Literary Indulgence

Chapter 9

“I need some retail therapy,” my sister announced the next morning. “From what I’ve read, Bodrum’s the place for it, and only 30 minutes away by ferry.”

The morning sky held the promise of a sunny day and I told her of my plans to visit the Asklepion. “Have a rest,” she said, “and don’t overdo it.”

After dropping Madeleine off at the quay, I wound my way through the streets of Kos Town, through the Turkish Platani area with its traditional tavernas, complete with blue-and-white check tablecloths and vine-strewn pergolas, to the Asklepion, four kilometres out of town. As I pulled into the car park, my heart sank at the sight of two large tourist buses already there. I bought a ticket and map and followed the signed path that opened suddenly on to a clearing in the hillside.

Standing at its base, I took in the three terraced levels of the Asklepion that unrolled ahead of me to the top of the hill. From where I stood, I could see that each level was littered with ruins of temples. Some pillars were still standing, but most were lying where they had fallen centuries before. The sightseers from the buses were milling over the levels in a fine stream up the central staircases, or in small groups huddled around a tour guide. And yet, there was a pervading sense of quiet.

On the first terrace, the Romans had left their trademark – the remnants of a large bathing house. In recesses of a retaining wall, headless statues stood with authority. In one small grotto, a maidenhair fern had found its niche beneath the glare of a lion’s head where a mineral rich spring spewed from its mouth. I climbed the 20 steps to the second terrace. To my left stood colonnades – the remnants of the temple to Apollo – to my right, the altar to Asklepios. It consisted merely of a large slab of marble supported by thick rectangular stones. I stood before the altar and ran my hand over it, wondering what had been offered there more than 2,500 years earlier. I closed my eyes for a moment and was startled by the pungent and unpleasant smell of fish.

For two hours, I wandered the terraces, consulting my paper guide and tagging tour groups to catch some more detailed accounts in my rudimentary understanding of German and French. Every now and then thick, dark clouds would cause a light and shade strobing that accentuated the dramatic feel of the place.

On the large retaining wall of the third terrace, I sat like a child with my legs dangling over the edge as I took in the spectacular view of Kos Town, the sea and the coast of Asia Minor. Out there, the world, including my sister no doubt, moved at a frenetic pace, but this place was a peaceful core. Everyone seemed to sense it, talking in muted tones, or just sitting alone or with others in silence. In the cypress grove that buffered the two worlds, I read, birth and death had been f*******n.

Beneath my dangling feet were the remnants of the abaton – the rooms where the sick would come to sleep. It was here, in their dreams, that Asklepios would appear and advise them of a cure. I marvelled at such simple faith, but thought, too, of the tragic repercussions when that faith was misplaced. I had left elements of my life behind in Melbourne, but Bonnie travelled with me. I wondered where and how I was to heal.

I was drawn now to the rooms beneath me and descended the stairs to sit alone among the ruins almost hidden in the grass. The dark clouds were colluding and forming a thick, menacing ceiling. Where I sat on the remnants of a stone wall, I ran my finger into its nicks and recesses, imagining an ancient hand fashioning it in honour of the god. This site was built after the death of Hippocrates, but it was Asklepios and Apollo who were worshipped here.

At my feet, tiny wildflowers grew – purple with yellow centres. The longer I looked at them the larger they appeared until I felt myself drawn to them. A bee rested delicately on stamens, and I became mesmerised by the humming of its wings. I wasn’t aware of falling asleep, only the weight of my head, a heaviness of my limbs and a sense of stupor covering my scattering thoughts in fur.

I remember blurred images – imperfect apples, olives and wheat placed with love on a marble table in front of me; fish that now seemed pleasant and whole and organic, and shells fashioned into necklaces. I saw the sick in their beds waiting with trust for their cure. I felt their fear, their maladies. I reached forward to one and touched her barren womb and tracked my way to her troubled heart. In her sleep, she wept. For another I pricked his skin and tongue with nettle to clean the black from his blood. And then I saw myself lie down, to dream of a cure for my troubled soul. The heavens roared and a spear of light jagged its way across the sky to find me.

I must have yelled. When I opened my eyes, a couple was watching me warily. I feigned indifference and stood and stretched. Though the sky was becoming dark there was only a very distant rumble of thunder, but I wasted no time in returning to the safety of the little canary.

* * *

“You look awful.”

“Thanks for that,” I said, knowing well that Madeleine was right. “How was your day?”

There was a heightened sparkle in my sister’s eyes that sounded a warning bell in me.

“So, who is he?” I said, not taking her by surprise at all.

“You won’t believe this,” she said, unfazed and her face breaking into a large and beautiful smile. She laughed at my bemused eyebrow. “No, really you won’t.”

“Try me,” I said, now intrigued.

“Remember that Adonis chatting up the Nordic beauties at the restaurant in Kos?”

“Not him!” I almost yelled. Madeleine was wrong. I did believe her and that’s what I was worried about.

“Oh yes indeed,” her smile was smug, “Carlo Augustus Giorni.”

“He told you his middle name!” I imagined him rolling it into my sister’s all-too-receptive ear.

“He’s a dream.” Madeleine’s sparkle was turning into a mist.

There have been many times when I felt like shaking my sister, and this was one of them. Already, I was imagining the heartbroken scenario when our Latin lover moved on or, more typically, when Madeleine became bored.

“He’s a racing-car driver,” she said, matter-of-factly, cutting across my thoughts.

“Oh, for God’s sake!”

“Famous in Europe.” She was goading me now.

We laughed.

“And he’s coming here for dinner tomorrow night!”

Together we turned and assessed the apartment as if seeing it for the first time.

* * *

Madeleine related her day. She had met the famous Carlo in the lounge of the ferry. As she quietly sipped her coffee, gazing innocently out the window, the racing car driver of exquisite reflexes and timing stumbled towards her on his way past as the ferry rode a rogue wave. The rest, I could imagine. Despite a foot injury, sustained during a recent Grand Prix – I rolled my eyes – Carlo Augustus Giorni accompanied my sister on her day’s shopping. Scarves, jewellery and two summer shirts in a blast of colour were spread on the bed.

“I bought you this,” she said, holding out her arm, her fist closed to hide its contents. “Actually, Carlo saw it first, but the man in the shop insisted that I buy it and – this is the weird thing – give it to my sister. A lucky guess, I’d say.”

In my palm, she placed a beautiful yet tiny container – a vial, of exquisite workmanship. It was made of alabaster with a delicate filigree-of-gold casing and was sealed tightly by a lid that tapered to a point.

“Dana, are you OK?”

My sister’s voice drew me from a kaleidoscope of images that I could not make sense of.

“It’s the myrrh,” I said, “beautiful, but a bit heady for me at first.”

Madeleine looked confused. She took the vial from me and sniffed around the seal. When she looked at me her eyes were full of concern.

“Dee, it’s empty.”