Once Fotini had gone, Maria was alone for the first time in several days. She spent the next few hours rereading her mother’s letters, from time to time glancing out of the window and catching sight of Spinalonga. The island was waiting for her. Soon all her questions about what it was like on the leper colony would be answered. Not long now, not long. Her reverie was disturbed by a sharp knock on the door. She was not expecting anyone, and certainly no one who would knock quite so forcefully.
It was Manoli.
‘Maria,’ he said breathlessly, as though he had been running. ‘I just wanted to say goodbye. I’m terribly sorry it’s all had to end like this.’
He did not hold out his hands or embrace her. Not that she would have expected either. What she would have hoped for was a greater sense of sorrow. His demeanour confirmed to Maria what she had half suspected, that Manoli’s great passion would soon find another recipient. Her throat tightened. She felt as though she had swallowed broken glass and was no more able to speak than cry. His eyes would not meet hers. ‘Goodbye, Maria,’ he mumbled. ‘Goodbye.’ Within moments he had gone and once again the door was closed. Maria felt as hollow as the silence that once again filled the house.
Giorgis was yet to return. He had spent the last day of his daughter’s freedom engaged in normal humdrum activities, mending his nets, cleaning his boat and ferrying Dr Lapakis. It was on his return journey with the doctor that he told him the news. He said it so casually that Lapakis did not, at first, take it in.
‘I will be bringing my daughter over to Spinalonga tomorrow, ’ Giorgis said. ‘As a patient.’
It was perfectly usual for Maria to accompany her father on the occasional delivery, so Lapakis did not react at first, and the last few words were lost in the wind.
‘We went to see Dr Kyritsis,’ Giorgis added. ‘He will be writing to you.’
‘Why?’ asked Lapakis, taking more notice now.
‘My daughter has leprosy.’
Lapakis, though he tried to conceal it, was aghast.
‘Your daughter has leprosy? Maria? My God! I didn’t realise . . . That’s why you are bringing her to Spinalonga tomorrow.’
Giorgis nodded, concentrating now on guiding the boat into Plaka’s small harbour. Lapakis stepped out of the boat. He had met the lovely Maria so many times and was shocked by the news. He felt he had to say something.
‘She will receive the best possible care on Spinalonga,’ he said. ‘You are one of the few people who knows what the place is really like. It’s not as bad as people think, but still, I am so terribly sorry that this has happened.’
‘Thank you,’ said Giorgis, and tied the boat up. ‘I will see you tomorrow morning, but I might be a little late. I have promised to take Maria over very early but I’ll do my best to be back for you at the usual time.’
The elderly fisherman sounded preternaturally calm, as normal as if he was making arrangements for any other day. This was how people conducted themselves in the first few days of bereavement, thought Lapakis. Perhaps it was just as well.
Maria had made supper for her father and herself, and at about seven in the evening they sat down opposite each other. It was the ritual of the meal that mattered tonight, not the eating, since neither of them had any appetite. This was to be their last supper. What did they talk about? They spoke of trivial things, such as what Maria had packed in her boxes, as well as more important ones like when she would next see her father on the island and how often Savina would expect him for supper at the Angelopoulos house each week. Anyone eavesdropping would have thought that Maria was simply moving out to live in another house. At nine in the evening, both exhausted, they retired to bed.
By six-thirty the following morning, Giorgis had carried all of Maria’s boxes down to the quayside and loaded them on to his boat. He returned to the house to collect her. Still vivid in his mind, as though it had happened only yesterday, was Eleni’s departure. He remembered that May day when the sun had shone on the crowd of friends and school children as his wife had waved goodbye to them. This morning there was deadly silence in the village. Maria would simply disappear.
A cold wind whipped through the narrow streets of Plaka and the chill of the autumnal air encircled Maria, paralysing her body and mind with a numbness that almost blocked her senses but could do nothing to alleviate her grief. As she stumbled the last few metres to the jetty she leaned heavily on her father, her gait that of an old crone for whom every step brought a stab of pain. But her pain was not physical. Her body was as strong as any young woman who had spent her life breathing the pure Cretan air, and her skin was as youthful and her eyes as intensely brown and bright as those of any girl on this island.
The little boat, unstable with its cargo of oddly shaped bundles lashed together with string, bobbed and lurched on the sea. Giorgis lowered himself in slowly, and with one hand trying to hold the craft steady reached out with the other to help his daughter. Once she was safely on board he wrapped her protectively in a blanket to shield her from the elements. The only visible indication then that she was not simply another piece of cargo were the long strands of dark hair that flew and danced freely in the wind. He carefully released his vessel from its mooring - there was nothing more to be said or done - and their journey began. This was not the start of a short trip to deliver supplies. It was the beginning of Maria’s one-way journey to start a new life. Life on Spinalonga.
Chapter Seventeen
AT THE MOMENT when Maria wanted time to stand still it seemed to move faster than ever, and soon she would be dumped in a cold place where the waves broke on the shore. For once she had willed the boat’s engine to stall, but the gulf between mainland and island was covered in moments and there was no turning back. She wanted to cling to her father, plead with him not to leave her stranded here, alone apart from two crates into which her life was now packed. But her tears had been spent. She had saturated Fotini’s shoulder many times since her initial discovery of the mark on her foot, and her pillow was limp from the tears she had shed over the past two unhappy nights. Now was not the time for weeping.
For a few minutes they stood there alone. Giorgis was not going to leave her until someone came. He was now as familiar with the routine for new arrivals on the island as the islanders themselves, and knew that in due course they would be met.
‘Maria, be brave,’ said Giorgis quietly. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow. Come and see me if you can.’
He held both her hands in his. He was bold these days, and particularly so with his daughter. To hell with it if he got leprosy. Perhaps that would be the kindest solution because he could then come and live with Maria. The real problem if that happened would be the deliveries to Spinalonga. They would be hard pushed to find anyone else to make them, and that would cause untold hardship and misery on the island.
‘Of course I’ll come if it’s allowed,’ she answered.
‘I’m sure it will be. Look,’ said Giorgis, pointing to the figure emerging through the long tunnel which passed through the old fortress wall. ‘Here is Nikos Papadimitriou, the island leader. I sent him a note yesterday to say I’d be bringing you today. He’s the man to ask.’
‘Welcome to Spinalonga,’ Papadimitriou said, addressing Maria. How he could have such levity in his tone baffled her, but it distracted her for a moment. ‘Your father sent me a note yesterday telling me to expect your arrival. Your boxes will be carried to your home shortly. Shall we go?’
He indicated that she should follow him up the few steps into the tunnel. Only a few weeks earlier, in Agios Nikolaos, she had been watching a Hollywood film where the heroine had swept up in a limousine and was led along a red carpet into a grand hotel while a porter dealt with her luggage. Maria tried to imagine herself in that very scene.
‘Before we go,’ she said hastily, ‘can I ask permission to come and see my father when he brings Dr Lapakis and does his deliveries?’
‘Why, certainly!’ boomed Papadimitriou. ‘I assumed th
at would be the arrangement. I know you won’t try to escape. At one time we had to prevent people coming through to the quayside in case they tried to get away, but nowadays most people don’t want to get off the island.’
Giorgis wanted to put the moment of parting behind him.
‘I know they’ll be kind to you,’ were the words of reassurance he heard himself saying to her. ‘I know they’ll be kind.’
One or other of them had to turn away first, and Giorgis waited for his daughter to make that move. He had always regretted his hasty departure when Eleni arrived on the island fourteen years ago. So great had been his grief that he had set off in his boat before they had even said goodbye, but today he must have more courage, for his daughter’s sake. Giorgis knew so much about the island now, whereas all those years ago his visits there had been just a job, a functional trip once or twice a week to drop boxes off on the quayside and then make a hasty retreat. In the intervening years his view of it all had been given a human dimension, and he had followed developments on the island as no other man outside it ever had.
Nikos Papadimitriou had been island leader ever since the election in 1940 when Petros Kontomaris had finally stood down, and he had now held the position for even longer than his predecessor. He had achieved great things on Spinalonga and the island had gone from strength to strength, so few were surprised when he was re-elected by an almost unanimous vote each spring. Maria recalled the day her father had transported the Athenians to Spinalonga. It had been one of the most dramatic episodes of that era, in a life rarely punctuated by much excitement. Her mother had written a great deal about the handsome, dark-haired island leader and all he did to change the island. Now his hair was grey, but he still had the same curled moustache that Eleni had described.
Maria followed Papadimitriou into the tunnel. He walked slowly, leaning heavily on his stick, and eventually they saw the light at the other end. Maria’s emergence from the darkness of the tunnel into her new world was as much of a surprise for her as for any new arrival. In spite of her mother’s letters, which had been full of description and colour, nothing had prepared her for what she now saw. A long road with a row of shops, all with freshly painted shutters, houses with window boxes and urns full of late-flowering geraniums, and one or two grander homes with carved wooden balconies. Though it was still too early for many people to be up, there was one early riser. The baker. The fragrance of freshly baked bread and pastries filled the street.
‘Despineda Petrakis, before I show you to your new home, come and meet my wife,’ said Papadimitriou. ‘She has made breakfast for you.’
They turned left into a small side street, which in turn led into a courtyard with houses opening off it. Papadimitriou opened the door of one of these and ducked to get inside. They had been built by the Turks, and anyone of Papadimitriou’s stature was more than a head taller than the original inhabitants.
The interior of the house was bright and ordered. There was a kitchen off the main room and stairs that led up to another floor. Maria even caught a glimpse of a separate bathroom beyond the kitchen.
‘Let me introduce my wife. Katerina, this is Maria.’
The two women shook hands. In spite of everything that Eleni had told her to the contrary in her many letters, Maria had still expected the place to be inhabited by the lame and the deformed, and she was surprised at the woman’s elegance and beauty. Katerina was younger than her husband and Maria surmised that she must be in her late forties. Her hair was still dark, and she had pale, almost unlined skin.
The table was set with embroidered white linen and fine patterned china. When they were all seated, Katerina lifted a splendid silver pot and a steady stream of hot black coffee filled the cups.
‘There is a small house next door which has recently become vacant,’ said Papadimitriou. ‘We thought you might like that, or, if you prefer, there is a room free in a shared flat up the hill.’
‘I think I would rather be on my own,’ said Maria. ‘If it’s all right with you.’
There was a plate of fresh pastries on the table and Maria devoured one hungrily. She had eaten very little for several days. She was hungry for information too.
‘Do you remember my mother, Eleni Petrakis?’ she asked.
‘Of course we do! She was a wonderful lady and a brilliant teacher too,’ replied Katerina. ‘Everyone thought so. Nearly everyone anyway.’
‘There were some who did not?’ Maria said.
Katerina paused.
‘There was a woman who used to teach in the school before your mother arrived who regarded her as an enemy. She is still alive and has a house up the hill. Some people say that the bitterness she feels for what happened to her almost keeps her going,’ said Katerina. ‘Her name is Kristina Kroustalakis and you need to be wary of her - she’ll inevitably find out who your mother was.’
‘First things first, though, Katerina,’ said Papadimitriou, displeased that his wife might be unsettling their guest. ‘What you need before any of this is a tour of the island. My wife will take you round, and this afternoon Dr Lapakis will be expecting to see you. He does a preliminary assessment of all new arrivals.’
Papadimitriou stood up. It was now after eight o’clock in the morning and it was time for the island leader to be in his office.
‘I shall no doubt see you again very soon, Despineda Petrakis. I shall leave you in Katerina’s capable hands.’
‘Goodbye, and thank you for making me feel so welcome,’ responded Maria.
‘Shall we finish our coffee and start the tour,’ Katerina said brightly when Papadimitriou had left. ‘I don’t know how much you know about Spinalonga - probably more than most people - but it’s not a bad place to live. The only problems come from being cooped up with the same people for your whole life. Coming from Athens I found that hard to get used to at first.’
‘I’ve spent my whole life in Plaka,’ said Maria, ‘so I’m quite accustomed to that. How long have you been here?’
‘I arrived on the same boat as Nikos, fourteen years ago. There were four women and nineteen men. Of the four women there are two of us left now. Fifteen of the men are still alive, though.’
Maria tightened her shawl about her shoulders as they left the house. When they turned into the main street, it was a very different scene from the one she had first seen. People came and went about their business, on foot, with mules or with donkey and cart. Everyone looked busy and purposeful. A few people looked up and nodded in Katerina and Maria’s direction, and some of the men lifted their hats. As wife of the island leader, Katerina merited special respect.
By now the shops were open. Katerina pointed them all out and chatted busily about the people who owned them. Maria was hardly likely to remember all this information, but Katerina loved the details of their lives and relished the intrigue and gossip that circulated. There was the pantopoleion, the general store that sold everything for the house, from brooms to oil lamps, and had many of its wares displayed in profusion at the front of the building; a grocer whose windows were piled high with cans of olive oil; the mahairopoieion, the knife-maker; the raki store; and the baker, whose rows of freshly baked golden loaves and piles of coarse Cretan rusks, paximithia, drew in every passer-by. Each shop had its own hand-painted sign giving the owner’s name and what he offered inside. Most important of all, for the men of the island at least, was the bar, which was run by the youthful and popular Gerasimo Mandakis. Already a few customers sat in groups drinking coffee, whilst their tangled mounds of cigarettes smouldered in an ashtray.
Just before they came to the church, there was a single-storey building which Katerina told Maria was the school. They peered in through the window and saw several rows of children. At the front of the class, a young man stood talking.
‘So who is the teacher?’ asked Maria. ‘Didn’t that woman you mentioned get the school back after my mother died?’
Katerina laughed. ‘No, not over St Pantaleimon’s dead body
. The children did not want her back and neither did most of the elders. For a while one of my fellow Athenians took over, but he then died. Your mother had trained another teacher, however, and he was waiting in the wings. He was very young when he started but the children adore him and hang on his every word.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Dimitri Limonias.’
‘Dimitri Limonias! I remember that name. He was the boy who came over here at the same time as my mother. We were told that it was he who had infected her with leprosy - and he’s still here. Still alive!’
As occasionally happened with leprosy, Dimitri’s symptoms had hardly developed since he had first been diagnosed, and now here he was, in charge of the school. Maria felt a momentary pang of resentment that the dice had been so heavily loaded against her mother.