Watching the Wind Blow (The Greek Village Collection Book 9) (8 page)

Captain Yorgos stands in the middle of the room. The port police station is on the first floor over a taverna in one of the grand old houses that face the harbour. The floor is of worn unpolished parquet. The shutters are all thrown open on three sides of the large room, giving a magnificent panoramic view of the bay. The floor space has been divided up into offices with pine partitions which have framed windows above waist height. The plaster walls at the back of the room crumble with age and the solid wooden desks, Yorgos happens to notice, all have folded cardboard wedges under one leg, presumably to stop their rocking on the time-warped floor.

Young men in white short-sleeved shirts are rushing about with a nervous energy that makes him dizzy, and he looks around for a seat.

‘Ah Yorgos. No good, no good.’ Commander Demosthenes puts a hand on his shoulder and shakes his hand. ‘Come, let’s go into my office.’ With his hand remaining on Yorgos’ shoulder, he leads the way to a cubicle in the far corner that is slightly bigger than the rest. The sun streams through the open windows and casts stripy shadows through a shutter that has blown closed. The head of the port police indicates a seat for Yorgos and pushes the shutter open again. Some insect with dangling legs flies in through one window and out through another. Commander Demosthenes sits in the chair behind his desk and swivels to face Yorgos.

‘Right, so who is on board? We have been in touch with an Irini. Is there anyone else?’ Yorgos has never seen Demosthenes anything but jovial over coffee. This serious man in front of him is a stranger but as he speaks, the reality that his yacht has been taken begins to sink in, along with the ramifications.

‘Do you think my insurance will cover this?’ Yorgos asks.

‘No idea. Let’s see if we can get it back in one piece, shall we? Who is this Irini, and who else could be on board?’

The yacht captain stares out through the open window across the bay. He had six Swiss tourists lined up for today and they have already paid a deposit. Will he have to pay that back?

‘No chance of getting her back by ten, then?’ he asks with a grin, but his stomach has sunk inside him. Without
Artemis
, it will be a hard season and even harder winter trying to survive and make the remaining yacht seaworthy for the following year with only half his income.

The port police commander looks back blankly.

‘Irini is from the village. She arrived alone this morning, but some days in the past, she has come with her little boy. She cleans the boats.’

‘Okay. You know her surname?’

‘No. But she is married to Marina’s son. Marina with the corner shop.’

Demosthenes does not pause to thank him. Without a word, he is on his feet and out of the office, shouting for people to find Marina and her son. ‘Find out if the child is at home or on the boat.’ Someone retorts that Marina’s son is Petta and that Marina’s eldest daughter is Eleni and she is in the port police on Orino Island. Someone replies, ‘One of ours,’ and the activity and the noise seem to grow.

Captain Yorgos puts a hand to his pocket for his cigarettes but finds he must have left his lighter with his coffee in the square. This Irini, he hopes she will keep his boat safe. He should have stayed, at least with him there, the outcome would not be at the whim of some pirate. He would have stood up to him. No doubt this woman is cowering in one of the cabins crying whilst his yacht is being sailed away to, well, to where exactly?

‘I’ve got Petta the husband on line two, Captain,’ calls a young man in a white shirt. Yorgos begins to stand but on seeing Demosthenes’ broad-shouldered body cross the room, he sits again. It is the other captain they want. He looks at his oil-stained hands, his split nails and then straightens his sagging t-shirt over his rounded belly.

‘Well, I am very glad your son is with you. Yes, yes, we will do everything we can to keep Irini safe.’ There is a pause. Demosthenes looks through the partition glass and offers a thumbs up. Yorgos manages a smile. Six clients. It is not often he gets six in one day, each paying the day rate. He will lose it all. Six of them.

‘Well that’s good at least.’ Demosthenes shuts the door behind him to keep the noise out. ‘The child is at home. But I think they are all coming here. They do that, you know, on the rare occasions that a boat is lost or there’s a storm. No matter how much we tell them that there is nothing they can do but wait, they want to be here, as if that will make a difference.’ He lights a cigarette and offers Yorgos one. Yorgos notices that Demosthenes’ hands are clean and his nails manicured.

‘Well, I suppose the same applies to me,’ Yorgos declares and stands. His legs hurt every time the blood moves through them. Standing is as bad as walking sometimes.

‘No, no, it is good to have you here. Sit down and I will get someone to make you a coffee.’

The coffee takes its time but it arrives before Irini’s family. Yorgos knows them immediately from their worried faces. The man is tall and broad and his face looks like it is unused to frowning, the laugher lines around his eyes indented more than the lines on his forehead. These villagers have it easy: just sit around and the oranges grow themselves. Even sends his wife out to work, so what sort of man is he?

The woman behind him, now she looks like she has worked all her life. The sort of woman who wears black for years but this woman has on a blue dress. Unusual. Her footwear is predictable: shapeless black lace ups.

The child in her arms looks like the man.

There is a general gathering of people around them. Soothing noises to the child and woman and low tones to the man. The family begin a barrage of questions: who else is on board, do they know who the pirate is, what are they going to do about it, when will they act? Demosthenes answers as best he can, tries to comfort them but, it seems, he does not lie. Their questions go on and on until they run out of steam and they deflate.

Captain Yorgos looks away, out of the window, as Demosthenes leads the family of three to his office. He should go. Make his excuses and leave.

‘Captain Yorgos, this is Petta, Marina, and little Angelos.’ The commander ruffles the sleepy child’s head. ‘Do you people want some coffee? It will be a long wait, I am afraid. The powers that be have taken an interest, which often delays action. But please,’ his hand extends and rests gently on the woman’s shoulder, ‘that is only a good thing.’ No one seems to want coffee and the commander leaves them alone.

‘I was just leaving, actually.’ Yorgos screws up his eyes in anticipation of the pain as he takes hold of the chair’s armrests to lever himself up.

‘Please Captain Yorgos, do you know anything more that we haven’t been told? Do you know this man that has taken Irini? Has this sort of thing ever happened before?’ The woman in blue puts her hand on his arm. The child wriggles from her grasp and goes to his baba.

The woman, what was her name? Marina, that’s it. She has a kind face and eyes, which look as if they could dance with joy under different circumstances. Good figure too, strong legs.

‘How will she sit still? She has so much energy, she likes to be doing something all the time.’ Petta begins talking about Irini but his voice quivers and fades, the tears in his eyes spill over, and he picks up his boy and hugs him, burying his own face in the child’s hair.

A silence pervades the room. Marina and her son become as statues; even the boy is still. It feels difficult to stand up and walk out, so Captain Yorgos continues to sit where he is, wiggling his toes to keep some circulation going.

‘Oh my goodness, what’s that?’ Irini points to the sea behind Sam. He turns, winces, puts his hand to his side and then swivels on his seat. The flat water is broken into a thousand white caps, each reflecting a piece of the sun. It takes a moment to even see the fish.

‘Flying fish!’ Irini’s voice is high-pitched.

Sam stands to get a better look, only to step back into Irini, who puts her hands on his hips to stop him falling back onto her. Staring at the winged creatures, neither of them move, dazzled by the light reflecting colours off the breaks in the water and the wings of the fish.

Thlap
. Sam’s head turns to look towards the bow. A fish has misjudged and lays flapping and gawping on the deck under the boom.
Thlap
. Another one by the cockpit, its tail wiggling from side to side in a frantic attempt to become airborne again.

‘Oh, Poor things.’ Irini grabs the one in the cockpit and tries to throw it overboard but the fins open again, the tail thrashes, and it slithers back onto the deck.

Sam’s hand on her shoulder jerks her back as she goes to grab the fish again.

‘What?’ she demands.

His face is so close to her, she can see the individual hairs of his beard just emerging through his skin, the open pores around his nose, which eyelashes are stuck together, the pattern in his irises. She can hear the rhythm of his breathing.

Another fish lands.

Irini blinks and he’s no longer close. He is rooting in his bag by the helm. Something flashes a reflection in the sun. His actions are all swift, nominal, without warning. One stride takes him back to her, a knife pointing to her stomach.

‘Why?’ she squeals and backs out of the cockpit and under the boom. Continuing his course, he doesn’t even acknowledge her and with a stab and a pull, the fish wiggles wildly and then lies still.

Her mouth is open. It is not that she has not seen a fish killed before, but it is the minimalism of his movements that shocks. Already he is on the other fish by the boom and then one on the side deck, throwing each fish back into the cockpit as he progresses.

The flapping and the skimming of the fish in the water around the boat stops and after the rush of movement, everything seems very still.

‘You can cook?’ Sam asks.

‘If there’s oil, we can fry them.’ Irini realises she just called them
we
!

‘Dry cook them if there isn’t.’ He swiftly cuts off a fin and studies it as he splays it out into a wing before throwing it overboard, and the rest of the fins follow in quick succession along with their guts. His dexterity surpasses that of any fisherman she has watched and she wonders about his origins. The four fish lay in the cockpit amongst blood and scales. The deck is dotted with patches of blood.

As she fries, she can hear the radio hiss. The ridiculousness of her situation occurs to her - she is frying fish for a pirate on a boat she cannot sail, waiting to be rescued! Could life be any more uncertain, unpredictable? Petta will be wondering where she is by now. Oh
Panagia
, what if he goes down to the port and sees that the boat is gone? What will he think? He will be beside himself, frantic. Maybe she should contact the port police and tell them to let him know that she’s alright. Just bobbing along, frying fish!

The fish is beginning to brown. She turns it over, sprinkles on a little oregano that she finds in a cupboard.

But the thoughts of Petta will not go. Her chest tightens and she stabs at the fish with her spatula. She has a steady, stable life full of love and proper beds and a place she can call home and, if Petta isn’t enough of a blessing, she has a child. So precious. Her whole life is so incredibly precious and all thrown into jeopardy just by being in the wrong place at the wrong time. From that point of view, life was a lot easier when she had nothing. When she had nothing, there was nothing to lose.

Stathoula – how kind it was of her – took her in straight from the funeral, no questions asked, gave her a bed with springs and sheets. That smell of clean was blissful, and even today she uses the same washing powder Stathoula used then to remind her of that day. She gave her three meals a day, stability, love, and clean sheets. Stathoula gave life value; she gave her value, and that brought Petta.

To find love was to grow strong, stronger than she ever imagined she could feel. With Petta, she can do anything. But to find that love is also to know fear. Not the fear of Yiayia losing her temper and bringing out the wooden spoon, or the fear of some angry guy on the street wanting money or food or something more. That was all just physical, momentary. No, to know love has also brought the fear of losing that love. An unimaginable loss that drains away hope, and beyond that, there is nothing but darkness and despair. It is always hope that dies first.

The fish are almost burnt. She snatches them from the stove.

‘Agamo…
’ She leaves the end of the swear word unfinished. Scraping the skin off gets rid of most of the burnt bits and once slid onto a plate, they look presentable. From the cabin at the front, she takes another water bottle but realises she will have to confess to the whole stash if she takes another on deck. It was a six pack. They have drunk one. She will take another up and leave three in plain view, pretend there were only five in the first place.

She puts the fish at the top of the steps along with plates and forks. She follows with glasses and the water.

‘I found a whole stash,’ she confesses. ‘We have three more after this.’ There’s that
we
again. As they are both in the same boat, it might as well be a
we
, she supposes.

Sam is dividing the fish. Irini has never really been a big fan of fish but she is hungry and makes quick work of her first fish, gulping water down as she eats. Sam eats really slowly.

‘Is it too burnt to eat?’ she asks.

Sam is in his own world and seems to come out of a daze to answer her.

‘No. But our saliva begins the breaking down process. We get more from our food the more we chew. It breaks down the simple sugars and it is the first stage of fat digestion, as it causes us to secrete an enzyme from the gland beneath our tongues.’ He takes another mouthful, chewing slowly, and his face becomes blank again. Only when all his fish is gone, which is sometime after Irini’s plate is clean, does he drink.

On his second glass of water, he looks behind them. The port police have gained on them slightly but have widened out so they are trailing behind on either side.

‘Can you swim?’ Sam asks.

‘Yes, well, a bit.’

‘So why don’t you jump? They would pick you up.’

‘I didn’t think I had that choice.’

‘What is to stop you?’

‘Well, you.’ The plate, unattended on her knee, begins to slip to the floor. He puts his hand out to save it.

‘Thank you.’ But it is a mutter more than a reply. She is trying to reassess the situation. Is he serious? Would he let her go?

He is watching her face and smiling, but it is a private smile. Is he laughing at her?

If he says she can go, does she jump and risk that he means it? Or maybe it’s a plan so he can shoot her in the water, which would take at least one of the police boats off his trail, especially if he shot just to wound. The journey back to the hospital would be paramount. That would give him only one police boat to deal with.

She looks at the coastline on either side of them. If she is correct in her judgement, then they are more than halfway to where the land to the left falls away and the sea channel opens that leads to Orino Island. At the next headland is a good-sized town with their own port police. They could send another police boat from there fairly quickly.

‘You know there is a town not far down that coast?’ She points. ‘They could send another port police boat from there. It would not take long to get here.’

He doesn’t even bother looking where she is pointing. Nothing seems to register of what she has said. Maybe it is not a plan to get rid of one of the boats.

So she could jump.

She stands. She actually feels rather bloated and full after the fish, and the last thing she feels like doing is swimming. But standing is a statement. She will have to follow it through.

Did she bring anything on board that she needs to take with her? Her arrival this morning seems so long ago, it is hard to remember. Her phone is in her car, along with her croissant. The thought of the croissant after the fish makes her feel a bit queasy and she wishes she hadn’t eaten so fast.

‘You need to change course in an hour or two if you are going to Orino Island to pick up fuel and water,’ she suggests, but she knows he is not and she is just buying time before she jumps.

‘Now why would I go to Orino Island and make it easy for the port police when the fuel gauge says full and you have found drinking water?’ Sam’s eyes stare again, green iris back to shark’s black.

‘How do I know you will not shoot me if I jump?’ Irini asks. His jaw muscle is twitching again, his face hard.

His answer is a shrug.

‘Is that it? A shrug?’ Irini’s voice raises.

He shrugs again.

‘Oh come on. My life is only worth a shrug?’ Her voice raises. How dare he dismiss her life so effortlessly? ‘You kidnapped me, forced me to be here against my will, and the best you can do is shrug?’ She is shouting. Damn him, he will react, her life is worth some reaction, any reaction. She won’t be depreciated to being valueless; she is not on the streets anymore. ‘You have me in fear of my life and you don’t even feel that you owe me an answer if I ask if you are going to shoot me?’ Her hands are on her hips and she has taken a step towards the stern of the boat. He looks puzzled but he stays seated.

‘What kind of coward are you?’ She takes another step around the helm and is onto the bathing platform at the rear of the boat. He has still not moved, making no attempt to stop her. There is no sign of his gun. With her hands clasped together, she points them over her head and bends her knees. The water churns with the motor, a froth of white foam. ‘Better get your gun,’ she spits, bending her knees even more, her thigh muscle tensed, ready to dive. She will, she will dive, she would rather dive and be shot than …

‘I was four when I told my Dad I didn’t love my aunt.’

‘What?’ Irini looks back. Her legs straighten.

‘He said she was ill and we need to go and see her.’

Irini lowers her arms.

‘I said I did not want to go. I didn’t like my aunt.’

As he speaks, she turns back to face him.

‘He said, "What are you talking about, of course you love your aunt. She is a good woman." But what I felt was not love, and he told me that it was. It confused me.’ Sam’s chin sinks a little. His eyes are on his ragged little finger. With the finger of his left hand, he plays with the flap, flicking it backwards and forwards. Holding onto the helm, Irini listens to him.

‘That was the first time that I really remember, but it felt familiar so it must have happened before.’ He stops flicking his little finger. ‘You see…’ He sits up, looks her in the eyes. She lets go of the helm and takes a step towards him. ‘The child refuses to give up on believing that it can win the love of its parent.’ He sounds like a textbook and Irini thinks she can see in his eyes all the lonely hours he must have spent reading to make sense of this four-year-old’s memory. She sits opposite him, mirroring, his forearms resting on his knee, his body bent forward, but her head is lifted, watching him, gazing intently.

‘Despite abundant evidence to the contrary,’ he concludes, but Irini is not sure if this is textbook or personal. Either way, he is back in control and she is still on board.

Did he allow himself to become vulnerable to stop her jumping in, leaving him, losing his bargaining position – if he needs one – with the port police? Or even losing his human shield. She sits back and looks out to the stern. The port police are still a long way away but it would not take long for them to reach her. It was a cheap trick to keep her on board, but it has only delayed her going. She stands.

‘You said you had this with your grandmother,’ Sam says, ‘This pressure to conform to expectations. A pressure that is so relentless and uniform that you are hardly aware of it.’

No one, not even dear sensitive Petta, has ever talked to her enough to understand what it was like living with Yiayia and now, here is this man, who she has only known for a few hours, speaking words as if he lived by her side all her life.

He continues. ‘They say that if you put a frog in a pan of cold water and put it on the stove and heat the water slowly, it will not jump out. There is no given point when the frog can decide the water is hot enough. One degree is bearable, the next is so close so that is bearable too; how does it know when to jump?’

‘Is that true?’ She turns back to him. He sort of nods, the corners of his mouth turned down as if to say
I think so
.

‘With Yiayia, I always felt so unreal,’ Irini says and Sam nods as if say it was the same for him, he understands. ‘If I did well at school, it was great telling Mama but when it was brought to the attention of Yiayia, I felt like a fake, that the success was just gold over dirt. So if I succeeded, it was just a cover up and if I failed, that was the truth. I was dirt, something to be trodden into the ground with all the other dirt until I was nothing, until I didn’t exist. Failure or success: Either way, there was no point to my existence.’ Irini stops and draws breath. ‘Does that sound like madness?’