Chapter Thirty-One
Nelly
Vathy seems bigger and busier than Nelly remembered, she thinks, paying the taxi driver and exiting the car. The harbour is horseshoe-shaped, with shops and cafés lining the top of the long, narrow bay, and verdant green mountains rising around it. Her gaze swings instinctively towards the boats on the water, and it’s only after a moment that she realises she’s looking for Alexander on one of them. What’s more, she’s foolishly looking for the man she knew back then– young, handsome and fit– and she drags her eyes away. Unless Vathy is some kind of time-travel portal, she won’t see him again now.
Her phone buzzes in her bag as the taxi drives away and she pulls it out, to see Frank’s name on the screen. Oh dear, and there’s also a string of missed calls, she notices, where he’s been trying to ring her. The reception must have been poor on the ferry crossing, she assumes, but now there’s no stopping him. ‘Hello?’ she says, trying to sound calm. She’s never done this sort of thing before, taken off on impulse without first seeking his approval. She’s not sorry though.
‘What are you doing? Is this some kind of punishment?’ he blasts into her ear.
‘Good morning to you too,’ she replies drily. No, she’s not sorry, she repeats in her head. ‘Didn’t you see my note? Ijust woke up early and thought I’d take myself off for a bit.’
‘But why, though?’ he asks. ‘And when are you coming back?’
There’s something about his vinegary tone that gets her hackles up, leaving her unwilling to fall into line. ‘I’m just out and about, exploring,’ is all she gives him. ‘I’ll be back this afternoon, Ishould think.’ Then, rather more sharply, ‘I’m allowed to go out by myself, aren’t I? Ididn’t realise Ineeded your permission to leave the hotel.’
That pulls him up short. ‘Well, no, of course you d—’
She cuts him off. ‘Good,’ she says. ‘Glad we agree on that much at least.’ She peers out across the harbour, watching as a boat full of holidaymakers begins to chug away from the quayside and down the long neck of the bay. For a wild moment she thinks it’s the Miaoulis , but her memory is playing tricks on her, of course. ‘I’ll see you later, then, Frank,’ she says, turning away again. ‘Have a good day.’
She hangs up before he can start quibbling and drops the phone back into her bag, determined to enjoy her time away without being made to feel guilty. Let him stew in his bad mood alone; she refuses to let it infect her today. Then, glancing once more at the boat heading into the distance, she finds herself wondering what she would have done if it had been
the Miaoulis , with Alexander at the helm. Would she have raced along, parallel with it, trying to catch his attention? Or would it have been enough for her just to know that he was still here?
It’s a difficult question. And here’s another: now that she’s actually arrived on Ithaca, having made her daring escape, what next? There are only two return sailings to Kefalonia, both late afternoon, so she has a whole day here to do as she pleases. Putting Frank out of her mind, she decides to take a closer look at the rather beautiful cast-iron statue of Odysseus she can see at the harbour’s edge. She’s always loved the Greek mythsand can still picture the battered paperback of retellings that she picked up from a second-hand bookstall when she was working at the Aphrodite in Corfu. The tales had captivated her, taking her away from the drudgery of her day job. As she stands before the statue now it’s wonderful to imagine Penelope gazing out, perhaps from this very spot, as she waited for Odysseus to return from his adventures. The view can barely have changed since the story was first told. It’s ironic, though, to think of Penelope yearning to be with her husband again when Nelly has just put the phone down on hers.
You’d understand if you knew the whole story, Penelope, she says in her head. In fact, brave, clever Penelope would probably have thought up her own, better course of action before now anyway. Nelly, meanwhile, still doesn’t know what she is going to do about her husband, her marriage. For now, she takes a few photos of the statue and sends them to the boys. Hanging out with Odysseus, like you do, she writes.
She sets out to explore the little town, following the line of the harbour, enjoying the sight of the sun twinkling on the water, and popping into shops to browse whenever something catches her eye. She buys a postcard each for the boys, miniature bottles of ouzo and souvenir shot glasses for them too, and a citronella candle for herself and Frank in the hope that it might keep the mosquitoes off them in the evening. There’s a post office further along the street, and she queues up to buy stamps for the postcards, wondering whether or not to ask about Alexander’s whereabouts. Is it silly of her, after so long, to have kept a tiny flame burning inside for him? Maybe. It’s perhaps not the greatest timing either, seeking out The One Who Got Away as her marriage collapses in ruins. But if she doesn’t ask, she’ll only regret it, she decides while she’s paying for her stamps.
‘Um. . . Iwas wondering, do you know somebody in Vathy called Alexander Nikolaou?’ she blurts out. ‘Married to Sofia?’
As soon as she says the words, she cringes a bit inside. The woman serving her can only be in her early thirties; she’s certainly not any kind of contemporary of his. She might not even have been born when Nelly and Alexander parted ways. ‘No, sorry,’ the woman says. ‘Would you like a receipt?’
‘No, thanks,’ Nelly says, then hesitates, unable to walk away just yet. ‘His brother was a priest here,’ she goes on, wishing she could remember his name. ‘The Nikolaou family? Alexander had a boat?’
But the woman is shaking her head, apologising again, and Nelly, after a quick glance behind her at the queue of people waiting to be served, has to leave it there. ‘ Efcharisto ,’ she says, and beats a retreat.
Back on the street, she tries to remember which direction Alexander’s house was in. All she knows is that it was up a steep hill– but with the mountains rising all around the main street, every road up from the water appears vertiginous. Shading her eyes with her hand, she gazes about, trying to find a landmark she might recognise, and her eyes alight on a church. After the bombshell of Sofia’s pregnancy, she and Alexander had walked in miserable silence to his brother’s church, she remembers, because his brother was the one member of the family who had a car and was able to drive Nelly to the ferry port. Might that be the same church?
There’s no harm in looking, she decides, and doubles back on herself to take a side street up and away from the main road. Even though Alexander has barely crossed her mind in years, now that she’s here again she realises she wants to hear the rest of the story. She wants to know whether or not his decision to marry Sofia was worth it.
It’s a warm, windless day and, as she climbs the hill out of town, she feels sweat beading her hairline and armpits, her skin becoming unpleasantly clammy. If Alexander is still alive and if, by any chance, he is still on Vathy, she does not want to meet him red-faced and sweaty, she thinks, before coming to a halt and grimacing at her own vanity. Then her thoughts return to her book of Greek myths, and she’s remembering the Fates; the idea that the actions of humans were predestined before they were even born. Maybe they’ve planned it this way, she thinks wryly, mopping her brow. Maybe it was in fact destiny that the nice receptionist back at the hotel suggested she came to Ithaca this morning, because her narrative is still intertwined with Alexander’s after so many years?
She rounds a corner and– ahh, at last, the steps are coming to an end. The church is in front of her, painted a peachy shade, with a large square bell tower that reaches up into the sky. Pausing for breath, she turns round, to be rewarded by the most spectacular view down to the bay below, the sea a great bolt of rumpled azure fabric and the mountains thronging all about. But the splendour of the sight isn’t quite enough to lessen the sharp disappointment she feels on having arrived at the church– because it’s definitely not the same one she went to all those years before. Her memories of that day, post-bombshell, might feel as foxed and yellowed as her ancient book of Greek myths, with pages torn and missing here and there, but she knows in her bones that she has never been to this place before. Damn it. Perhaps she’s been kidding herself about destiny, after all.
Reluctant to turn back immediately after her epic schlep up, she asks a man sweeping up a few fallen leaves in the courtyard if he knows anything of the Nikolaou family (no), and even scouts around the graves in the cemetery by the church, just in case she sees Alexander’s name there. Again, no– and thank goodness too, she thinks, beginning the slow trudge back down to the harbour, and square one. How upsetting it would have been to find his gravestone today; a sad punctuation mark to end the story.
Maybe someone on one of the boats will know of him, though? She wanders along the harbour’s edge, keeping an eye out for anyone on board. Her mouth twists as she remembers doing exactly this back in Corfu, the day she first met him. Was that Fate again, throwing them together? She wishes Fate would lend a hand here now, if so, because her first sweep of the boats is not promising. There’s a large commercial yacht with banners adorning its sides advertising a company website, offering trips to a nearby beach, but otherwise the boats all look privately owned, or rented by holidaymakers. It might be many decades since she knew him but she just can’t imagine Alexander working for a big operator, retracing the same trips out and back every day.
She pauses by the harbour wall to stroke a large black and white cat that’s sprawled out in the sun. ‘Any thoughts, puss?’ she murmurs as it immediately rumbles with a throaty purr. ‘Have you seen him anywhere? Am Iwasting my time even looking for him, do you think?’
The cat purrs louder than ever, which is nice even if unhelpful. ‘Okay, thanks,’ she tells it with one last chin-scratch. ‘Iappreciate that.’
Wandering further along, she sees a taverna that looks more rustic than some of the tourist places, with sturdy wooden benches outside and an ageing painted sign advertising Mythos, the local beer. Might this be where the fishermen hang out? she wonders, approaching the door. Inside, it’s dingy and there are shabby sofas and armchairs set round wooden tables. A man behind the bar is staring down at a folded newspaper in front of him, but glances up as she approaches and silently looks her over. A small brown dog rushes out, barking, and the man grunts an order, which the dog completely ignores.
‘Um. . . Kalimera ,’ Nelly says over the high-pitched yapping. ‘Do you speak English?’
The man shouts at the dog, which stops barking at last and lies down with a heavy sigh. The man turns back to Nelly. ‘English? Small, small,’ he replies, holding his thumb and forefinger a tiny distance apart.
She nods. ‘Okay. Do you know someone called Alexander Nikolaou?’
His face does not take on the vacant look that others have so far adopted at the question. ‘Katerina?’ he asks, which confuses her. ‘Katerina Nikolaou?’ he says.
Who is Katerina Nikolaou? A second wife? A daughter? Or just someone with the same surname? She shakes her head. ‘No, Alexander Nikolaou,’ she says, enunciating clearly. Then she gestures above her head, trying to show that it’s a man she’s in search of, a big tall man. ‘He has a boat?’ she adds, miming– well, it’s meant to be a mime of a boat on the waves, but she can tell from his eyes that he has no idea what she’s doing.
He shrugs, then makes a reply, the only words of which she understands are ‘Katerina Nikolaou’, and what sounds like ‘Penelope’ (her again), followed by a thumb jerked towards the door– out, and then to the right.
‘Ineed to go that way?’ she asks, repeating the gesture. ‘To find Katerina?’
He nods, stepping out from behind the bar. ‘Come,’ he says, beckoning her to follow. He leads her back out of the pub, the dog trotting after them, then points along the bay. ‘Penelope,’ he says again.
‘Okay, thank you,’ Nelly says, still none the wiser but fearing that they’ve reached the limits of their Greek–English chat range. ‘ Efcharisto ,’ she adds and he smiles, making a little bow. ‘ Parakalo ,’ he tells her, which she seems to remember means something like You’re welcome .
She can feel him watching her as she sets off in the direction of his pointing finger, and she wonders what on earth he just told her to do. Nevertheless, she walks on obediently, hoping the answer will become clear in time. The road is quieter now, with only the occasional building on her right as she leaves the town behind. A couple of houses, a small hotel set back from the road, the sea glittering, wide and tranquil, in the bay to her left. She’s just starting to suspect he’s sent her on a wild goose chase for his own amusement when she spots a taverna ahead of her. Then she sees the name above it– Penelope’s Taverna– and a smile breaks on her face. Thank you, Penelope, she says under her breath, her step quickening along with her heartbeat as she walks towards it. Is she about to meet someone who knows Alexander at last?