Eventually the doctor arrived, profusely apologetic that he had made them wait, and ushered them straight into his office. His entire demeanour seemed so different from the last visit. Maria’s file was on his desk and he opened it and shut it again, as though there was something he needed to check. There was not, of course. He knew exactly what he had to say and there was no reason to keep these people waiting any longer. He came straight to the point.
‘Despineda Petrakis, I am afraid that there are bacteria in your skin lesions to indicate that leprosy is present in your body. I am sorry it’s bad news.’
He was not sure for whom the news was more devastating, the daughter or the father. The girl was the spitting image of her late mother, and he was keenly aware of this cruel repetition of history. He hated these moments. Of course there were emollient phrases that he could use to soften the blow, such as: ‘It’s not too advanced so we may be able to help you’, or ‘I think we’ve caught it early’. The announcement of bad news, however it was delivered, was still just that: bad news, catastrophic and cruel.
The pair sat in silence, their worst fears realised. In their minds they both pictured Spinalonga, knowing for certain now that this was to be Maria’s final destination, her destiny. Although she had initially made herself ill with worry, over the past few days Maria had tried to persuade herself that all would be well. To imagine the worst would have been unbearable.
Kyritsis knew that he must fill the gaping silence that had opened up in the room, and while the terrible news sank in, he gave them some reassurance.
‘This is very hard news for you and I am terribly sorry to deliver it. You must be reassured, however, that great advances have been made in the study of leprosy. When your wife was ill, Kyrie Petrakis, the only methods of relief and treatment were still, in my view, extremely primitive. There has been good progress in the past few years and I very much hope you will benefit from it, Despineda Petrakis.’
Maria stared at the floor. She could hear the doctor speaking but he sounded as though he was a very long distance away. It was only when she heard her name that she looked up.
‘In my opinion,’ he was saying, ‘it could be eight or ten years before your condition develops. Your leprosy type is, at present, neural, and if you remain in otherwise good health it should not progress to the lepromatous type.’
What is he saying? thought Maria. That I am effectively condemned to death but that it will take me a long time to die?
‘So,’ her voice was almost a whisper, ‘what happens next?’
For the first time since she had entered the room, Maria looked directly at Kyritsis. She could see from his steady gaze that he was unafraid of the truth, and that whatever needed to be told, he would not fail to tell her. For her father’s sake, if not her own, she must be brave. She must not cry.
‘I shall write a letter to Dr Lapakis to explain the situation, and within the next week or so you will have to join the colony on Spinalonga. It probably goes without saying, but I would advise you to say as little as possible to anyone, except those who are closest to you. People still have very out-of-date ideas about leprosy and think you can catch it just by being in the same room as a victim.’
At this point Giorgis spoke up.
‘We know,’ he said. ‘You can’t live opposite Spinalonga for long without knowing what most people think of lepers.’
‘Their prejudices are completely without scientific basis,’ Kyritsis reassured him. ‘Your daughter could have caught leprosy anywhere and at any time - but most people are too ignorant to know that, I’m afraid.’
‘I think we should go now,’ Giorgis said to Maria. ‘The doctor has told us what we need to know.’
‘Yes, thank you.’ Maria was now completely composed. She knew what she had to do and where she would be spending the rest of her life. Not with Manoli near Elounda, but alone on Spinalonga. For a moment she had an urge to get on with it all. During the last week she had been in limbo, but now she knew what was to happen. It was all so certain.
Kyritsis opened the door for them.
‘Just one final thing,’ he said. ‘I have been in regular correspondence with Dr Lapakis and I shall be resuming my visits to Spinalonga at some time in the future. I will, therefore, be involved with your treatment.’
They both listened to his words of comfort. It was kind of him to be so solicitous, but it did not help.
Maria and Giorgis emerged from the hospital into the bright mid-afternoon sun. All around them people went about their business, oblivious to the grief of the two individuals who stood there. The lives of all those going to and fro were the same now as they had been when they got up that morning. This was just another ordinary day. How Maria envied them the trivial tasks of their routine that in a few days would be lost to her. In the space of an hour, her life and her father’s had changed totally. They had arrived at the hospital with a scrap of hope and had left it with none at all.
Silence seemed the easiest place to hide. For a while at least. An hour or so into the journey, however, Maria spoke.
‘Who do we tell first?’
‘We have to tell Manoli, and then Anna and then the Vandoulakis family. After that there will be no need to tell anyone. They will all know.’
They talked about what needed to be done before Maria left. There was little. With her wedding imminent, everything was already prepared for her departure.
When they arrived back in Plaka, Anna’s car was parked outside their house. She was the last person in the world Maria wanted to see. She would much rather have sought comfort from Fotini. Anna, however, still had a key and had let herself into the house. It was almost dark by now and she had been sitting in the twilight waiting for their return. There was no mistaking that their news was bad. Their downcast faces as they walked through the door said it all, but Anna, insensitive as ever, shattered their silence.
‘Well?’ she said. ‘What was the result?’
‘The result was positive.’
Anna was momentarily confused. Positive? That sounded good, so why the glum faces? She was in a quandary, and realised that she hardly knew herself what the best result would be. If her sister did not have leprosy she would marry Manoli. For Anna that would be an unwelcome outcome. If Maria did have leprosy, it would immediately affect Anna’s status in the Vandoulakis family. They would inevitably discover that Maria was not the first Petrakis to inhabit the island of Spinalonga. Neither was a desirable outcome, but she could not decide which was the lesser of the two evils.
‘Which means what?’ Anna found herself asking.
‘I have leprosy,’ her sister replied.
The words were stark. Even Anna now let the silence linger. All three of them standing in this room knew exactly what this meant, and there was no need for questions.
‘I will go and see Manoli tonight,’ said Giorgis decisively. ‘And Alexandros and Eleftheria Vandoulakis tomorrow. They all need to know as soon as possible.’
With that he left. His daughters sat on together for a while, though they had little to say to each other. Anna would see her parents-in-law later that evening and fretted over whether she should say anything to them before Giorgis had the opportunity. Would it soften the blow if she told them the news herself ?
Although it was now late, Giorgis knew Manoli would be at the bar in the village. He strode in and spoke directly, bluntly even.
‘I need to talk to you, Manoli. Alone,’ he said.
They withdrew to a table in the corner of the bar, out of earshot of everyone else.
‘I have bad news, I’m afraid. Maria will not be able to marry you.’
‘What’s happened? Why not? Tell me!’ There was sheer disbelief in Manoli’s voice. He knew Maria had not been well for a few days, but had assumed it was something minor. ‘You have to tell me what’s wrong!’
‘She has leprosy.’
‘Leprosy!’ he roared.
The word thundered round the room, s
ilencing everyone in it. It was a word that most here were used to, though, and within a few minutes conversations around the room had resumed.
‘Leprosy,’ he repeated, more quietly this time.
‘Yes, leprosy. The day after tomorrow I will be taking her to Spinalonga.’
‘How did she get it?’ Manoli asked, immediately worried for his own health.
What should Giorgis tell him? It could take many years before the symptoms of leprosy made themselves evident, and it was very possible that Maria had been infected by her mother all that time ago. He thought of Anna and the implications this might have for her. The chances of her having leprosy as well were infinitesimally small, but he knew that the Vandoulakis family might need some persuasion of that.
‘I don’t know. But it’s unlikely that anyone will have caught it from her,’ he answered.
‘I don’t know what to say. It’s such terrible news.’
Manoli moved his chair away from Giorgis. It was an unconscious gesture, but one full of meaning. This was not a man who was about to give comfort, nor one who needed any himself. Giorgis looked at him and was surprised by what he saw. It was not the crumpled figure of a broken-hearted man just given the news that he could not marry the woman of his dreams. Manoli was shocked, but by no means destroyed.
He felt very sad for Maria, but it was not the end of his world. Though he had loved her, he had also passionately loved a dozen other women in his life, and he was realistic. His affections would sooner or later find another object; Maria had not been his one and only true love. He did not believe in such an idea. In his experience, love was a commodity, and if you were born with it in ample supply, there was always plenty left for the next woman. Poor Maria. Leprosy, as far as Manoli knew, was the most terrible fate for any human being but, in heaven’s name, he might have caught the same disease if she had discovered it any later. God forbid.
The two men talked for a while before Giorgis took his leave. He had to be up very early to call on Alexandros and Eleftheria. When he arrived at the Vandoulakis house the following morning the four of them were already waiting for him. A nervous-looking maid led Giorgis in to the gloomy drawing room where Alexandros, Eleftheria, Andreas and Anna all sat like wax-works, cold, silent, staring.
Knowing that it was only a matter of time before the truth of her family history came out, Anna had confessed to Andreas that her mother had died on Spinalonga. She calculated that her honesty might appear to be a virtue in this situation. She was to be disappointed. Even though Alexandros Vandoulakis was an intelligent man, his views on leprosy were no different from those of an ignorant peasant. In spite of Anna’s protestations that leprosy could only be transmitted through close human contact, and that even then the chances of catching it were small, he seemed to believe the age-old myth that the disease was hereditary and that its presence in a family was a curse. Nothing would deter him from this.
‘Why did you keep Maria’s leprosy secret until the eleventh hour?’ he demanded, incandescent with rage. ‘You have brought shame upon our family!’
Eleftheria tried to restrain her husband, but he was determined to continue.
‘For the sake of our dignity and the Vandoulakis name, we will keep Anna within our family, though we shall never forgive the way you have deceived us. Not just one leper in your family, but two, we now discover. Only one thing could have made this situation more serious and that is if our nephew Manoli had already married your daughter. From now on we would be happy if you would keep your distance from our home. Anna will visit you in Plaka, but you are no longer welcome here, Giorgis.’
There was not one word of concern for Maria, not a moment’s thought for her plight. The Vandoulakis family had closed ranks, and even the kindly Eleftheria sat silently now, afraid that her husband would turn his wrath on her if she spoke in defence of the Petrakis family. It was time for Giorgis to go, and he left his daughter’s home for the last time, in silence. On the drive back to Plaka, his chest heaved with sobs as he lamented the final fragmentation of his family. It was now as good as destroyed.
Chapter Sixteen
WHEN GIORGIS ARRIVED home, he found that Fotini was already there helping Maria. They both looked up from their conversation as he walked in, and knew without asking that the encounter with the Vandoulakis family had been difficult. Giorgis looked even more pale and battered than they had expected.
‘Have they no pity?’ Maria cried out, leaping up to comfort her father.
‘Try not to be angry with them, Maria. In their position they have a lot to lose.’
‘Yes, but what did they say?’
‘They said that they were sorry that the marriage is not to take place.’
In its way, what Giorgis said was true. It just missed a great deal out. What was the point of telling Maria that they never wanted to see him again, that they would deign to keep Anna within the family but as far as they were concerned her father was no longer part of it? Even Giorgis understood the importance of dignity and good name, and if Alexandros Vandoulakis felt that the Petrakis family was in danger of besmirching his, what option did he have?
Giorgis’s neutral words almost matched Maria’s state of mind. There had been a dreamlike quality to the past few days, as though these events were not really happening to her but to someone else. Her father described to her Manoli’s reaction to the news and she had no trouble reading between the lines: he was sad, but not demented with grief.
Giorgis left the two women to get on with their preparations for Maria’s departure, though there was little to do. It was only a few weeks ago that she had been preparing her trousseau, so boxes already stood in the corner of the room packed with her possessions. She had been careful not to take anything that Giorgis might need himself, but she had anticipated that the place where Manoli lived lacked much of what made a house a home, and there were many items of a domestic kind carefully stowed into the boxes: bowls, wooden spoons, her scales, scissors and an iron.
What she had to decide now was what to remove from the boxes. It seemed unfair to take the things that people had given her when she was going to a leper colony rather than her marital home in an olive grove, and what use on Spinalonga were those presents of nightwear and lingerie that had been given to her for her trousseau? As she lifted them out, all these frivolous luxury items seemed to belong to another life, as did the embroidered cloths and pillowcases that she had spent so long working on. As she held these in her lap, Maria’s tears dripped on to the finely stitched linen. All those months of excitement had come to an end, and the cruelty of the turnaround stung her.
‘Why don’t you take them?’ said Fotini, putting her arm around her friend. ‘There’s no reason why you shouldn’t have fine things on Spinalonga.’
‘You’re right, I suppose; they might make life more bearable. ’ She repacked them and shut the box. ‘So what else do you think I should take?’ she asked bravely, as though she was getting ready to go on a long and agreeable journey.
‘Well, your father will be delivering several times a week, so we can always send you anything you need. But why not take some of your herbs? It’s unlikely they all grow on the island and there’s bound to be someone there who would benefit from them.’
They spent the day going over what Maria might need on the island. It was an effective distraction from the impending catastrophe of her departure. Fotini kept up a gentle flow of conversation that lasted until it was dark. Neither of them had left the house all day, but now the moment came for Fotini to depart. She would be needed at the taverna, and besides, she felt that Maria and her father should be alone that evening.
‘I’m not going to say goodbye,’ she said. ‘Not just because it hurts, but because it isn’t goodbye. I shall be seeing you again, next week and the week after.’
‘How come?’ asked Maria, looking at her friend with alarm. For a fleeting moment she wondered whether Fotini was also leprous. That could not be, she thought.
r /> ‘I’ll be coming with your father to do the occasional delivery, ’ Fotini said matter-of-factly.
‘But what about the baby?’
‘The baby isn’t due until December, and anyway Stephanos can take care of it while I come across and see you.’
‘It would be wonderful to think that you might come and see me,’ said Maria, feeling a sudden surge of courage. There were so many people on the island who had not seen a relative for years. She at least would have a regular chance to see her father, and now her best friend too.
‘So that’s that. No goodbyes,’ said Fotini with bravado. ‘Just a “see you next week then”.’ She did not embrace her friend for even she worried about such proximity, especially with her unborn child. No one, not even Fotini, could quite put to one side the fear that leprosy could be spread by even the most superficial human contact.