Paxos, 2023
The silence at Thalassa feels ancient. I move with care, loth to break it. The small noises of insects and bees in the lavender skate on its surface. Time becomes liquid, flowing from day to day, pooling at noon when nothing moves. Details shine: the glitter on the skin of a lizard, the pink tongue of the cat who comes to the door to lap milk from a saucer, the silver green of olive leaves, glimmering in the heat. I text Laurel to thank her for the idea. I tell her I am resting and healing. She texts back that I must stay longer, that I should stay as long as I can. I reply that I’d better stick with arrangements. I miss Lottie and I promised James I’d be back in two weeks. She doesn’t reply and nor does James when I text to ask how he is. I message Lottie who is in France, hoping she’s happy; she texts back a kiss but no words.
Today the sound of sweeping filters through the silence. The swimming pool is being prepared by the man the agency contacted, but despite my fears, he disrupts nothing. He moves slowly as if respecting the peace. I’m not sure of his age, he wears a cap pulled low and I can’t see his face. He is accompanied by a dark-haired boy of fifteen or thereabouts. Their movements are similar, perhaps it’s his son. They climb down into the pool by the marble steps and sweep up the leaves and the rubbish, the boy taking basketfuls away. They scrub the base with buckets of water; the boy sits often, drinking from his water bottle; the older man works on stolidly, unbothered by heat. When the bottom of the pool is clean, he connects the hosepipe to the tap by the back door. He seems to know his way about. I offer tea, but he nods his head. Ochi. No; though his face turns to follow my movements, watchful.
I leave them to it and pace the estate, following the overgrown paths between the shut-up cabins that used to accommodate our summer visitors. Paul is the one I remember most clearly, the only one. He had been given an extra cabin at the edge of the wood, necessary for him to work in peace away from his family or so my father pretended to believe. I try several keys on the bunch, before I find the one that works. The lock is rusty, it takes two hands to turn it.
The room is smaller than I remember, the bed is still where it used to be, opposite the window. It’s dark because of the boards covering the window but then it always used to be dark. The shutters were closed. I stand at the door and remember:
“Sit down.”
I comply. I even smile.
“Take off your dress.”
The first time, I am fifteen. He is in his forties, but I am cool with this. I think I can handle it though my hands are shaking. I want to do it. I’m the bribe that puts Paul in my father’s power and makes him vulnerable though he doesn’t know that yet. I like the power that I think this gives me. I don’t mind being naked, my body is thin, my skin is tanned. I know I look good.
He sits on the bed and touches me. He doesn’t undress. I hide the sensations he unlocks, the fact that they confuse me, the fact that I don’t want him to stop. I say nothing, which provokes him. His mouth twitches and tightens. He wants reassurance and becomes craven.
At supper later, I see the woman he brought along watching him bend his head towards me; she watches me too. I smile at her, little beast that I am, liking the knowledge I am the more desired.
It occurs to me now she might have been sorry for me. I had no idea back then that I was a victim, losing, not winning. That I was being used, rather than the other way round. It continued until that last summer, when I saw the Greek girl watching me. I began to watch her back, though she didn’t know that. We had been friends before but now I ignored her. I was jealous of her innocence. That’s partly what drove me away; I wanted what she had, though it was far too late for me. I saw her once on the balcony of my parents’ room as I walked with my family to board the yacht on what became my last day. She was collecting sheets, content in her world. Unsullied. Meanwhile Paul was pressing close behind me, touching me as we walked. I’d had enough, enough of being a plaything, of doing what my father wanted. I left that evening. Anthony was the escape route, but it was pregnancy that changed me; it took my daughter to make me grow up.
THE SUN IS high. I go swimming but I feel watched again as if the ghost of that little girl and her brother are studying me from the cliff tops. Hurrying back to the house afterwards, I come across an old shed I haven’t seen before. The trees that formed a tight belt behind the beach are broken with age, a roof is revealed. The door is part rotted and gives with a deep groaning whine when I push it open. Inside the dark air is rank with mould. An old boat is tipped on its side, the planks splintered with age. Nets hang in tatters from the rafters and a rusted anchor lies on the floor. Cobwebs have blanketed a wine bottle on the chair, a scrap of material in the corner is mouldy with age. It’s hot and unnervingly quiet. There is a rustle in the shadows at the back. Rats. I back out.
The next day I don’t want to go to the sea again, through those quiet woods or along the jetty by the shed. I swim in the icy pool instead, then shower and comb my hair in the mirror in the sitting room. Backlit by the windows, my face looks better, stronger. I have freckles. I haven’t had freckles for years. As I lean to look closer, a shadow crosses behind me in the glass, moving too swiftly to make out. I step onto the terrace that extends around the house, calling out, but no one replies.
I phone Lefcothea. “Is the pool man still here?”
“He left yesterday; is there a problem?”
“I have the feeling that someone may be about. Have there been reports of an intruder? Drinking in the shed?”
“What shed?”
“The one in the trees at the back of the beach.” If I tell her about the feeling of being watched or the shadow across the mirror, she will think I’m going mad; maybe I am.
“I shouldn’t worry.” She laughs breezily. “It will only be kids from Loggos or walkers that hike along the coast. Tourists pay little attention to privacy, but they mean no harm. I’m sure you’re fine.”
I phone James but there is no reply. Later, much later, he texts that he’s sorry but he’s too busy to chat. I text Lottie to tell her I miss her; she sends back a heart emoji and a smiley face. Still no words but I feel cheered.
I’VE HARDLY USED the car Lefcothea sent, but today I drive into Loggos. The old woman in the shop on the corner looks familiar but her stare is disconcerting. I remember her in cheerful middle age, greeting customers with a friendly grin, but chilled by the hostility in her hooded glance, I don’t chat. I buy white grapes, cheese, bread, and figs—picnic food to eat on the little table outside the kitchen—and hurry home.
Every day the sky is flawless, the air grows a little cooler but it’s still as warm as an English summer day. The sensation of being watched persists but I make my peace with it; perhaps there are always ghosts in a place that’s been empty a while.
I drive to parts of Paxos that I had never visited before: ancient Ypapaniti church with two towers drowsing in its hidden valley; Mongonissi beach; the hills behind Gaios with the remains of old dwellings, and a trip to the far side of the island, to Tripitos Arch, that famous bridge of white limestone arching over the sea. My father used to take our guests, but I stayed behind with Paul, and he turned a blind eye.
I can’t find the start of the footpath that leads to the arch, so leaving the car in a layby near the church in the ancient village of Ozias, I cross the road to the village café. Two old men quarrel over glasses of cloudy ouzo under a wide-roofed veranda. They stop talking at my approach. Both have identical hooked noses and longish grey hair that’s untidy in the same way. They wave me to a seat and the taller one brings iced coffee.
I ask about the birds and, looking guilty, they tell me they’ve all been shot. The sky was once black with quail and collared doves migrating to the cooler countries of Europe from Africa. They were machine gunned out of the sky, a pastime for the boys. They shrug, what can you do? That’s how it was back then. They introduce themselves as brothers, Jakob, the taller, older one and Valentin, joint owners of the café. They want to know where I’m staying and, when I tell them, Thalassa, they mistake me for a tourist, rather than a homeowner. I don’t correct them, because that’s true, I am a tourist as well.
“We thought it was boarded up.” Jakob shakes his head, his lips tighten. “We hoped it would be sold by now. Good riddance.”
“Good riddance?”
“To those English bastards who own the place. They haven’t dared show their faces for years.”
“Why not?”
“The way they treated the caretakers. They must be ashamed.”
“Why ashamed?”
Surely they have this wrong; the caretakers left without warning. My parents hadn’t been ashamed, why should they have been?
Valentin picks up the glass of ouzo, tosses back the contents then glances at his brother. “Bad things happened to the caretaker’s daughter, because of the owners,” he mutters. “Jakob thinks it was our fault it was missed. It’s why we ended up here.”
“I don’t understand.”
Jakob scowls at his brother, rolling his eyes impatiently. “You haven’t explained anything properly, as usual.” He looks at me. “We were there, you see, back then we were the police. We’d been called to the house, because the caretaker’s little boy had gone missing during the night.”