  to  see  her  mother,  and  wondered  at  first whether  the  previous  evening's  brandy  was  responsible  for  giving  her  hallucinations.

The  three  women  sat  around  a  table  and  sipped  cold  drinks  in  the  shade  of  an awning.

All  three  of  them  knew  that  there  was  an  agenda.  Why  else  would  Sofia  have come?  Alexis's  head  was  still  spinning  from  everything  that  Fotini  had  told  her  over the  past  few  days,  but  she  knew  there  was  a  final  chapter.  This  was  what  her  mother was  here  to  provide.

Chapter  Twenty-­‐six

IT  WAS  THE  night  before  Sofia  was  to  leave  for  Athens  to  begin  her  life  as  a student  at  the  university.  Her  trunk  only  had  to  be  transported  a  few  hundred metres  down  the  road  to  the  port  and  loaded  on  to  the  ferry,  and  its  next  stop,  like hers,  would  be  the  capital  of  Greece,  three  hundred  kilometres  away  to  the  north. Sofia's  resolve  to  spread  her  wings  was  balanced  by  an  equal  amount  of  anxiety  and fear.  Earlier  that  day  she  had  fought  the  temptation  to  unpack  each  and  every  item and  put  them  back  where  they  had  always  belonged:  clothes,  books,  pens,  alarm clock,  radio,  pictures.  Leaving  the  known  for  the  unknown  was  hard,  and  she perceived  Athens  as  a  gateway  to  either  adventure  or  disaster.  The  eighteen-­‐year-­‐ old  Sofia  could  not  imagine  a  middle  ground.  Every  bone  in  her  body  ached  with  the anticipation  of  homesickness,  but  there  was  no  going  back  now.  At  six  o'clock  she went  out  to  meet  her  friends,  to  say  goodbye  to  the  people  she  was  leaving  behind. It  would  be  a  good  distraction.

When  she  returned,  on  the  stroke  of  eleven,  she  found  her  father  pacing  up and  down  the  room.  Her  mother  sat  on  the  edge  of  a  chair,  her  hands  clasped  tightly

together,  her  knuckles  white  with  tension.  Every  muscle  in  her  face  was  taut.

Sofia,  immediately  felt  uncomfortable.

Now  her  mother  took  over.  After  all,  most  of  it  was  her  story.

§

That  night  they  told  her  everything,  just  as  Fotini  had  related  it  to  Alexis.  Not the  slightest  suspicion  or  unguarded  word  had  given  Sofia  any  forewarning,  and  she was  totally  ill  equipped  to  deal  with  such  revelations.  She  saw  herself  standing  on  a high  mountain  where  layers  of  secrecy  had  been  laid  down  over  the  millennia,  each stratum  of  rock  and  stone  hardening  across  the  previous  one.  They  had  kept  every last  detail  from  her.  It  seemed  like  a  conspiracy.  When  she  reflected  on  it,  there must  have  been  dozens  of  people  who  knew  about  her  mother's  murder,  and  each and  every  one  of  them  had  maintained  their  silence  for  all  those  years.  And  what about  the  speculation  and  gossip  that  must  have  ensued?  Perhaps  people  who  knew her  still  whispered  behind  her  back  as  she  passed:  "Poor  girl.  I  wonder  if  she  ever found  out  who  her  father  was?"  And  she  could  imagine  the  malicious  susurration, the  mutterings  about  leprosy:  "Fancy  that,"  they  must  have  said.  "Not  just  one,  but two  cases  in  her  family!"  All  those  stigma  that  she  had  blithely  carried  about  with her  for  years  and  years  but  not  been  in  the  least  bit  aware  of.  A  disfiguring  disease, an  immoral  mother,  a  murderer  for  a  father.  She  was  utterly  repulsed.  Her ignorance  had  been  nothing  less  than  bliss.

She  had  never  questioned  that  she  was  the  product  of  these  two  people  who sat  in  front  of  her.  Why  should  she?  She  had  always  imagined  that  her  looks  were  a mixture  of  Maria's  and  Kyritsis's.  People  had  even  said  so.  But  she  was  no  more  a blood  relation  of  the  man  she  had  always  called  father  than  of  any  man  she  might meet  in  the  street.  She  had  loved  her  parents  unquestioningly,  but  now  that  they were  not  her  parents,  were  her  feelings  for  them  different?  In  the  space  of  an  hour, her  entire  life  history  had  changed.  It  had  dissolved  behind  her  and  when  she  looked back,  there  was  a  void.  A  blank.  A  nothingness.

She  received  the  news  silently  and  felt  sick.  Not  for  a  moment  did  she  think  of how  Maria  and  Kyritsis  might  be  feeling  or  what  it  had  cost  them  to  tell  her  the  truth after  all  this  time.  No.  This  was  her  story,  her  life  that  they  had  falsified,  and  she  was angry.

She  was  desperate  enough  to  be  losing  her  only  child  to  university,  but  even more  distressed  that  the  girl  who  stood  in  front  of  her  and  looked  at  her  as  though she  was  a  stranger  would  no  longer  regard  her  as  her  mother.  Months  and  years  had gone  by  when  the  fact  that  Sofia  was  not  their  own  flesh  and  blood  had  had  no relevance,  and  they  had  loved  her  all  the  more  perhaps  because  they  had  been unable  to  produce  children  of  their  own.

At  this  moment,  however,  Sofia  just  saw  them  as  people  who  had  lied  to  her. She  was  eighteen,  irrational,  and  resolved  now  in  her  desire  to  invent  a  future  for herself  where  she  would  be  in  command  of  the  facts.  Her  anger  gave  way  to  a jroideur  that  brought  her  emotions  under  control  but  chilled  the  hearts  of  the people  who  loved  her  most  in  the  world.

With  that,  she  turned  on  her  heel.

The  following  morning  Sofia  was  up  at  dawn  doing  her  final  packing,  and  at eight  o'clock  she  and  Kyritsis  loaded  her  luggage  into  the  car.  Neither  of  them  spoke. All  three  of  them  drove  down  to  the  port,  and  when  the  moment  came,  Sofia's farewells  were  perfunctory.

She  kissed  each  of  them  on  both  cheeks.

There  was  a  finality  about  her  adieu  that  gave  no  promise  of  short-­‐term reunion.  They  trusted  her  to  write,  but  they  knew  already  that  there  was  no  purpose in  watching  for  letters.  As  the  ferry  pulled  away  from  its  moorings,  Maria  was certain  this  was  the  worst  that  life  could  bring.  People  standing  beside  them  were waving  a  loved  one  a  fond  farewell,  but  of  Sofia  there  was  no  sign.  She  was  not  even on  deck.

Maria  and  Kyritsis  stood  watching  until  the  boat  was  a  speck  on  the  horizon. Only  then  did  they  turn  away.  The  emptiness  was  unbearable.

For  Sofia,  the  journey  to  Athens  became  a  flight  from  her  past,  from  the stigma  of  leprosy  and  the  uncertainty  of  her  parentage.  A  few  months  into  her  first term,  she  was  ready  to  write.

Dear  Mother  and  Father  (or  should  I  call  you  Uncle  and  Aunt?  Neither  seems quite  right  any  more),

I  am  sorry  things  were  so  difficult  when  I  left.  I  was  terribly  shocked.  I  can't even  begin  to  put  it  into  words  and  I  still  feel  sick  when  I  think  about  it  all.  Anyway,  I am  just  writing  to  let  you  know  that  I  am  settling  in  well  here.  I  am  enjoying  my lectures,  and  though  Athens  is  much  bigger  and  dustier  than  Agios  Nikolaos,  I  am getting  usedto  it  all.

I  will  write  again.  I  promise.

Love,  Sofia

The  letter  said  everything  and  nothing.  They  continued  to  receive  notes  that were  descriptive  and  often  enthusiastic  but  gave  away  little  of  how  Sofia  was feeling.  At  the  end  of  the  first  year,  they  were  bitterly  disappointed,  if  not  entirely surprised,  when  she  did  not  return  for  the  vacation.

She  became  obsessed  with  her  past  and  decided  to  spend  the  summer  trying to  trace  Manoli.  At  first  the  trail  seemed  warm  and  she  followed  a  few  leads  around Athens  and  then  other  parts  of  Greece.  Then  her  sources  became  imprecise,  phone books  and  tax  offices  for  example,  and  she  simply  knocked  on  the  door  of  any stranger  who  happened  to  be  called  Vandoulakis;  the  two  of  them  would  then  stand there  awkwardly  before  Sofia  briefly  explained  herself  and  apologised  for  troubling them.  The  trail,  such  as  it  was,  went  stone  cold,  and  one  morning  she  woke  up  in  a hotel  in  Thessalonika  wondering  what  on  earth  she  was  doing.  Even  if  she  found  this man,  she  would  not  know  for  sure  if  he  were  her  father.  Would  she,  in  any  case, prefer  her  father  to  have  been  a  murderer  who  had  killed  her  mother,  or  an adulterer  who  had  abandoned  her?  It  was  not  much  of  a  choice.  Should  she  not  turn away  from  the  uncertainty  of  her  past  and  build  a  future?

At  the  beginning  of  her  second  year,  she  met  someone  who  turned  out  to  be a  much  more  significant  figure  in  her  life  than  her  father,  whoever  he  might  have been.  He  was  an  Englishman  by  the  name  of  Marcus  Fielding  and  he  was  on sabbatical  at  the  university  for  a  year.  Sofia  had  never  met  anyone  quite  like  him.  He was  big  and  bearish  with  a  pale  complexion  that  tended  to  blotchiness  when  he  was embarrassed  or  hot,  and  he  had  very  blue  eyes,  which  were  a  rare  thing  to  see  in Greece.  He  also  looked  permanently  crumpled  in  a  way  that  only  an  Englishman could.

Marcus  had  never  had  a  real  girlfriend.  He  had  generally  been  too  wrapped  up in  his  studies  or  too  shy  to  pursue  women,  and  he  had  found  the  sexually  liberated London  of  the  early  1970s  intimidating.  Athens  during  the  same  period  was  well behind  in  this  revolution.  In  his  first  month  at  the  university  he  met  Sofia  in  a  whole group  of  other  students  and  thought  her  the  most  beautiful  woman  he  had  ever seen.  Though  she  seemed  quite  wordly,  she  was  not  unapproachable,  and  he  was astonished  when  she  accepted  an  invitation  from  him.

Within  weeks  they  were  inseparable,  and  when  it  was  time  for  Marcus  to return  to  England  she  made  the  decision  that  she  would  forgo  the  rest  of  her  course in  order  to  go  with  him.

When  he  protested,  she  assured  him  it  was  true.

She  said  no  more  about  her  upbringing  and  Marcus  did  not  pursue  it,  but what  he  did  insist  was  that  they  should  marry.  Sofia  needed  no  persuasion.  She  was completely  and  passionately  in  love  with  this  man  and  knew  beyond  a  shadow  of  a doubt  that  he  would  never  let  her  down.

One  chilly  February  day,  the  kind  when  frost  lingers  until  midday,  they married  in  a  south  London  registry  office.  The  invitation,  an  informal  one,  had  stood on  the  high  shelf  above  Maria  and  Nikolaos's  fireplace  for  a  few  weeks.  It  would  be the  first  time  they  had  seen  Sofia  since  the  day  she  had  sailed  out  of  their  lives.  The searing  pain  of  abandonment  that  they  had  felt  so  keenly  at  first  gradually  eased and  gave  way  to  the  dull  ache  of  acceptance.  They  both  approached  the  wedding with  a  mixture  of  excitement  and  trepidation.

They  liked  Marcus  instantly.  Sofia  could  not  have  found  herself  a  kinder,  more dependable  man,  and  to  see  her  so  content  and  secure  was  as  much  as  they  could have  wished  for,  even  if  it  was  tainted  by  the  fact  that  there  was  little  likelihood  now that  she  would  ever  return  to  settle  in  Crete.  They  enjoyed  the  English  wedding, though  it  seemed  to  lack  all  the  ritual  and  tradition  that  they  were  used  to.  It  was just  like  an  ordinary  party  except  there  were  a  few  speeches,  and  what  was strangest  of  all  was  that  the  bride  did  not  really  stand  out  from  the  other  guests, dressed  as  she  was  in  a  red  trouser  suit.  Maria,  who  spoke  no  English  at  all,  was introduced  to  everyone  as  Sofia's  aunt,  and  Nikolaos,  who  spoke  excellent  English, as  her  uncle.  They  remained  at  each  other's  side  throughout,  Kyritsis  acting  as translator  for  his  wife.

Afterwards  they  stayed  in  London  for  two  nights.  Maria,  particularly,  was baffled  by  this  city  where  Sofia  had  now  chosen  to  live.  It  was  another  planet  to  her, a  place  that  throbbed  incessantly  with  the  sound  of  car  engines,  monstrous  red buses  and  heaving  crowds  filing  past  windows  of  slim  mannequins.  It  was  a  city where,  even  if  you  were  a  resident,  the  chances  of  bumping  into  anyone  you  knew were  nonexistent.  It  was  the  first  and  last  time  Maria  ever  left  her  native  island.

Even  with  her  husband  Sofia  had  explored  the  no-­‐man's-­‐land  between  secrets and  lies.  She  convinced  herself  that  concealment,  the  act  of  not  telling  something, was  very  different  from  telling  something  that  was  untrue.  Even  when  her  own children  were  born—Alexis,  the  first  of  them,  only  a  year  after  the  wedding—she vowed  never  to  speak  to  them  of  her  Cretan  family.  They  would  be  guarded  from their  roots  and  forever  protected  from  the  deep  shame  of  the  past.

In  1990,  at  the  age  of  eighty,  Dr  Kyritsis  died.  Several  short  obituaries,  no more  than  a  dozen  or  so  lines  long,  appeared  in  British  newspapers,  praising  him  for his  contribution  to  leprosy  research,  and  Sofia  carefully  cut  them  out  and  filed  them away.  In  spite  of  an  age  gap  of  nearly  twenty  years,  Maria  survived  him  by  only  five years.  Sofia  flew  out  to  Crete  for  a  perfunctory  two  days  for  her  aunt's  funeral  and was  overwhelmed  by  guilt  and  loss.  She  realised  that  her  eighteen-­‐year-­‐old  self  had shown  nothing  but  self-­‐centred  ingratitude  in  the  way  she  had  left  Crete  all  those years  before,  but  it  was  too  late  now  to  make  amends.  Far,  far  too  late.

It  was  at  this  point  that  Sofia  decided  she  would  finally  erase  her  background. She  disposed  of  the  few  keepsakes  of  her  mother's  and  her  aunt's  that  lived  in  a  box at  the  back  of  her  wardrobe,  and  one  afternoon,  before  the  children  returned  home from  school,  a  stack  of  yellowing  envelopes  with  Greek  stamps  was  burned  on  the fire.  She  then  removed  the  backing  from  the  framed  photograph  of  her  uncle  and aunt  and  discreetly  tucked  the  newspaper  cuttings  precising  Kyritsis's  life  to  a  few sentences  behind  the  picture.  This  record  of  their  happiest  day  now  lived  by  Sofia's bedside  and  was  all  that  remained  of  her  past.

By  destroying  the  physical  evidence  of  her  history,  Sofia  had  tried  to  shrug  off her  background  but  the  fear  of  its  discovery  ate  into  her  like  a  disease  and,  as  the years  passed,  the  guilt  over  how  she  had  treated  her  aunt  and  uncle  intensified.  It sat  in  the  pit  of  her  stomach  like  a  stone,  a  regret  that  sometimes  made  her  feel physically  sick  when  she  realised  there  was  nothing  she  could  do  to  make  amends. Now  that  her  own  children  had  left  home,  she  felt  more  keenly  than  ever  the  agony of  remorse  and  knew  for  certain  that  she  had  caused  unforgivable  pain.

Marcus  had  known  better  than  to  ask  too  many  questions  and  went  along with  Sofia's  desire  to  avoid  any  reference  to  her  past,  but  as  the  children  grew  up, the  Cretan  characteristics  were  unmistakable:  in  Alexis  the  beautiful  dark  hair  and  in Nick  the  black  lashes  that  framed  his  eyes.  All  the  while  Sofia  feared  that  her children  might  one  day  discover  what  sort  of  people  their  ancestors  had  been,  and her  stomach  churned.  Looking  at  Alexis  now,  Sofia  wished  she  had  been  more  open. She  saw  her  daughter  scrutinising  her  as  though  she  had  never  seen  her  before.  It was  her  own  fault.  She  had  made  herself  a  stranger  both  to  her  children  and  to  her husband.

There  was  a  pause  in  their  exchange.  Sofia  fiddled  anxiously  with  her  earring as  though  there  was  something  she  wanted  to  say  but  she  could  not  quite  spit  it  out.

Alexis  was  stunned  by  her  mother's  outburst.

Tears  welled  up  in  Sofia's  eyes.  Alexis  had  never  seen  her  mother  cry.

Fotini  had  listened  quietly  to  this  exchange  between  mother  and  daughter. She  could  see  that  Alexis  was  making  Sofia  look  at  the  past  from  a  new  perspective, and  decided  to  leave  them  alone  together  for  a  while.

The  Vandoulakis  tragedy,  as  it  was  known,  was  still  chewed  over  in  Plaka,  and the  little  girl  who  had  been  left  without  a  father  or  mother  had  not  been  forgotten by  those  who  had  witnessed  the  events  of  that  memorable  summer  night.  Some  of those  people  still  lived  in  the  village.  Fotini  strolled  into  the  bar  and  had  a  quiet word  with  Gerasimo,  who  then  gesticulated  frantically  to  his  wife.  They  would  drop everything  and  come;  their  son  could  serve  behind  the  bar  for  a  while.  All  three  of them  hastened  to  the  taverna.

At  first  Sofia  did  not  recognise  the  small  group  who  had  appeared  at  a  table close  to  where  she  and  Alexis  were  sitting  but  as  soon  as  she  was  aware  that  the elderly  man  was  mute,  she  realised  who  it  was.

He  nodded  and  smiled.  The  fact  that  Gerasimo  was  dumb  had  intrigued  the little  Sofia.  She  remembered  being  slightly  afraid  of  him,  but  also  recollected  how

much  she  enjoyed  the  iced  lemonade  he  made  specially  for  her  whenever  she  and Maria  called  in  at  the  bar,  which  was  where  they  usually  went  to  meet  her grandfather.  She  had  more  difficulty  remembering  Andriana.  Though  she  was  now plump  and  terribly  afflicted  with  varicose  veins,  which  were  ill  concealed  by  her thick  stockings,  Andriana  reminded  Sofia  that  she  had  been  a  teenager  when  Sofia used  to  come  to  Plaka.  Sofia  dimly  remembered  a  beautiful  but  rather  languid  girl who  would  usually  be  sitting  outside  the  bar  chatting  to  her  friends  while  groups  of teenage  boys  hung  around,  leaning  nonchalantly  on  their  mopeds.  Fotini  had  found the  brown  envelope  of  photographs  again,  and  once  more  they  were  spread  out  on the  table  and  the  family  likenesses  between  Sofia,  Alexis  and  their  ancestors marvelled  over.

The  taverna  was  closed  that  night,  but  Mattheos,  who  was  soon  to  take  over his  parents'  business,  now  arrived.  He  had  grown  into  a  mountain  of  a  man,  and Sofia  and  he  embraced  enthusiastically.

Mattheos  began  to  lay  a  long  table.  One  more  guest  was  still  to  arrive.  Fotini had  telephoned  her  brother  Antonis  earlier  that  day,  and  at  nine  o'clock  he  arrived from  Sitia.  He  was  now  very  grey  and  quite  stooped,  but  he  still  had  those  dark, romantic  eyes  that  had  drawn  Anna  to  him  all  those  years  ago.  He  sat  between Alexis  and  Sofia  and  after  a  few  drinks  he  lost  his  shyness  about  talking  English  after so  many  years  without  practice.

He  sat  quietly  for  a  moment  before  he  spoke  again.

Alexis  watched  her  mother's  face  and  could  see  that  she  understood.

It  was  well  past  midnight,  and  the  candles  had  long  since  guttered  to extinction,  before  everyone  round  the  table  got  up  to  leave.  Only  a  few  hours  later both  Alexis  and  Sofia  needed  to  be  on  the  road,  Alexis  to  retrace  her  steps  to  Hania to  meet  up  with  Ed,  and  her  mother  to  catch  the  ferry  back  to  Piraeus.  For  Alexis  it was  as  though  a  month  had  passed  since  she  had  arrived,  even  though  it  was actually  only  a  few  days.  For  Sofia,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  her  visit  had  been fleeting,  its  significance  was  immeasurable.  Embraces  as  warm  as  the  day  itself  were exchanged,  and  fond  promises  made  to  return  the  following  year  for  a  longer  and more  peaceful  stay.

Alexis  drove  her  mother  to  Iraklion,  where  Sofia  was  to  catch  the  night  ferry back  to  Athens.  There  was  not  a  moment  of  silence  on  the  journey  as  their conversation  flowed.  Once  she  had  dropped  her  mother,  who  would  happily  spend the  day  in  the  city's  museums  before  catching  the  ferry  that  night,  Alexis  carried  on towards  Hania.  She  had  resolved  the  mystery  of  the  past;  today  the  future  would  be

her  concern.

Nearly  three  hours  later  she  arrived  back  at  the  hotel.  It  had  been  a  long, sweaty  journey  and  she  was  desperate  for  a  drink,  so  she  crossed  the  road  to  the closest  bar,  which  overlooked  the  beach.  Ed  was  there,  sitting  alone  and  gazing  out to  sea.  Alexis  moved  towards  him  quietly  and  took  a  seat  at  his  table.  The  scrape  of her  chair  alerted  him  to  her  presence  and  he  looked  round,  startled  by  the  noise.

Apart  from  the  message  she  had  left  for  him  four  days  earlier  to  say  that  she would  be  staying  in  Plaka  for  a  couple  of  nights,  she  had  not  contacted  him.  Her mobile  phone  had  been  switched  off.

Ed  did  not  expect  an  answer  to  this.  He  had  already  sauntered  across  to  the bar  to  get  himself  another  drink,  his  back  turned  to  Alexis.  She  could  see  the  anger and  resentment  in  the  line  of  his  shoulders,  and  while  they  were  still  turned  she slipped  quickly  and  silendy  away.  It  took  her  a  matter  of  minutes  at  the  hotel  to  stuff all  her  clothes  into  a  bag,  grab  a  couple  of  books  from  the  bedside  table  and  scribble him  a  note.

Sorry  it's  ended  like  this.  You  never  did  listen.

There  was  no  'Love  Alexis',  no  row  of  kisses.  It  was  the  end.  She  could  admit  it to  herself  now.  There  was  no  love  left.

Chapter  Twenty-­‐seven

ALEXIS  WAS  SOON  back  on  the  road  to  Iraklion.  It  was  already  four  in  the afternoon  and  she  would  have  to  put  her  foot  down  to  reach  it  by  seven  o'clock,  in time  to  return  the  hire  car  and  catch  the  ferry  which  left  at  eight.

As  she  drove  along  the  smooth  road,  which  hugged  the  coastline  and  gave  her a  continuous  and  spectacular  view  of  the  sea,  a  feeling  of  euphoria  swept  over  her. To  her  left  there  was  nothing  but  blue:  azure  sea  and  sapphire  sky.  Why  were feelings  of  misery  called  'the  blues'?  she  wondered.  This  bright  sky  and  sparkling water  seemed  integral  to  her  ecstatic  sense  of  wellbeing.

With  the  windows  wound  down  and  warm  air  blowing  through,  her  hair flickered  behind  her  like  a  dark  stream  and  she  sang  along  loudly  and  passionately  to 'Brown-­‐Eyed  Girl'  as  the  cassette  whirred  round  in  the  car's  cheap  tape  deck.  Ed hated  Van  Morrison.

This  exhilarating  journey  lasted  a  little  more  than  two  hours,  and  as  she rattled  along,  fear  of  missing  the  boat  kept  her  foot  firmly  pressed  on  the accelerator.  There  was  nothing  quite  like  the  sense  of  abandon  she  got  at  the  wheel of  a  car.

With  only  moments  to  spare,  she  dealt  with  the  irritations  of  dispensing  with the  hired  car,  purchased  her  ticket  for  the  ferry  and  climbed  the  ramp  which brought  her  into  the  bowels  of  the  ship.  She  was  all  too  familiar  with  the  stench  of fumes  that  greeted  passengers  boarding  a  Greek  ferry  but  knew  that  in  an  hour  or two  she  would  acclimatise.  Cars  were  still  being  driven  on,  and  freight  was  being loaded  on  to  the  deck,  along  with  plenty  of  commotion  and  shouting  from  a  crowd of  dark-­‐haired  men  yelling  at  each  other  in  a  language  that  she  was  still  ashamed she  knew  so  little  of.  In  this  particular  situation,  it  was  probably  just  as  well.  She  saw a  door  marked  'Foot  passinjers'  and  disappeared  gratefully  through  it.

Somewhere  on  this  boat,  she  knew  she  would  find  her  mother.  There  were two  lounges,  one  for  smokers,  another  much  emptier  one  for  non-­‐smokers.  A  group of  American  students  occupied  the  latter,  while  in  the  former  there  were  several dozen  big  family  groups  returning  to  mainland  Greece  after  their  holidays  to relatives  in  Crete.  They  were  vociferous  and  all  appeared  to  be  haranguing  each other,  though  in  truth  they  were  probably  simply  discussing  whether  to  have toasted  sandwiches  now  or  later  on  in  the  journey.  Alexis  could  not  find  her  mother on  this  level  so  she  went  up  on  deck.

In  the  fading  light  she  saw  Sofia  at  the  far  end,  towards  the  prow.  She  was sitting  alone,  her  small  travel  bag  at  her  feet,  looking  across  at  the  twinkling  lights  of Iraklion  and  the  vaulted  arches  of  the  great  arsenal  built  by  the  Venetians.  The pristine  walls  of  the  solid  sixteenth-­‐century  fortress  which  stood  guard  over  the harbour  could  have  been  built  yesterday.

A  day  earlier  it  was  Alexis  who  had  been  amazed  to  see  her  mother.  This  time it  was  Sofia's  turn  to  be  surprised  by  the  sight  of  her  daughter.

There  was  little  need  to  explain,  but  Alexis  wanted  to  talk.

In  the  decades  since  Sofia  had  turned  her  back  on  the  people  and  the  place that  had  nurtured  her  into  adulthood,  she  had  never  perceived  it  all  so  clearly.  Her

daughter  had  made  her  look  at  these  ancestors  of  hers  as  though  they  were characters  in  a  drama.  At  last  she  saw  not  humiliation  but  heroism,  not  perfidy  but passion,  not  leprosy  but  love.

Everything  was  in  the  open  now,  the  wounds  were  exposed  to  the  air  and  at last  there  was  the  possibility  of  healing.  There  was  no  shame  in  any  of  it.  She  no longer  had  anything  to  hide  and  for  the  first  time  in  twenty-­‐five  years  her  tears flowed  unchecked.

As  the  cumbersome  ferry  moved  slowly  out  of  the  harbour  and  blasted  its horn  into  the  still  night  air,  Alexis  and  Sofia  stood  against  the  railings,  catching  the breeze  on  their  faces.  Arms  entwined,  they  looked  back  across  the  pitch-­‐black  water until,  gradually,  the  lights  of  Crete  faded  into  the  distance.

THE  END

Notes Leprosy—A  Continuing  Problem  in  the  21st  Century

Although  leprosy  has  been  eradicated  in  Europe,  it  is  still  a  major  health problem  in  developing  countries.  In  2004  over  400,000  new  cases  were  diagnosed, around  70%  of  these  in  India.  Leprosy  (also  known  as  Hansen's  disease)  is  caused  by a  germ  similar  to  that  which  causes  tuberculosis.  It  attacks  the  nerves  of  the  hands, feet  and  face  and,  if  left  untreated,  can  take  away  the  ability  to  move  fingers,  toes and  eyelids.  It  can  also  destroy  the  ability  to  feel  pain  so  that  those  affected  are prone  to  injuries  and  burns  which  can  result  in  serious  infections  and  ultimately  the loss  of  fingers,  toes  and  sight.  The  longer  the  disease  is  left  undetected,  the  more likely  it  is  that  the  deformities,  so  often  associated  with  leprosy,  will  occur.  Coupled with  the  social  stigma  born  out  of  fear  and  misunderstanding,  those  affected  are often  rejected  by  family  and  community.  This  means  that  many  are  afraid  to  come forward  to  seek  treatment  in  the  early  stages  of  the  disease. The  Work  of  LEPRA

With  their  trained  teams  of  paramedics  and  health  workers,  LEPRA  (The Leprosy  Relief  Association)  seeks  out  and  treats  those  affected,  enabling  them  to care  and  provide  for  themselves.  A  course  of  pills,  Multi-­‐Drug  Therapy,  cures  most patients  in  six  months  and  the  more  infectious  patients  within  one  year.  If  treatment is  started  early,  deformities  and  disabilities  can  be  prevented  and  social stigmatisation  avoided.  For  those  already  disabled  by  leprosy,  LEPRA's  staff  teach how  to  prevent  the  worsening  of  these  disabilities  and  reconstructive  surgery  is becoming  more  widely  available.  Hands  that  have  become  clawed  can  be straightened  and  a  simple  operation  can  save  a  person's  sight.

It  costs  £21  to  help  cure  one  person  of  leprosy.

Further  information  can  be  found  online:    or  from  LEPRA,  28 Middlesborough,  Colchester,  Essex  CO11TG,  08451212121