Aphrodite’s Smile. Stuart Harrison
I met her we hugged briefly and then she took both of my hands in her own.
‘Robert, it is good to see you again.’
‘And you Irene. Is there any news?’ She took off her sunglasses revealing eyes that were reddened and puffy and I knew. Instantly I regretted not having come earlier. I was shocked. Somehow I hadn’t believed it could happen. When I found my voice I said, ‘He’s dead isn’t he?’
She managed to nod. ‘I am so sorry.’
I looked past her to the hills beyond. I wasn’t sure exactly what I felt but I knew that it wasn’t the grief that a son should feel on hearing such news. I wasn’t sure which was the greater tragedy; his death or my reaction to it.
The road that led from the port wound back and forth up a steep hill in a series of switchbacks. It was flanked on one side by an almost vertical plunge. From the top we looked down on the causeway that joined the southern and northern halves of the island. Beyond lay Molos Bay and in the distance were small hazy islands, faint smudges against the blue of the sea and sky. Mount Nirito rose almost vertically from the shore of the bay, its slopes surprisingly green from the wild oak that grew profusely all over the island, while on the other side a narrow gap between two headlands marked the entrance to Vathy harbour.
Instead of going to the house, we drove north. From the coast road I glimpsed the terracotta roofs of the occasional hamlet among the olive groves below. I remembered driving along this road with my father years before. I saw a curve of brilliant white beach where I was sure we had once gone for a swim.
When we reached the village of Stavros, Irene parked beneath the shade of a pine tree in the square.
‘I grew up here,’ she said. ‘When I was a child I came to this church with my family.’ Two towers flanked the entrance to the church opposite, and behind them was an impressive blue, domed roof. ‘If you do not mind waiting I would like to go inside. You can wait for me in the kefenio across the street. I will not be long.’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Take your time.’
When she had gone I lingered in the quiet drowsy heat of the square, but after several minutes curiosity got the better of me and I followed her. I had never seen inside a Greek Orthodox church before. Compared to the sombre austerity of the chapel I remembered from boarding school, the contrast could hardly have been greater. Instead of cold stone walls and rows of unwelcoming pews, the style was almost gaudy. The walls and the inside of the dome were painted a pale eggshell blue and a strip of what had once been bright red carpet led up the central aisle. Massive glass chandeliers hung from the ceiling and elaborate painted icons looked down on the rows of seats. Several huge throne-like carved chairs stood on a dais where I imagined the priests sat during services.
Irene genuflected before an icon of the Virgin Mary and then lit a candle that she took from a brass holder. She sat on a chair with her head bowed, her lips moving in silent prayer. As I watched her I wanted to feel something, but quite what I didn’t know. I wondered if my father had become religious though I couldn’t imagine him in a place like this somehow. If there was an afterlife, if some essence of him was present here, I wondered what I would say to him. No answer was forthcoming and in the end, feeling that I was intruding on Irene’s grief I slipped outside again to wait for her.
When she emerged, she offered a wan smile and led the way to a kefenio where we sat on a shady terrace. Stavros was built on top of a hill where several routes converged. From where we sat we looked down on Polis Bay where a yacht drifted at anchor, gleaming white against the deep blue of the sea. Irene and the owner of the kefenio knew each other and when he brought us menus he greeted her as an old friend.
‘Yassou Irene,’ he said warmly and kissed her cheek.
They spoke rapidly in Greek and though I didn’t understand what they were saying I heard my father’s name mentioned.
‘Kalos-orissate,’ the man said before reverting to English. ‘Welcome to Ithaca, Mr French. I am sorry for your father. I know him a long time. He is a good man.’
I thanked him, and when he’d left with our order Irene said, ‘Johnny was very popular on Ithaca. He will be missed.’
We hadn’t talked about what had happened yet, but now I said, ‘I assume it was another heart attack.’
She hesitated. ‘It is not yet certain. There will have to be an examination.’ She gestured helplessly. ‘I do not know the right word in English.’
‘You mean an autopsy?’
‘Yes. That is it. An autopsy. Your father was found in the harbour, Robert. At the marina where he kept the Swallow. The police think he may have drowned. They are bringing somebody from Kephalonia.’
I was surprised, not so much about where he was found but at the circumstances. After my parents were divorced, I eventually spent part of the school summer holidays each year on Ithaca. It was an arrangement I went along with grudgingly because I wasn’t given a choice, but the one part of it I’d always looked forward to was spending time on my father’s boat. For a while at least I was able to put aside the resentment I felt towards him. I could picture him vividly as he dived off the side into the cool, clear sea. His body was brown and powerful and though he was beginning to run to fat, he swam like a seal. ‘I can’t imagine him drowning,’ I said to Irene.
‘They think he may have fallen from the boat after he had another heart attack.’
I could see how it might have happened. Perhaps as he climbed aboard he was hit with a sudden crushing pain and he stumbled backwards into the water. But I had read somewhere that drowning victims quickly float to the surface buoyed by gases in the body. He had been missing for three days. ‘Why did it take so long for anybody to find him?’
‘Apparently his clothes were caught up with the propeller.’
I imagined my dad struggling to free himself, eyes wide, his mouth opening in a silent cry, only a stream of bubbles escaping. Horror plucked at my insides and I banished the vision with a hasty gulp of wine.
Belatedly I realised that tears were sliding unchecked down Irene’s cheeks and I reached out for her hand. ‘I’m sorry,’ I told her. They had been together ever since my father had come to Ithaca, almost twenty-five years earlier. Whatever my own feelings towards him, I knew Irene had always loved him.
‘It is my fault,’ she said heavily.
‘It isn’t anybody’s fault.’ I was surprised that she was blaming herself. ‘It was an accident.’
Irene shook her head. ‘He was supposed to be resting. I should not have let him leave the house.’
‘But didn’t you say he left before you were awake?’
‘Yes,’ she admitted.
‘Then there was nothing you could do. You couldn’t watch him every minute of the day. Besides,’ I added, voicing a feeling that had been forming since I had arrived, ‘if anyone should feel guilty it’s me. I should have come earlier.’
‘You should not feel badly. You have a busy life in London. Your father knew that.’
Both of us knew that wasn’t the reason I’d delayed my trip, but I was grateful for the gesture. ‘Then nobody’s to blame. You always stood by him, Irene. He was bloody lucky to have you.’
I thought back to the times I’d spoken to him on the phone over the last couple of years as he’d begun to sound increasingly defeated, and especially the last six months, when he was often half drunk. I was subjected to long self-pitying monologues during which he bemoaned a wasted life. I thought Irene must have had to put up with a hell of a lot and I felt a twinge of guilt that I hadn’t offered her any support. Before Dad’s heart attack I hadn’t even spoken to her for months. I couldn’t remember exactly when the last time had been. It was clear now just how much strain she had been under. She was pale, her eyes were dull and she