The Wind Whispers Her Name

PrologueAn elderly man, with a full head of pure white hair, immaculately dressed, moved painfully slowly down the gangplank of the Dolphin. His right hand rested on a silver-topped ebony cane. A crew member deposited an expensive, well-worn suitcase on the jetty. The autumn sun brushed the fading crest on the case. The Dolphin left and the old man turned to the waiting taxi, ordered as usual in advance. The same taxi driver, the same moustache, now grey as was his formerly jet black hair. The muscular build long gone, as so many things. He was of an age with his passenger but still proffered a helping arm. 'Welcome, Mr. Kenneth. It's been a long time.' Kenneth smiled as he waved the arm away. 'Maybe next time, my friend. For now the cane suffices.' But Kenneth knew there would not be a next time. This would be his last visit. His consultant had advised strongly against this trip. But he had to come. One last time. To feel her presence, to breathe in her essence. Only here could he do that. 'Seven Islands again?' 'Of course. But drive past the house.' The taxi made its way along the coast road. The bars and restaurants as he remembered them mostly gone, Kostas' Bar, no longer Kostas' Bar. Right, up Horse Buggy Hill, left at Crossbows, no longer Crossbows and so different. The children's playground looked tired and unused as they turned right along the Agia Marina Road, the convoluted turnings he remembered. The taxi slowed as it passed the church on the left. 'Do you want to get out?' 'No, thank you, but stop a while at the gates.' The dark blue painted, metal gates were set into the wall surrounding a solitary house. Apprehensive of what he would see and how he would feel Kenneth looked first to the right. The hotel was derelict although the out-of-control bougainvillea masked it somewhat. The two floors of the house to the right of the hotel were shuttered, the garden overgrown. But, almost mockingly amidst such surroundings, the vanilla, medlar and damaskina trees sported a display of ripe fruit. Looking at the gnarled fig tree he recalled fondly the hours of pleasure its contorted branches afforded the three little girls, the middle one invariable hanging upside down, as agile as any trapeze artist. Not one of them had ever fallen, nor were they told not to climb as it was dangerous, only to be careful. Three little girls whose photo he still treasured although the frame had long fallen to pieces. He allowed himself to muse for a while. Where were they all now? Scattered round the world, married with children? He had never married. How could he? After her. Yes, he had had liaisons but they were ephemeral, a moment's gratification and then, nothing. He had no children, as far as he was aware. He had always been responsible in any s****l encounter, at least in that direction. The non-production of a legitimate heir from the oldest son had caused his parents some consternation but each of his younger brothers had performed the duty Kenneth had so selfishly neglected. There was now male issue aplenty to ensure the continuation of a long and noble lineage. He had no regrets in that sphere of his life. Thinking of other regrets he turned to the left. The house looked neglected, unkempt, the garden overgrown. A dusty, wheel-less car rested where once the grape vines had flourished. Three motorized bikes of indeterminate age lay abandoned to the left of the walkway, including the red bike that had been there so long ago. A new motorbike lounged outside the main gates as did a sleepy, uninterested dog. The paint was faded and peeling on all the shutters. The driver watched impassively as his passenger got out of the taxi. With a resigned smile to the driver, who gave an almost imperceptible nod in return, Kenneth walked up to the smaller gate which led to the kitchen entrance. The balcony there had gained an ugly wooden structure around its perimeter. An assortment of boxes cluttered, replacing the once neat border of plant pots. He looked to the right, the side garden, hoping to conjure up a memory. The garden remained mockingly silent. He wouldn't find her here. He returned to the taxi. 'Go on.' The taxi swept right and left following the curves in the road and drew up outside Kenneth's choice of accommodation. * * * Dusk fell. Taking his G&T into the deserted courtyard of the hotel Kenneth closed his eyes to summon a vision of the Ice Queen as he had last seen her. But the picture was nebulous. He couldn't hold it. She wasn't there. He remembered the night she had thawed. Such a melting. Such passion, such urgency, such need. She had not only taken him to places long forgotten but to heights never known. She had drained him, physically, emotionally. He felt she had taken the very soul of him. After, when they lay quiet he felt a total exhaustion from which he could not believe he would ever recover. He thought he heard her whisper, 'Come back to me, my love.' He didn't know to whom she spoke. Although he might have wished it, he knew in his heart it was not to him. In the morning she was gone. The place where she had lain was cold. Had she really been there at all? He no longer knew fact from fiction. He heard a car horn. His taxi. He swiftly dispatched the last of the generous drink, more G than T, and stepped out for the journey down to the town. * * * Kostas was long gone. The bar had since had several owners but the ambience had not survived Kostas' departure. The first owners had preserved the décor and played the same eclectic mix of music but slowly the atmosphere generated by the third component, Kostas himself, dissipated. Changes had taken place. The highly varnished wooden bar that had been Kostas' pride and joy was now a glaring white. There was a sacrilegious TV up on the wall where the book shelves had once been. Kenneth gave his order which was received and dispensed dispassionately. He chose to sit outside, carefully gauging his gait across the road to the tables to avoid the through traffic, even more frenetic than his last visit. He sat with his back to the wall from where he could survey all. He saw only strangers, new people. He would not find her there. He raised an arm as a buggy trotted by. No bell announced its approach and no wild flowers adorned it. The young driver stopped but made no attempt to help the elderly gentleman into his seat. The meagre measure of drink with which Kostas would have been appalled, far more T than G, remained untouched on the table. * * * The Garden Restaurant, no longer a garden but a paved courtyard, had a few late season guests as Kenneth re-entered. Some smiled; others gave a friendly 'Good evening.' He acknowledged all with a brief nod. Not wishing to engage in or encourage holiday conversation he chose a table in the far corner where the trees had once been, away from the lights of the main building. A smiling young lady appeared. She lit the candle which nestled in a wreath of cloth roses set in a saucer of smoky opaque glass. The sight of the homemade roses and the scent of jasmine carried on the night air brought confused memories flooding back. His reveries were interrupted by the young lady. Young to him, as most were these days, but in her late thirties. 'Yes, thank you. I'll have the pork chop with salad, no potatoes.' 'Would you like something to drink?' 'A jug of white, please. And…' 'Yes?' 'The couple who used to run this hotel?' 'My mother and father. They are retired although mama comes to help sometimes. I'll let them know you asked for them. I am Rhea, their daughter. We don't have so many foreigners now. Mostly Athenians who come for the summer or long weekends. Of course we are always full for the Armata. My husband does the cooking now. He is a very good cook.' Rhea went to attend to the other guests, leaving Kenneth to recall the Armata spent with the woman he had so wanted to be the one to share his life. Why? How? When? Where? The questions remained unanswered as they always had. He watched Rhea go into the kitchen and fill a jug with wine from a barrel. She brought it, together with the small tumbler from which this wine was drunk, to his table. 'From me and my husband to say welcome.' 'That's very kind. Thank you.' Kenneth took a sip of the slightly warm wine, slowly replacing his glass and politely nodding his appreciation. 'Tell me, Rhea. Do you remember an English lady who lived here about thirty years ago? We came here once or twice when I lived on the island for a year.' 'I remember the English teacher. But I was very young. She always came here after she was alone. I would practise my English with her. She would bring their dog with her. She usually didn't have company but I think I remember you with her sometimes, when you stayed in their old house. I think it's very sad…' * * * Rhea returned to the kitchen, leaving Kenneth to ponder the story just revealed to him. The Ice Queen had never mentioned a dog but he clearly recalled the largest of the graves and the Celtic cross. This was one more thing he had never known. And it was 'their' dog. So there had been someone else. Had he ever really known her at all? He was hardly aware of the pork chop and salad being placed before him or of the 'Kali orexi' that accompanied it as he tried to come to terms with his feelings. Could he, should he, have made greater efforts to find her? Should he have returned to the island immediately after delivering his island manuscript to his agent? That book had been very successful. He had also gone on to write the book his agent had originally expected. Having his amateur sleuth being eaten by sharks had given Kenneth great pleasure but he had never written another book. Finding he couldn't concentrate on a long project he had confined himself to writing articles based on his restless travels. He had never written just for the money. Hadn't needed to. The family trust had seen to that. Subsequent, spasmodic visits to the island never coincided with hers, although 'just missing her' on occasions. On one such visit he had eaten at a restaurant in the Clock Square, a place he had always liked but to which she had always refused to go - with him. The food was excellent, the service friendly. It had been a cool, windy evening so he had sat inside. His eyes had been drawn to a black and white photo hanging on the wall. It was a photo of the Dapia, possibly from the twenties. Young men in white trousers, blazers and boaters gazed down on him. It seemed vaguely familiar yet he was certain he had never seen it before. Argyres had returned with his meal, a platter of seafood with salad. 'Ah, you are admiring the old picture. It was a gift from the lady. Kali orexi.' The Lady. Kenneth's memory had returned to the oblong shape on the living room wall denoting where a picture had once hung. Photos of different parts of the island had hung on either side. That was what was familiar. All the frames were identical. The picture staring down at him would have fitted the oblong perfectly. He had finally been told she didn't come any more. No-one had any information so he too had stopped coming. Even Nikki had been unable to help. Although Kenneth knew she held a British passport there appeared to be no evidence of her living in the UK after she had apparently left the island. And she had rarely spoken about her life before she had met him. He had often thought that in her mind she still did live in the past. But on his broaching the subject of her earlier life she had replied there was only the present - the here and now. After several consultations with specialists he had decided he would return once more to the island to search for her. Although he had not found her anywhere, the wind still whispered her name. He believed she was there, somewhere, and now with this new knowledge he would find her. Tomorrow would decide whether or not he would leave this island forever. He ordered a coffee and brandy.