Dusk is rapidly closing in on Methoni as I knock on Christina’s door. The sky is clear, a plane soars across the expanse of deep inky blue and stars twinkle like precious jewels as they emerge. I’m hugely grateful for the offer of dinner, but I realise I’m totally reliant on the kindness of strangers here. I have to learn to trust my instincts. Christina’s warmth, her flamboyance and natural bohemian qualities remind me a little of Mum. Although we clicked straight away, I know nothing about her and now we are to share a dinner table. But I should embrace the adventure and stop this doubt-riddled second-guessing nonsense. What would Mum do?
When I broke up with Robert, I was plagued with worry I’d never find love again. Mum told me: ‘Heartbreak is life’s line in the sand. If you’ve never experienced loss, you don’t appreciate love. Lessons, whether good or bad, all mean something; your task is to figure out what.’
She’d been on a meditation retreat, newly brimming with guru wisdom. I knew deep down Robert wasn’t my great love, even though I convinced myself he was at the time. The cruelty of this heartbreak is an unnecessary lesson I really didn’t wish to learn.
Christina is greeted by everyone we encounter on the dusty pathway to the village. The butcher’s wife, a farmer, the petrol station attendant. We turn into a side street with a general store, a gift shop and a couple of boarded-up tavernas. A row of lanterns neatly line the edge of the harbour wall. Glowing lamps from moored boats are joined intermittently by a red flashing light on the large rock, shining a warning to seafarers of the dangerous outcrop.
Christina stops outside a storefront. ‘This is Mary Vasiliou’s shop for food and all you need. She and her family are in Methoni for many years. She is good friend. We were in same class at school – very old!’
My prior concerns about feeling isolated in Greece slowly start to disperse and I know Tasha will be reassured I’ve found this wonderfully eccentric lady to look out for me. Tonight, Christina is dressed in a spectacular floral print tunic paired with fuchsia silk harem trousers. The generous fabrics hang off her tall, slender frame and billow with every gesture, like a colourful sail. I feel safe with this woman, despite hardly knowing her.
‘I saw you were covered in clay when I arrived earlier, is that what you do, pottery?’
Perhaps if Christina has a background in art, she may be able to help me unveil the mystery of Mum’s lost painting.
She laughs. ‘Yes, I am artist. Is word you say, potter? Always covered in the clays for sculpture! As you see, the light is magical, there is always part of landscape for inspiring me … is my true love! And what is it that you do in London?’
‘I’m a chef, I have a catering business, but my mother is an artist, as well … I mean, she was …’ The words stick like a knife twisting into a slab of meat, carving my distress, and my tears threaten to spill. I look up into her face and take a deep breath to steady myself. ‘I’m sorry, it’s just that … she died, recently.’
I rummage in my purse for a tissue, embarrassed to share so much with Christina straight away. We stand facing each other. She takes the tissue from my hand and dabs at stray tears that found their way down my cheeks.
‘There is no need for sorry. You are too young for this loss. That makes me very sad for you.’
Her hand on my shoulder grounds me into the present and I look up into her warm dark eyes, accepting the comfort she offers.
‘Here, I think you will find peace you are needing for this time in your life.’
I exhale slowly and receive her embrace.
‘Thank you,’ I manage.
The security of her maternal energy encourages me onwards. I can acknowledge my insecure fears and nerves, then nudge them aside.
‘You are sure you are wanting to continue? I walk you home if this is what you wish,’ she says.
‘No! Definitely not.’ I’m mortified this lovely lady is considering cancelling her plans for me. I smile at her. ‘I think music and food is just what I need. Besides, I came here to discover more about this place.’
And find a certain picture, I think to myself, but I’ll get to that. For now, on my first day, just being here, taking it all in and allowing the dust to settle in my bones is a gentle introduction before I dive headlong into my quest tomorrow. Today doesn’t count – it was a travelling day.
We stand silently together for a few moments while I gather myself before slowly continuing into the village.
There, I find pure simplicity, like an authentic corner of long ago before tourism made Greece a lot less Greek. An unfussy line of tavernas, the strip of beach and the calm sea, the makeshift road separating fronts of eateries and the shore. Waiters darting back and forth, crossing the peaceful thoroughfare, taking orders. The odd moped occasionally whizzing through the strip, sending stray cats fleeing under chairs. Just a few places are open, given it’s the start of April and early in the season. I can hear the characteristic strum of the bouzouki and the gentle lapping of the sea, which helps to shake off my lingering sadness.
The evening has cooled and a trio of musicians play in the corner of the restaurant as we sit at a wooden table beside the sand. The haunting strains of soaring vocals and beautiful Greek strings are just loud enough for some patrons to sing along with, but not to interrupt conversation. A waiter appears with a paper tablecloth and secures it in place with metal clips. He places a bread basket and side plates in front of us, then kisses Christina on both cheeks.
‘This is my nephew, Christoph. My brother, Andros, is owner of here. Everywhere in Methoni is family business. Meet Sophie, she stay on the hill with us.’
Christoph extends his hand to me and I reciprocate.
‘Yiássou, Christoph.’
‘Yiássou, Sophie. Kalosirthaté to our village.’
He’s just as warm and welcoming as his auntie, with the same deep brown eyes and bird-like features.
‘So, this is good tonight. We have the music, and my father has made for specials kleftiko, is lamb, vegetable dish, briam and also pork in the oven.’
As he crosses over the road back to the taverna, I pick up a piece of bread and pour oil onto a side plate. Christina lights the candle and then a cigarette, inhaling deeply. She offers me one and I take it silently, ignoring the thought of Tasha’s and Mum’s imaginary protestations at my occasional habit.
‘Andros is my brother. He is cook like you! He makes this bread every day at five in morning. I tell him get it from bakery to save the sleep, but no, he wants to make by hand.’ Christina tears a slice of bread in half and holds it up to the candlelight. ‘You see, every bit is made with love!’
The stacks of bangles on her wrists clatter further up her arm as she puts the bread in her mouth. I agree and press a chunk into the sweet oil.
‘I reckon if you cook in a bad mood, the food tastes worse. Your brother must have been very happy when he made this. It’s amazing.’
Christina laughs and blows her smoke up towards the sky.
‘Yes, this is so true! Is like with painting and sculpture, you see the feelings of the artist. And food is art but with ingredients. Is the same, but pottery is not tasting good!’
At that, she roars with laughter and beckons her nephew to attend to her table. He brings over a carafe of rosé and Christina pours.
‘Endáxi, OK,Christophoros, so we have kolokithokeftedes, tzatziki, gavros and the briam.’
It sounds like an astonishing amount of food. Courgette fritters, tzatziki, anchovies and the roast vegetables. Although I’m famished, I stop scoffing the made-with-love bread immediately. I pick up my glass to toast and thank her very much.
‘Yiámas, Christina, efharistó polí.’
Plate after plate arrives in a slow but steady stream, in a total sensory assault. Everything is so fresh and moreish, I could happily slip into food oblivion. The smells, tastes and sounds of this place are beginning to work their way into every part of my being, like sustenance for my soul.
The music increases in volume as a rather squat man appears, wiping his hands on a dishcloth. He throws it down on a table, strides out into the road and stamps his feet flamenco style, garnering the attention of all of the diners. A slow, languid lament is played and he raises his arms to the heavens as if he were Atlas, condemned to hold the sky aloft for eternity. He spins with ease, his knees rising and falling, then a sudden jump and he crouches to the floor.
The masculinity of the dance, the flamboyance and arrogance of his stance is captivating as he struts about, telling his tale. The music becomes faster and Christoph appears with a pile of white paper napkins, which he throws up in the air over the man. They float down slowly, scattering at his feet.
The mesmerising movement draws people towards him as he’s joined by another man of similar stature and age, perhaps in his sixties. The dance continues, both men gaining in pace. Napkins on the floor lift and flutter with the swish of feet. The crowd shouts encouragement, some gathering handfuls of paper from the ground and throwing them up, cheering at the jumps.
Christina applauds loudly as their performance closes.
‘Brávo, brávo, Andros, brávo Grigor!’
Ah, Andros, that must be her brother.
The first dancer comes to our table and blows a kiss at his sister, grabbing a serviette to wipe his brow.
‘So, you are Sophie. Christoph tell me you stay with my sister.’
He’s out of breath, his voice deep and rasping, and I can see the family resemblance in his face.
‘Andros.’ He nods his head as if in a bow and offers his hand. ‘Now, you must dance,’ he says, pulling us both up from our chairs.
My resistance is pointless, but I feel the grip of uncertainty, not wishing to embarrass myself. Whatever I’m expected to do, I have absolutely no clue how.
A line of people quickly forms, linking hands at shoulder height, and Andros goes to the front holding a white kerchief. I look to Christina and my new friend nods encouragement, grinning at me as the music begins.
I look down at her feet in a desperate attempt to learn the steps. Cross, step, back, step, cross in front, cross behind … I trample a foot next to me.
‘Sygnómi!’
Sorry … I fear it won’t be my last apology to that poor person.
Andros passes the handkerchief to the dancer on his left and breaks free to join the back of the line. This continues with each member of our troupe and my impending dread at the inevitable counters any true enjoyment as I eventually find myself at the front.
‘We follow you …’ shouts Christina above the music.
My clumsy version is short and as soon as I can, I pass the hanky along and retreat to the back.
I look around me, relieved to be at the rear of the dancing line, and start to have fun. Those not taking part are smiling, clapping, eating or talking, but a solitary figure of a man stands out. He’s staring. Standing by the musicians, rigid, fixated, it seems, on me. It’s the man from earlier who danced the duet with Andros. I can’t remember his name. He’s handsome in a rugged way, his skin dark, and his eyes glint in the low light. But the expression on his face is strange and he doesn’t break his gaze, which is directed solely my way. I frown and quickly replace it with a smile, but it only seems to make him widen his eyes in what looks like disbelief, almost as if he recognises me.
The distraction makes me trample another foot and the joy is sucked out of the moment. I look back again and he’s still there, transfixed, a cloud of so many emotions on his face that I can’t distinguish one from the other – is it shock, sadness, fear …? He looks away and slowly lifts a cigarette to his mouth, the smoke briefly concealing him.
When his face slowly emerges from the dispersing vapour, his scrutiny is once more revealed. His eyes flash and my skin begins to ripple with cold. Did I do something wrong – make some ghastly faux pas and offend the elders of the village? Nobody else seems to be singling me out, so I try to focus on the music. But every time I glance in his direction, his face is the same. I feel a distinct sense of unease, ashamed for something I haven’t done. It’s putting me on edge and my nerves are churning around as if I’m about to have an anxiety attack.
When the music finally stops and the applause comes, the napkins are swept into a pile at the side of the taverna. I risk another look through the crowds, up the street towards the harbour, behind me, spinning round in a bid to find him. But he’s no longer there. He’s gone.
I dash back to the table to ask Christina who he was, but she isn’t there, either. I can’t see her. Groups of people are gathered in the road, chattering loudly in a language I don’t understand. I feel lost again, yet I’m here to find something. That man’s face – his stare – makes me panic. Who is he? For the first time since I arrived, I feel alone and a little afraid. Maybe I shouldn’t have come to Methoni.
‘Sophie!’
I hear my name being called, but in my confusion, I can’t see where it’s coming from.
‘Over here!’
I spot Christina beside the restaurant with her nephew, Christoph. She’s waving wildly at me, struggling to make her voice heard above the crowds. Relief floods my body, followed by a feeling of idiocy. It’s ridiculous to get myself in such a state and fret over nothing. I rush to her side, grateful to have some protection in numbers should the staring man return. My over-reaction must be because I’m running on empty; utterly worn out and fading fast. The locals show no sign of calling it a night, but I really need my bed.
Christina takes my arm.
‘Are you OK, Sophie?’ She searches my face, suspecting correctly that I’m not myself.
‘Yes, of course, just really tired.’ She seems satisfied at my answer as I continue, ‘I’m going to go, but thank you for a wonderful evening. Can I pay the bill?’
‘No, no,’ chimes in Christoph. ‘Is our welcome-to-Methoni gift … from the family. We decide we like you, and we insist!’
‘That’s so kind, but I couldn’t possibly accept,’ I reply, touched by their generosity.
‘You must! But one condition … drinks on you another time, yes?’ says Christoph, playfully settling the matter.
I’m reluctant to accept their hospitality, but it seems I have no choice.
‘Only if you’re sure, but definitely my round next time.’
* * *
My weary limbs trudge back up the hill to my apartment. I’m amazed I’ve lasted this long, given I’ve been up twenty hours apart from a quick nap. But I can’t shake the uneasy feeling that settled in me after the dancing, despite the first part of the evening’s fun. Cicadas chirrup and olive trees rustle as I pant up the steep incline, my senses sharpening in the pitch of night. Stopping for a breather, I look out to sea again. It’s all so evocative and romantic, yet the magic has been tarnished a little. Why was that man staring at me?
I craved solitude and peace – a purpose to draw me out of my doldrums – and I got what I asked for, but now I’m not so sure it’s what I needed, after all. Taking a deep breath and shaking off my discomfort, I decide to file that mysterious man away under village weirdo.
A distant rumble of thunder grumbles high in the mountains, bouncing off the rocks and echoing out to sea. The moon kisses the edges of the voluminous clouds gathering around the peaks of the Peloponnese. Another louder growl begins, like a foreboding drum roll. Nature is colluding with my mood as the storm clouds threaten.
In my apartment, my phone connects with the Wi-Fi and begins vibrating intermittently with email alerts. I sigh and flop onto the mattress. The messages are taking ages to download. I get ready for bed while they buffer in the ether. A clap of thunder sounds overhead as the storm travels down the mountains, making me jump. Looking in the bathroom mirror, I stare myself out of my childish fear. I was so frightened of thunderstorms when I was small, I’d climb into Mum’s bed to take shelter. She’d tell me it was just people in heaven moving their furniture around and nothing to be afraid of. The memory makes me smile as I recall imagining flying cherubs picking up chairs and tables, rearranging clouds in my innocent interpretation of heaven.
Grabbing a bottle of water from the near-empty fridge, I resolve to head out for provisions tomorrow. If I can fill this place with food, it’ll feel like home and redress the imbalance, helping me to shake off this insecure fug. I can do this – I know I can. I need to be strong and determined, learn to rely on myself, and my nerve mustn’t fail me.
The pinging from my mobile pulls me back to the bedroom. Looking at the screen, my mouth dries up and a tremor cascades down my back, but I can’t stop myself from selecting the first of several emails from the same sender. I knew this would happen, that he’d persist in finding me at my most vulnerable. My ache for the familiar encourages me to read, against my better judgement.
From: Robert Lord
Sent: 1st April 21:14
To: Sophie Kinlock
Subject: Please open!
My darling Soph,
I can’t imagine the pain you’re dealing with, but I wish you’d let me in. I know you’ve blocked my number and emails, but I only want to support you and help you through this impossible time.
I thought the world of your mum, darling Lyns, and I miss her, so God knows how you must feel. I was remembering how we used to make her laugh in the kitchen. Cooking Sunday roasts and me messing up everything and you – thankfully – saving the day with your brilliant cooking. We had such amazing family times together, the three of us, and I think of them a lot. I cherish them.
I also think about us and regret how things ended and how I behaved. In fact, how I behaved most of the time. You didn’t deserve the way I treated you, but can you honestly say it was all bad?
Every time I hear the birds roosting, I think about us together in that beautiful room in Rome and that aria brings back such special memories. I listen to it often.
Just let me know you’re OK. I heard you’ve gone away, and I can understand wanting to escape and be somewhere else for a while. If you need me, just say the word and I’ll be there in a heartbeat – no strings attached but as a friend. If you want to chat, my phone is on 24/7.
Please let me know where you are. I’m so worried. You can’t hide from me, you know I still love you.
Always yours,
Robert.
I quickly lock my phone and turn it face down on the bed to stop myself from re-reading his words, analysing his message and responding. He’s caught me amid misgivings about my trip and now he’s all I can think about. My chest is thudding at the veiled threats between the lines. I know him too well. Master manipulator and coercive controller.
I hold my head in my hands. I can’t exist like this. Somehow, I have to change the hurt, make it stop. I pick up my phone and delete all of Robert’s emails, blocking his new address and flinging the phone furiously on the bed. I won’t let him divert me from what I’m here for. I have to find this painting, I need to. I feel so stupid to attach so much meaning to this piece of art I’ve never even seen, but I feel as though everything will make sense if I find it.
I miss you so much, Mum.
Heaving sobs wrack my body and I weep uncontrollably in desperation for all that I’ve lost. Mum, Robert, everything. My little haven I wanted to escape to so badly has become a symbol for all I’ve left behind. Curling up into a ball, I pull the covers around me in a cocoon, saturating them with my tears. I wish I was at home.
At some point, my tears turn to sleep, and my sobs are the last thing I hear until dawn.