Literary Indulgence

Chapter 7

On cue, the bus arrived full of young, tanned tourists of various nationalities. We jostled our way past long, sandalled legs and backpacks and took a seat at the rear.

“It seems we’re staying in the Psalidi area,” Madeleine looked up from the map in the guide, “Further on from us there are hot springs…” She stretched her legs in front of her and gave a soft, wistful groan.

“We’ll look into getting a car today,” I said, thinking that my own muscles would be grateful for the springs. I’d noticed a hire place not far from Alexander’s restaurant.

“We’ll check out Kos Town first though and drive back… home.” How strange the word sounded to me then. Our little unit would be “home” for the time being and the thought sat well. I looked at Madeleine who, it seemed, had also noted the significance. She gently elbowed me and smiled.

“We’re here,” I said, returning her smile. “We made it.”

* * *

Through the grimy windows of the bus, we took in the flat salt marshes as they rolled to the sea to our right and the brown and rocky hills to our left. Along the way, hotels clustered to take advantage of the sea. On a stony beach close to the road, empty deck chairs waited for hotel patrons. Further on, the roadside thickened with restaurants situated among plane trees, palms and purple bougainvillea. To the right, as we approached the fort, I saw the park bench where we had been “abducted” in the early hours of the morning. Across the water to Turkey, Bodrum was a white smear that spread from its harbour to the bare brown shoulders of its hills.

I sought the sickle moon, wanting it to be our talisman for the journey. It was still faintly visible, its two points facing west. A waxing moon, I thought, an age-old sign of fertility and propitious times. But that was in the southern hemisphere, I remembered. In the north, this was a waning moon.

The road veered between the fort on our right and large Venetian-styled buildings on our left. Already, at 11 o’clock, the pavements and the bridge above us that joined the town to the fort were filling with tourists and locals. The driver pulled the bus into a bend in front of the large open-air square that was packed with rattan tables and chairs. We had passed it all in the dark, but it had been hidden from us by our fear and exhaustion.

As we stepped on to the footpath, we were enveloped by air thick with the smell of diesel, fish, char-grilled octopus and roasted coffee beans. There were sounds of laughter, good-humoured shouting, the high-pitched whine of motor-scooters, fishermen yelling to each other and the thud of moored boats nudging. Sunlight refracted through olive oil and diesel vapour reflected off concrete pavements, whitewashed walls and harbour water. The town glowed in that light.

Holding each other’s arms and tucking in our rears as a scooter whipped behind us, we crossed the road to the harbour. Boats of all shapes and sizes jostled at its edge. The large, modern ones looked arrogantly down their long prows at the working boats below. In various stages of disrepair, these little locals rocked enthusiastically, nudging each other like the local boys when long-legged girls ambled by the quay.

For the next half hour, we skirted the harbour taking in the town, exchanged some dollars for Euros and mentally noted other practical needs – laundromats, pharmacies, general stores and smaller cafés with cheaper prices. But on our first day we resolved to eat and spend large. We crossed back to the main square and were steered by a restaurant hawker to an outdoor table.

* * *

In only half an hour I had devoured a vegetable moussaka as though it was my last meal and relaxed into the high-backed rattan armchair. Madeleine was still savouring grilled sardines in tomato and caper sauce. She was relaxed and I realised how much the adventurer in her needed to be appeased. Already my sister was fusing with the locals.

People frequently commented on our similarity, but I could only see our physical differences. Madeleine’s olive skin compared to my fairer version was already deepening as we sat in the spring sun. Her large, dark-brown eyes betrayed vulnerability, despite her bursts of extroverted enthusiasm. I wondered if my own unremarkable blue-grey eyes had glazed to form another barrier to the world. We were of similar height, but Madeleine was more solid from years of physical work. At 35, she still worked as hard as the young apprentices she trained in horticulture and landscaping.

I closed my eyes enjoying the sun’s warmth on my face and arms and let the sounds of the restaurant filter through – the clink of glasses meeting in salute or being swept together by a busy waiter; conversations blending into an indistinguishable murmur, punctuated now and then by a bellowing laugh.

I opened my eyes and took in the other patrons. At one table, four men of stocky build and weighty gold jewellery were in animated conversation, gesticulating to each other. If they hadn’t been laughing, I would have thought they were arguing. At another table, a raven-haired man in his thirties was entertaining two attractive Nordic-looking girls. The dark curls of his hair framed a sharp, narrow face. When serious, or listening intently, he tilted his head back and looked down his impressively long, aquiline nose. From my side view, this made him look arrogant and hard, but when he smiled or laughed, his face transformed into something to behold – like a euphoric d**g, an aphrodisiac. Certainly, the body language of the girls with him suggested that they thought so, and I too found it hard to take my eyes off him.

He was a charmer and everything about him exuded confidence and sensuality. His movements were languid and graceful – the crossing of his long legs, the stretching and folding of his arms and elegant hands behind his head.

“Dee… Dana! Ooohh, my God, he’s gorgeous!” Madeleine’s eyes had followed mine.

At this point in our lives, my sister and I were both single. She searched for the soulmate who eluded her, but I’d never believed in the concept until I met Julian. I quickly diverted the thought.

“Greek, do you think?”

Madeleine considered him “Possibly. He could be Spanish or Italian… let’s ask him.”

In the middle of my grimace, he rose and cupped and kissed the face of each of the girls in turn. He left them twittering at the table and headed in our direction with a slight limp. Holding my breath, I gave my sister a light kick – a warning not to open her mouth.

“Ciao, signorine.”

As he passed, he granted us a dazzling smile.

“Ciao,” we said in unison, and far too loudly.

* * *

We paid for our meal and wandered deeper into the square and its tributary lanes filled with souvenir shops that sold small, white statues and busts of Hippocrates, scrolls of the Oath and other selected sayings. The merchandising was overwhelming, and I felt foolish at my romantic ideas about visiting his homeland.

Madeleine placed her hand on my back. “Let’s find his tree.” She perused the guidebook in her other hand looking for the route to the famous icon.

“This way.” She nodded to our left.

We negotiated only a few lanes uphill until we came to Platanou Square, a small but beautiful park-like setting with plane trees and palms, cobbled paths, remnants of ancient buildings and beautiful restaurants with terraces draped in bougainvillea. Here, the air was still and though the terraces were filled with diners, they seemed hushed and muted in this space.

It wasn’t difficult to find the famous plane tree, though it was fenced off and supported by scaffolding. Undoubtedly it was old – though not as old as the Koans would have tourists believe. The thought was sobering, and I wondered if there was anything authentic left on this island.

I sat on the edge of the low wall that surrounded it and contemplated the peace of the square, taking in the ancient Turkish sarcophagus a few metres away, and the bridge to the main entrance to the fort—the Castle of the Knights.

“I’m going for a stroll.” Madeleine headed toward the bridge, leaving me to daydream.

Whether Hippocrates had taught under this plane tree or not, the square had seen much of the life of ancient Kos Town. Most certainly he would have walked here, perhaps deep in a thought or conversation that would ultimately change the practice of Western medicine. I turned to face the tree, picturing him walking with his students. I waited for a feeling – that I would find an answer to a need I could not yet identify. Was I right to come here? There was a rustle in the leaves as I mentally posed my question, but nothing more.

On the bridge, I joined Madeleine, who was studying the sign on the double gates into the castle.

“Too late today – we’re locked out,” she said.

“Yes,” I said, “I could believe that.”

* * *

An hour later, and with basic supplies, we walked back along the avenue to a car-hire outlet I had seen from the bus. We left in a Fiat – freedom in canary yellow.

When we arrived at our complex in the late afternoon, we wondered if the signs of life we had seen in the morning were just props arranged by our hoverfly and husband. Once inside, I could see, on the neighbouring balcony rail, two pairs of feminine feet that flexed expressively with the animated conversation of their owners.

We ate a light tea of Greek salad and local wine on our own balcony and soaked in the atmosphere that was free of wind and sound. In the dusk, the hills turned from brown to grey and, as night set in, the lights in the condominiums were matched with stars. Lulled by the peace and our full stomachs, we reviewed our journey so far and decided that, perhaps, it was not a mistake to come after all.

As the evening turned cooler, I left Madeleine to contemplate the view and went inside. I took out the collected material on Hippocrates and, for the next hour, searched through the books on the bed looking for something that would resonate to my core or shake the foundation from under me.

Under that stark, n***d bulb of my Kos bedroom, I gained a better appreciation than I had ever had of his influence on Western medicine, that he had taken its practice out of the hands of the priests who loaded their patients with guilt and brought rational understanding to the cause and treatment of many diseases. I understood more deeply that his influence had extended through the generations of medical training, and had been fundamental to my own, but there was a new recognition in me, that something was missing. I felt dry.

Madeleine tiptoed in and, without speaking, sank into bed. After another fruitless hour, accompanied by my sister’s soft snoring, I thought that perhaps Hippocrates could not be truly known through the written word, but would need to be experienced in his homeland.