Retreating hastily to the refuge of his van, the baker continued his journey, the termination of which
coincided with Sophia's cigarette break, taken that evening on a chair behind the serving counter at Yanis Taverna.
Next to her, Yanis scratched the back of his neck with a pencil kept solely for that purpose, above one large hairy ear.
“Are you sure it was English waiter.” Yanis scratched his neck again.
“The English waiter, he work for Demetra?.” Sophia added, making no effort to disguise her curiosity.
“You know anyone else with hair like goat.” Costa raised the palms of his hands as if to determine whether the roof was leaking.
“And the woman, she is one who rent car.” Sophia continued her interrogation with the calm determination of a veteran police detective.
Costa launched himself into a full account of the circumstances in which he'd found the yellow Citron, accompanied by gestures of raised hands and arms that flayed around like the sails of a windmill in a thunderstorm.
Not until she was satisfied that she'd wrung every last shred of evidence from her witness did Sophia allow Costa to sit and eat his meal in peace.
The following day Sophia telephoned her cousin Demetra, to inform him of this trivial event and the role of a young waiter he'd reluctantly employed earlier that year. In turn Demetra made his own enquiries and within a matter of hours, every Greek speaking person within a radius of ten miles had heard the bakers tale.
Had it not been for Mels sudden departure and return the following week, local gossip might have abated within several days.
Now the revived interest in all matters relating to her movements and those of Alexander's, centred on Yanis taverna, where Sophia, it's most active purveyor of important and newsworthy matters, waited impatiently for their imminent arrival.
Unaware of the intense interest in her tedious, unfulfilled life, Mel spent the morning contemplating how to make the most of the remaining few weeks on Zakynthos. Filling a tumbler with milk, she sipped the cool liquid before emptying it into the sink. “Milks off and we're out of juice.” She held the glass under a trickle of water from a tap secured to the wall by one screw. Then slumping into a chair by the open window, threw her head back to observe a couple walking hand in hand along an upside down beach.
Alexander sat quietly reading a copy of 'Ulysses Found'. The book, a gift from Wendy, had been excluded from his hastily packed luggage for Kefelonia.
“Were you running backwards this morning.” She sat teasing hair, now striped with horizontal shafts of light from the shutters.
“For the half marathon.” Alexander slid further down into the chair, as he began to read the page again.
“Aren't you likely to bump into something.”
“What.” He glared over the top of the paper back.
“I said, aren't you likely to bump into something.”
“Oh I didn't think of that. Yes I might fall down a hole and break my neck.”
“There's no need to be sarcastic.”
“Sorry your right, I should have explained that I'm going to attach wing mirrors to a crash helmet.” His eyes returned to the top of the page.
“What's wrong with running forward like everyone else.”
“Because I don't want to run forward like everyone else. I want to do something that's different.”
“How about a grizzly bear outfit.”
“Very uncomfortable, and it's been done before.”
“And running backwards in a crash helmet isn't uncomfortable.”
“Well maybe a cyclists helmet.”
“Cycling backwards.”
“Very funny Mel.”
“It would be an eye catching gimmick.”
“I'd be disqualified.”
“I don't see why.”
“Because I wouldn't be running.”
“Oh come on Alex, athletes run, you sort of flop along, gasping for air and drooling over every comfy bench you pass. Anyway why bother.”
“It's for a good cause.”
“Make a donation. Everyone else does.”
“I can't afford it.”
“Then donate a painting.”
“Not the same really is it.”
“Not the same without an element of suffering.”
“It's for charity Mel.” Alexander tossed his book onto the floor. “A concept you seem to be incapable of understanding.” He muttered under his breath.
“Sorry I didn't quite catch that last comment.”
“I said: you have to make exceptions for charity.”
“Liar. You said it was a concept I didn't understand.” She leapt from her chair and snatched at the elastic waist of his shorts. “If your so keen to help someone, you could come shopping with me this afternoon. I need to buy some bits.”
“Much as I'd love to spend my afternoon with you shopping for underwear and make up, I'd really like to finish reading my book.
“So you'd rather help anyone but me.”
“Frankly Mel I’d rather spend my day perched on a sharp spike.”
Alexander picked up the book and continued to read.
Later that afternoon and ten kilometres to the east, Peter sat uncomfortably beneath a fig tree, peeling potatoes into a plastic bin.
The only erect feature on this dusty patch of dirt, a tree that cast its shadow like a compass needle towards Kiliomeno. In its shade chickens pecked at the remains of their breakfast, scattering as Mel entered the yard.
“Not good timing” He whispered through clenched teeth. “Can you come back after after two.”
“Only if you kiss my arse.” Mel opened a packet of one hundreds, placing one between her lips, she feasted her eyes upon his muscular physique.
“Thanks for the enthusiastic welcome.”
She turned her back to him, before lighting the cigarette.
“OK, sorry, but I'd be in the shit without this job.” Peter attempted to gain a little sympathy.
Niko had warned him about the gossip that so concerned their boss. The affair with a married English woman would bring nothing but trouble to his business. Trouble with his own customers and possibly with her husband. It was not good for business and if there were any trouble he would have to let Peter go.
“See what I can do.” Mel, retraced her footsteps across the yard, stopping briefly to glance at the tanned Englishman clutching a half peeled potato.
Deeply unsympathetic she drove back to the apartment where Alexander had fallen to sleep in a chair by the kitchen table, on his lap the paper back, spread out and upside down.
Opening the fridge door Mel stood for a moment, bathing her legs in the cool down draft. Then taking a tray of ice cubes, she emptied them into the sink.
Awoken by the resounding clatter Alex dropped his book, casting Mel a disparaging glare while bending forward to retrieve the crumpled pages.
“Really Mel.”
“Really what” She wiped an ice cube slowly across her neck and shoulders.
“Really would be great to have a bit of peace and quiet while I'm reading.”
“Sorry dear, I thought you were asleep.” Mel slumped into the chair beside him.
“Anyway won't disturb you again today, I’ve been invited to a lingerie party.” She added a pained expression for good measure. “Pretty boring but it's a sale, so would you mind having supper on your own this evening.”
“Sure.” Alexander agreed without hesitation. “Give me a chance to finish this tonight.” He fanned himself with the paper back. “Fascinating read, would you like me to keep it for you.”
“Thanks.” Mel quickly glanced at the cover before slipping quietly from the kitchen. Returning a few minutes later to announce her departure “I'm going to crash out on the beach for an hour.” She smiled wryly at the sight of Alexander, asleep after another abortive attempt to read the novel.
Mel allowed thirty minutes to pass before setting off again for the meeting with her lover.
Dressed only in her blouse, a sarong and sun glasses she stood by the car waiting for Peter, who crossed the road with thinly disguised reluctance.
After climbing into the passenger seat he pushed back into the sparse upholstery, to expose as little of himself through the small windows.
“Drive back out on to the main road, then turn left up towards Machorado”
“Towards what” asked Mel
“It’s. Oh just turn left in a minute, I’ll show you.” Peter turned to look through the rear window.
Mel placed her arm on the steering wheel, while taking a cigarette from a packet on the dashboard. “Something wrong. We could do this some other time if you’d rather be on your own tonight”
“Sorry. Still a bit tense after work,” he smiled, eager for her to drive to a safe distance from the taverna.
Then burying himself solidly in the passenger seat, he remained silent until they came to a sharp bend in the road. Withdrawing his head from between his hairy knees, Peter spoke quietly.
“This is the turning” he pointed to a barren and featureless track that passed between two ancient olive trees. Mel drove the pram up and over the mound of pertinacious volcanic rubble crested with red poppies, to a modern white concrete villa. Reminiscent of a World War two gun emplacement, the solitary two story building overlooked the entire three miles of Laganas beach.
Peter uncoiled himself from the confines of his uncomfortable concealment. Stepping out from the car, he made his way towards an iron gate, crunching gravel beneath worn sandals that creaked in protest. Opening, then securing the heavy metal bolt again, he followed in the suffocating dust and fumes of the car. Walking quickly past a swimming pool empty but for the lizards clinging to its cracked and faded tiles, he climbed a few steps to the front door. Then taking a key from the pocket of his faded denim jeans he unlocked the door and slipped inside the cool marbled hallway. His efforts to pierce the still silence for signs of another presence subdued by Mel's curiosity.
“So who's place is this.”
“Belongs to a friend,” Peter took her arm and coaxing her in from the threshold closed the door.
“Any chance of your friend arriving while we're here.”
“Its OK, he’s away for a few weeks.”
Smiling nervously, Peter wiped beads of sweat from his forehead.
“Your not absolutely sure are you. I can tell when your not sure Peter.”
“Sure I'm sure.” He laughed. “Anyway if he comes back I'll tell him to piss off.”
Peter guided Mel towards stairs leading up to a landing lit by sunlight from a dozen square glass panels.
“I'd like a drink Peter.” Mel tugged him back towards her. “Make me one while I have a shower.”
She began to unbuttoned her blouse. “Go on, I'll see you upstairs.”
Peter watched her remove each item of clothing as she ascended the stairs, then made his way to the dinning room to riffle the contents of its drinks cabinet.
Mel took her time to investigate the contents of all three bedrooms before stepping into the shower.
Standing beneath the trickle of tepid water she remembered the disappointment of her first day at the building site:
'If I were not subject to this female form, then I would make such amends for these pitiful conditions – My heart would be that granite stone of men to not prone to the weaknesses of women's flesh – Yet I cannot help but wonder why my lover is not so – for he has the softest heart that I have ever known'
The holiday had been a conciliatory attempt by Alexander to make amends for his lacklustre attentions, and further to curtail her increasingly frequent and prolonged weekend excursions.
He had acquired a lease on the apartment through an agency found in the back pages of a magazine. Renowned for their cut price accommodation, no frills flights, and no brochures with photographs of villas amid palm trees and turquoise pools.
“It's the only completed apartment in a two story property. So we have the place to ourselves.” Alexander showed the booking conformation to Mel. “Look.” He added quickly. “With balcony overlooking a quiet stretch of beach.”
“And you've booked it for six weeks.”
“Forty days plus the two days of travel.”
“Well done Alex. Now that wasn't so difficult was it.”
A difficulty that Alexander considered would be a better bridge to cross when Mel was safely on the beach in her bikini.
An image that caused yet another sudden rush of anxiety, for holidays had never been a part of Alexander's life plan. To lay roasting on sand that some rabid dog may recently have peed on. Suffering every discomfort from prickly heat to sunstroke, was to him more a torment than a treat. And the boredom. Oh God the boredom of six weeks in the company of someone who revelled in this torture.
But how, you may ask, could such an attractive and resourceful man of his age, become so reliant upon one so young and shallow.
Not simply by the suffocating comfort of her large inheritance, in that Victorian terraced house with fine views across the English Channel. Nor the status of her background and education that bought such beneficial contacts. Neither was there a vacuum of desirable female companions in his life, or a desire for them. If any of her assets had made captive of his imagination it was her cool and independent nature. One that made almost no demands on his time and did not follow his travels to remote locations. For what he most valued was his own autonomy.
Better still their love making, if love is an appropriate word for what they made when diving through their broken shards of crystalline affection, to be engulfed in each others dark and chilly depths. A cold and satisfying anaesthetic for their eager passion, a quenching of their insatiable craving, an extinguisher of their fiery fevers, to be lost within each others loins of frozen lust.
She'd first come like a pleasant spring breeze to blow cobwebs from his unattended corners, with her cool and youthful energy, her bright smiles and softness, her long supple limbs that could please any man to his distraction. She'd come like an angel straight from heaven to show him the sweetness of that place, with sincere and overpowering muliebrity.
And if her passion had cooled then so had his. For what fool would expect his passion to live forever, or such sublime captivity in such a graceful presence.
Their sensations numbed by many hours of travel, they had arrived at their destination amidst a pile of rubble and stacks of dusty timber. The Villa Laganas had been spared demolition, by virtue of the surrounding Tamarisk trees, that camouflaged it's presence from windows of a neighbouring four star Hotel.
The owner stood in ragged clothes to welcome them, having managed to connect a water supply only hours before their arrival.
“Kalimera.” Spiro greeted Mel and Alexander as they extricated themselves from the suffocating heat of the taxi. Prizing their suitcases from the boot, he spoke softly. “Welcome to Laganas, most beautiful beach in all Greece.”
Then running with a case in either hand towards the main entrance, he gestured to a woman who's two small children hid behind her skirts, gazing with anxious curiosity at the English couple.
“I'm not surprised they're so nervous.” Mel looked at the ramshackle collection of rooms. “Probably expecting us to turn around and go back to the airport.”
The crunching of bald tyres on gravel, indicating this to be no longer an option, Alexander took a deep breath before giving a dutiful elucidation.
“Great location. Unspoilt view of the longest beach in the Ionian, and we have the whole place to ourselves.”
“Aren't we the lucky ones.” Mel picked up her bag. “We'll need to hire a car, the shops are miles away.” She pushed open the red painted door to be met by Spiro, who waited for her to pass before running out to intercept Alex.
“I take case.” Spiro relieved him of Mels formidable collection of shoes.
“I noticed a sign for motor rentals as we came through the village.” Alexander followed him with the remaining luggage.
“Very good car and motorbike. Say Spiro send, he give special prize.”
“I'm sure he will.” Mel stood in the doorway lighting a cigarette.
“Is there hot water I'd like to take a shower.”
“Hot water, I fix today.” Spiro continued down the hall to deposit Mels case beside a dresser in the bedroom.
An hour later Alexander set off along the three miles of scolding sand, in well worn trainers and khaki shorts. A matching t shirt and head band to hold back the grey, blond hair that flapped upon his broad shoulders, gently as a butterflies wings.
Stopping occasionally where a cool turquoise sea met with white hot sand, to look beyond dunes at an interior of dry vegetation, scared by grey strips of tarmac that snaked over rugged hills.
Roads with only the traffic of small motorbikes that laboured to make progress on steep slopes, slowed by the burden of additional family members and farmyard animals.
The beach as equally conspicuous; It's deck chairs and beach loungers in the straight rows of an army barracks, with more stacked in neat piles beneath the cover of trees. The occupants of which sat and watching for turtles as their skins turned from light pink to golden brown. Their vigil offended only by the padding of two feet, that left a zip like trail upon its pristine grains of silicon.
The car rental was conveniently placed behind a beach taverna, where the coast road bent inland to accommodate a modest row of shops and cafés. Shaded on one side by the rear of the taverna and on the other by a cluster of trees, the south side secured by a tall slatted wooden fence. Amid a dozen or more motorbikes, a bright yellow Citron 2CV6 took pride of place. Its coachwork just waxed and polished by Yannis the proprietor, who now sat in a rickety caned chair, recovering from the excesses of his labours. Yannis, bald and pot bellied, with a generously proportioned nose that would adequately accommodate two men of his size and stature, had a personality to match.
“Kalimera.” He stood to welcome Alexander. “You like to hire car or motorbike.”
“Do you have anything with four wheeled drive. A Jeep or perhaps a Landrover.”
“This is good car. Go anyway same place as Jeep. Look new tyres.” He pointed to the newly polished offside wheel. “You try I give you good price.”
Alex returned, driving the bright yellow Citron 2CV6 along the coast road and into the rubble strewn yard. Bumping like a farm vehicle across a ploughed field, it stopped with a splutter as he removed its ignition key.
Mel threw open the bedroom window. Her temperament now improved, having taken a shower and unpacked the two suite cases of essential shoes.
“What's that” She called down.
“Only car they had until next week.” He stood back to inspect his acquisition. “I'm told they're very good for driving over pot-holes.”
“Looks like it didn't make it that time.” She looked down at a large dent in the off side wing.
“It's a convertible.” He pointed to the removable canvas roof that although not visibly perished, would no doubt, be hardly worth putting back up if it were to rain.
“Sure, why not.” She lit a cigarette . “If your sick in the back, it'll match the upholstery.”
The following morning Mel took off in the Citron, cigarette in hand, she drove away in a cloud of dust and road chippings, leaving Alex to deal with delinquent plumbing and other domestic trivia.
“No hot water this morning.” Alexander stood in the doorway to Maria's kitchen.
“Spiro.” She called, still wiping the face of an infant who clung to her dress. “Ella Spiro.”
Maria turned again to look up into Alexander's cool blue eyes, inadvertently raising the corner of her mouth into a smile.
“He comes.”
Her husband appeared, bare chested from the darkness of another room.
“Kalimera, Mr Alex.”
“No hot water this morning,” Repeated Alexander.
“Ah nero zesto, later in afternoon she comes.” He smiled, delighted with the ease and simplicity of his explanation.
“Excellent.” Alexander raised his hand in a brief goodbye, then made his way back upstairs to collect drawing pad and pencils.
Outside he settled beneath a tree to sketch details of the yard and half finished building. Pushing his back against the rough bark of a Tamerisk, while skilled fingers worked with pen upon soft thick paper, until seduced by slumber to the Rowan tree in his small garden: Ah there is nothing to better an English summer – and there is Mel naked with slices of apple upon her eyelids – her hair the colour of corn, as soft as a Persian kitten, abandoned in long grass – Two small breasts, flesh coloured thimbles - so little flesh between them and those wondrous legs – two limbs of such divine proportions as to circumnavigate the globe with ease – carefully she removes the apple slices, tossing them to passing seagulls, who fly away in shrill delight – propping herself upon one elbow, lips drawn back to reveal rows of priceless, pristine ivory – licking them with her pink tongue she invites him to feast upon her honey juice – flutterby lashes close over hazel gems with all the colours of the sea as he enters her – lowering his rough cheek against her silken pillow – a soft wind blows sweetness from the south. What a wonder youth and mother nature – what could a man want more in this corner of eden – only that it should not end with this dark cloud of rooks wings sent from heaven.
Alexander awoke within the shade of Spiro who stood over him peering at the pencil drawing.
“Ha you come next year when finished, it will be of beautiful to make then picture, will have stairs here” Spiro pointed to the south side of the building. “Rooms here.” He swept his hand across the roof line. “And here a restaurant.” He gestured dramatically with both hands toward the wood shed. “With chairs and tables all here.” He skipped around the rubble. “Come here next year, bring your friends from England. Have best food, best beds, I buy to Athens.”
Alexander drew himself up to his feet and gave the rickety scaffolding a critical glance.
“We make stairs like this in England. But the construction is a little more robust.”
“You make stairs.”
“I used to. Stairs, windows, roofs, everything.”
“Yannis, make stairs, gone to Athens.” Spiro held out the palms of his hands.
“Yannis is you're builder.”
“No brother, he is cousin.” Spiro placed one hand on the tree, leaning into the shade he shook his balding head. “He has problem with money, so little and I must make stairs without him. But you make stairs in England.”
“I can show you how to finish the shuttering, it's quite simple.”
“You can help make stairs.”
“I could show you how to mark up the timber.”
“Show here please.” he pointed to Alexander's pad.
Alexander flipped the page and started to sketch the details of the south wall, then carefully drew in straight lines of timber shuttering with added diagrams and details below.
Spiro peered at the drawing before walking to the pile of plywood, where he laid the flat of his hand upon the top sheet. “Now here please.”
“First we have to establish and transfer the angle that you have marked on the wall.” Alexander pointed to Maria's clothes line. “Do you have more of this, we need to make a plumbob.”
An hour later they had marked up the first four sheets ready for cutting.
“You can help make stairs.” Spiro jubilantly exclaimed.”Wait please, I speak to Maria.” He ran toward the basement, returning minutes later with his wife still wiping her hands on a kitchen towel.
“Lego ton tha mageirevo.” Maria spoke with her eyes turned to the ground.
“My wife says that she will cook for you and that you come her next year, with friends you pay nothing.”
“Please thank her, but all I can do more is help with the shuttering.”
“My wife very good cook. Everything here make for stairs.” Spiro pointed to the woodshed. “Here columns for next rooms. Come I show you picture.” He beckoned Alexander toward the basement door, from where the smells of Maria's cooking drifted. “Come, Mr Alexander. Come see.”
Alexander brushed the sand from his trousers, before stepping into the cool of Maria's kitchen.
“You come eat tonight.” Spiro gestured toward a chair, then opening the door of a large fridge, took two bottles of beer. Leaving the kitchen for a moment he returned with a roll of architects drawings that he spread across the table, placing the two bottles to hold them open.
That evening Alexander repeated Spiro's offer to Mel.
“He said we could have the place rent free, if I give him a hand.”
“Well that's something to look forward to. Maybe they'll have hot water next year.” Mel gazed at him with a mixture of bewilderment and disbelief. Then shrugged off the unpleasant prospect with thoughts of that evening's meal.
“I thought we might drive out to a restaurant that I passed this afternoon. They had waiters dancing outside. I think you'd like it.”
“Well actually they've invited us down to eat with them tonight.”
“Then please reschedule Alex. I'm not up to standing on ceremony tonight.”
“They'll be offended.”
“They'll still have you working for them, and for nothing.”
“That's not the point.”
“Your right it's not. The point is we're here on holiday.”
Alexander conceded reluctantly to this inevitable conclusion. Calling in through the basement door he made his apologise.
“Sorry but Mels made arrangements for this evening.”
“Endaxi, endaxi. Maria cook in morning. Then we make stairs.” Spiro terminated their meeting with a reassuring smile.
At five thirty the following morning Alexander dressed in shorts and two t shirts, before stepping out into the chill of the yard
“Please to sit.” Spiro gave up his chair to stand beside Maria as she cooked breakfast over the driftwood fire. Sitting on the sawn end of an upturned log, her plain back cotton frock tugged respectfully below the knees, still dripping with salt water. She turned three skewered fish upon a chicken wire grill from which every crackle and spit sent her children into fits of ebullient squeals. ”Pavo kravgi.” She called to no avail, while passing a dish of bread and fish to Alexander. Then “echete sas epomenos.” to pacify their protests as she shared the sizzling sprats between two wooden bowls, grasped eagerly by Sophia and Yani's tiny hands.
“Psari sta ka voona, is fish on stick. See” Spiro pointed to the two remaining skewers.
“Means English woman on beach.” He continued. “She cook in sun” Then waited patiently, watching the blush upon Maria's cheeks, that flickered in the firelight as the sun rose to a chorus of howling dogs and cock crow. A musical accompaniment to their breakfast unnoticed by all but Mel, who watched silently from her bedroom window.
Later that morning as Spiro and Alexander worked at the rear of the building, Mel lay before them dressed only in the tiniest bikini, while busily basting herself with coconut oil.
It was with the greatest humility that Spiro excused himself before fleeing to the kitchen, where Maria took the opportunity to berate him. “So you like to watch Greek wife cooking not English woman on stick.” she smiled sweetly before bringing her large wooden spoon sharply down upon his balding head.
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