Black Acorns

3

3

The ferry Blue Star Delos brought Day home to Naxos at six o’clock the following evening. The ship turned neatly just outside the port and reversed into the mooring with only a modicum of black smoke and the required three short blasts on the horn. It lowered its vast metal gangway with a screech and final resounding crash, before emptying its load of cars, trucks and lorries onto the port. Foot passengers dragging luggage shared the gangway with vans and motorbikes. Chaos, in its most good-natured form, once again brought people to the island of Naxos.

Never completely happy until back on dry land, Day’s spirits were improving and he was considering a quick stop at his favourite bar, Diogenes, before finding a taxi, when he saw a fair-haired woman standing next to a dirty white Fiat 500. She was waving at him. Helen had met the ferry. A rush of pleasure filled him. Much as he loved living alone and was quite happy to occupy and amuse himself, he had been really enjoying the last few months during which Helen, his novelist friend from England, had been staying with him.

“This is very good of you,” he said, forcing his case into the boot of his car and turning to give her a short hug. “I haven’t seen an available taxi anywhere. Let’s escape this madness and go home.”

Day folded himself into the passenger seat and began to relax. As they drove the twenty kilometres to the house, he told her about his experiences in the Mani. The road climbed away from the shore, passing through the villages that lay between the port and the hilly centre of the island. The village of Filoti, where Day had found his ideal house and bought it earlier in the year, lay not far from the island’s highest peak, Mount Zas. Day loved its rural tranquility. Anyone who knew him only as a TV presenter, when he was at his most extrovert, would have been surprised to hear that he was something of a loner. Day craved peace and quiet; he enjoyed long periods of solitary research and writing, companionable silences and the gentle conversation of good friends. On the death of his father, Day had used his inheritance to buy the Filoti house, a restored island home which he described as being ‘in the middle of nowhere on an island in the Aegean’. He saw it as a place of escape from the studio apartment he owned in busy Athens. He no longer had a home in the UK. Helen had been staying with him since the early summer, the two of them companionable but independent, meeting from time to time over coffee, drinks

and meals.

The house smelt good to Day when he walked in: the usual aromas of old polished wood, clean country air, and a faint hint of wild herbs. He opened the shutters and the early October warmth filled the front room. He left his case in the middle of the floor and went through to the back room, lined with his bookcases, and opened the windows and shutters of the balcony. The view across the valley to the further hills was even better than he remembered. October had arrived, bringing the muted ochres of bleached grass, orange-gold lichen and yellow-green, desiccated scrub.

He heard the unmistakable sound of a kettle and smiled. Helen was making tea. Fair enough, he thought. A cup of tea first, and then a gin.

He took his suitcase to his room and took the fastest shower possible before putting on fresh clothes and returning to the balcony. Helen was already sitting with a cup of tea, her brown arms and sun-bleached hair a sign of having spent many months on the island, which had transformed her skin from Hampstead white to Aegean bronze. He settled into the chair next to hers.

“That’s better,” he said, drinking his tea. “It’s wonderful to be back. How have you been?”

“Fine. I sent off the novel to my agent on Wednesday, so it’s off my hands at last.”

“That’s great! We must celebrate tonight with a meal at the taverna. Are you pleased with how it turned out?”

“Yes, I suppose so.” She quickly corrected her tone. “I’m quite pleased with it. I didn’t know what to do with myself after it went off with the courier. Then oddly, just at the right moment, a man called Kyrie Tsirmpas rang me, the chairman of the Naxos Literary Festival. He offered me a job.”

“I thought the Literary Festival was already in progress?”

“Yes it is, but somebody had to pull out, Nikos Kounaras, the poet from Thasos, who was going to be their Writer in Residence. His wife went into labour early, apparently! Our friend Aristos at the Museum gave them my name and they asked me to step in and help.”

“Aristos has his fingers in every pie on the island. What does your job involve?”

“They want me to be present for most of the sessions, sometimes acting as a group coordinator, and doing one or two interviews with visiting speakers. I’m also giving the last lecture of the Festival. Thankfully there isn’t an event every day.”

“Congratulations, Helen, that’s excellent. Writer in Residence! They couldn’t have found anyone better for the job. Don’t you think it will be a lot of fun?”

“I hope so. It’s perfectly timed for me, I need something to do.”

“Have you met a woman called Athina yet? She’s the festival manager and I’ve been speaking to her quite a bit while I was away because they needed extra accommodation, so she’s using rooms at the Elias House.”

“I’ve spoken to her once.”

“She sounds quite a character, doesn’t she? I must go and meet her tomorrow, and find out more about the guests.”

The sprawling Elias House was a large place by the sea formerly owned by the late Nikos Elias, the Greek archaeologist whose biography Day had recently completed. Having not known what use to make of the old place when it became his property, he had converted it into simple but spacious visitor accommodation. The Literary Festival was providing his very first guests.

“How many rooms have been booked?”

“Two doubles and a single, I think. Our friends Vasilios and Maroula from the taverna have prepared the rooms, and Athina has sorted out the bookings. Right, how about I make us a gin and tonic?”

He went to the galley kitchen and returned with his signature drink. A strong smell of lemon came with him, rising from the icy glasses that brimmed with bubbles.

“Delicious! I haven’t had a G&T since you left for the Mani.”

“Are you OK?” he teased, but he had noted an uncharacteristic despondency in her voice, which even he could not miss.

“I’m fine.” Helen hesitated before continuing reluctantly. “Andreas has been pestering me. He emails most days, and wants me to go and see him in Athens. I was tempted to go, it would have been nice to spend a few days in Athens, but I didn’t want Andreas to think that our relationship is going to start up again.” She smiled. “Don’t worry, Martin, I’m just a bit low. And here I am on an idyllic Cycladic island with everything I could possibly want.”

Day smiled with her, evaluating the reference to Andreas. Andreas Nomikos, the police inspector from Athens, was proving not only a most unusual detective but a rather determined suitor. He and Helen had begun to see each other a few months before, but at some point Day had realised that Helen had put the brakes on the relationship. He doubted Andreas would give up easily. He waited for her to say more.

“I suppose when I think of Andreas I remember Zissis. You’d think my marriage was a thing of the past, wouldn’t you? Zissis died six years ago, and I heard nothing from him for twelve years before that, but Andreas stirs up the memories again because I swore never to get into another relationship. Sorry, you’ve heard this so many times!”

“You’re welcome to tell me whenever you want.”

Day was only too aware of his deficiencies as a listener, not helped by a recurring urge to hit Helen’s ex-husband despite never actually having met him. As the man was now dead he should help Helen to forget him, of course, but unfortunately the past was not so easily left behind. Helen had married the Greek financier in her early twenties, but soon he had realised that a wife was an encumbrance to the life he most enjoyed. He had bought her a house in Hampstead and provided enough money for her to live comfortably, because wealth was something Zissis did not lack. Despite not having the divorce which his religion forbade him, he had then led a self-indulgent life with his immense fortune and many women until his relatively early death. When Day had met Helen she was alone in London with only sorrow and anger for company.

Helen replaced her glass on the wooden table firmly.

“I’d like to ask you something, Martin. Would you mind if I stayed on here a bit longer than planned? I don’t want to go back to Hampstead yet. Perhaps I could travel to London with you when you go in a couple of months. You’re very welcome to stay at my place while you work at the British Museum over the winter.”

Day agreed immediately; it was, in fact, a proposal that suited him really well. Anyway, he was glad there was something he could do for her. Helen was usually the one who lifted his mood, not the other way round. Hers was the level-headed voice of common sense which he would consult before almost any difficult decision. She was his ideal best friend, a woman who could be relied on not to want any romantic involvement with him that would distract him from

his work.

“How often do you think about Zissis these days?” he ventured, not sure if this was a good path to take.

Helen glanced at him in surprise. “Well, not very often, but the past never really goes away, does it? You of all people have to agree to that, Martin, as an archaeologist!”

“I had an idea on the plane this morning,” he said, a convenient opener although not strictly true. “I thought I might invite Alex over for a couple of days? It would be good for us to make a start on our British Museum book, and it would be fun. What do you think?”

“Good idea. Why don’t you ask him?” she said, her smile back in place, picking up her glass.

“Right, I’ll call him tomorrow. Come on, let’s go for dinner. Thanasis must have been missing us.”

They walked into Filoti in the evening light past battered old cars faded from the sun and covered in dust. Elderly neighbours sat in front of their houses, talking to each other across the street and playing absentmindedly with their komboloi beads. Several people waved to Day and called out Kalispera! He smiled as he returned the greeting, feeling that he was slowly being accepted as a member of the village community.

Taverna O Thanasis, which had long been Day’s favourite local restaurant, was the first building on the right on the road into the village. As usual, they were greeted warmly by the owner himself. Thanasis was a large man, understandably so given the outstanding culinary skills of his wife, and he had a wide smile to match. He kissed Helen on both cheeks, addressing her as usual as ‘La Belle Helene’. He loved it when she protested, and laughed contentedly as he showed them to their usual table. Just the sight of the blue tablecloths, the traditional wooden chairs with woven seats, and the sepia photographs on the walls filled Day with joy at being back on Naxos. Vangelis, son of Thanasis, came over to place menus in front of them.

“Good evening, Vangeli,” Day said, shaking the younger man’s hand and leaving the menus unopened. “What’s on the special menu tonight?”

Although the regular dishes were always good, the best thing to do was to ask what the cook recommended. Thanasis’s wife, Koula, created dishes each day inspired by ingredients from local farmers and fishermen. It was a wise customer who chose these little masterpieces.

“My mother recommends the katsikaki today, or she has some fresh bream which you can have grilled or fried. She has made fried zucchini slices and eggplant balls using her mother’s recipes - they’re wonderful! - and we have freshly-picked horta today. Horta are green leaves grown locally .…”

Day grinned and nodded. Horta was a favourite, its straggly dark green leaves full of freshness and flavour.

Vangelis smiled widely and said that he would let them consider while he brought their wine. He did not even ask what wine they wanted, being well aware of Day’s usual choice. He returned with a large jug of the local red wine ‘from the barrel’, fresh and light, and particularly welcome because it was unlikely to give you a bad head the next day.

“What shall we eat? Your choice,” said Day, when they were alone. He took her glass and added some wine, gave her some cutlery from the bread basket, and filled his own glass.

“Mmm. Fish and vegetables for me, I think. Bream, some horta, and the little aubergine balls.”

“Ok, suits me, and maybe a portion of chips?”

Day loved chips and had the perfect excuse to enjoy them on the island because the people of Naxos were very proud of their potatoes. No visitor could avoid hearing of the unique flavour and texture of Naxian potatoes, and Day hardly missed an opportunity to put this assertion to the test. He had never been disappointed.

They shared the dishes between them and ate with relish without touching on any serious subjects of conversation. Helen expertly opened the grilled fish and separated the soft white flesh from the bones, before helping herself to a few of the small, deep-fried balls of aubergine and sliding the chips closer to Day. When the last chip had gone, and no flesh remained on the bream, Day used the last slice of bread to clean the little bowl of tzatziki that had come with the fried vegetables, and waved to Vangelis to bring another small jug of wine.

“Now,” he said to Helen, “Can I attend any events at this Literary Festival? I’d like to see you in action! It’s all being held at the Bazeos Tower, isn’t it, not very far from here?”

“Of course, if you like, Martin. I’ll make sure you can come to all the interesting bits.”

“Fantastic! I’m also hoping to meet some of the writers. One of them’s quite well known, I think. Have you heard of Ricky Somerset?”

“Of course! He was nominated for the Winterson Prize for Fiction last year. I think he lives in Brighton. I’ve heard him called the twenty-first century’s answer to Graham Green.”

“Oh, right! Athina told me that he and his partner have booked a room in the Elias House. I tell you what’s really odd. I recognised the name of his partner, Ben Lear. We knew each other a long

time ago.”

They were interrupted by Vangelis with their jug of wine.

“Did you know him well?” Helen asked.

“Pretty well. We saw a lot of each other in our teens because my father fell in love with Ben’s mother. Ben was the only good thing in the whole situation, actually. As you know, I was an only child and my mother died when I was ten. After a few years my father met Julia and she and her son spent a lot of time at our house. Ben was about four years younger than me but he was fun. After I left for university I never saw Ben again because I hardly went home. My father and Julia were close till he died, but they never married. I don’t know what Ben did after I left. I don’t even know if Julia is still alive. The thing is, it was my fault that my father and Julia didn’t marry. I put such pressure on my father not to betray my mother’s memory, as I saw it. It’s a long story and tonight isn’t the right time.”

Helen had heard him out in silence and when she spoke he half expected a rebuke.

“Well, you must talk to Ben properly while he’s here, Martin,” she said firmly, sounding back to her old form. “You’ve just described something important and unresolved in your life. This is an opportunity to try and sort it out.”