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Author
Bio. John Hay is a published writer in both
fiction and non-fiction. He is also a television and literary critic, a lecturer
and tutor in Creative Writing and Journalism and also in the predicaments of
migrants in a new country. His main interests are Australian
politics, Greek culture and history, with particular interest in World War Two
in He is a fluent speaker in Greek, a member of The Independent Scholars Association of Australia and admitted to the Degree of Writing Fellow, The Fellowship of Australian Writers. Read a sample.... Spring
Oi Anoixoi The
Opening
Leo
Galloway peered through the salted glass of the Anemoessa’s saloon window,
trying to catch a glimpse of the island. This was the island where Achilles was
said to have set out for the Trojan Wars. He had convinced himself that like
Achilles, this was going to be the turning point in his life. The car ferry
surged across the sliding waves and his spirit with it. He
felt someone watching him. Turning quickly he saw that it was the woman who had
got on the ferry with him at the mainland. Not wanting to meet her gaze, he
decided to escape the cigarette fog and loud television of the ship’s saloon
and walk on the deck.
Outside the spring wind was blowing from He
glanced back through the glass of the saloon door and he could see the woman.
She was the only other tourist on the ferry and he had been avoiding her since
arriving at the port by the bus from He
turned to face the sea again, drawn to its wildness. He’d had enough of people
for the time being. He just hoped that the attention of the Greek men trying to
practice their English wouldn’t drive the woman out on deck. The door opened,
giving out a blast of warm air and she was standing near him staring at the sea
and the approaching land. He noticed the gloss of her dark hair and the pale,
unlined neck. Early thirties, he registered automatically. Large sleety drops of
rain splattered across his face and he pressed back against the saloon wall and
waited for the woman to leave. But she waited obstinately until the squall
lifted its veil from the coastline. Then she vanished as though she never
existed. He sighed with relief. The
ferry altered speed and direction and he could see the U shaped thread of lights
outlining the harbour. He re-entered the saloon to claim his hand luggage.
Already the Greek drama of embarkation was taking place. People pushed and
shoved as though the ship was sinking. He noticed the woman sitting on her pile
of luggage, with her artist’s easel. As if from a sudden whim the captain
threw the vessel into reverse and the people on top of each other. Instant
friendships were made as the ship was backed into the wharf to allow the cars to
drive off. Leo
searched for the familiar faces of his cousin’s family on the wharf, trying to
identify people from photographs. There was no sign of them. Perhaps they were
running late? The passengers were streaming onto the wharf now. There were cries
of recognition, sudden squalls of tears, and tight embraces. The high drama was
orchestrated by the contemporary music of the embarking lorries slashing their
gears and revving their motors as they forced a passage though the people. In
the midst of the mayhem it began to rain heavily. Buckets of water splashed off
the wharf buildings. Whole families were now swallowed by cars, which sped off
towards the village with horns blaring. He had reached the shelter of a café
balcony with his suitcase when he noticed the woman stumbling towards him
through the rain. “Hi!”
she yelled with sardonic cheerfulness. “Welcome to Kaimos. I’m Al Bloom.”
The accent was American. He looked around, hoping that she would disappear or
see someone that she knew, but she hung on, completely unperturbed by his lack
of response. “Could
you watch these please? I’m going to get the rest of my gear.” She glanced
at the label on his suitcase and grabbed his arm. “Hi L. Galloway, Bloom,
Alice, right? Won’t be a minute. Ena lepto as the Greeks say.” Without
waiting for a response she ran back to the ferry for a final load. The
rain swept down from the mountains. The world turned black. He noticed now with
desperation that the last car on the wharf was a taxi. He grabbed his bags and
ran towards it in the rain. As he reached the cab the driver wound his window
up. He banged on the window in desperation. The driver became acutely absorbed
in a great space of nothing on the passengers’ side. The upturned collar on
Leo’s coat now became a temporary gutter and he could feel the wetness and
cold creeping down his spine. He thought of Alice Bloom’s return and renewed
his efforts to make conversation with the driver. He banged on the roof and with
almost a sob entering his voice shouted “Hey,
you in there. Just my luck to meet a deaf and dumb driver.” A dignified voice
near his elbow said: “He
is not deaf sir, he is engaged and does not speak any English.” Leo
whipped around to find an elderly Greek man, dressed like a businessman,
standing there. “It
is my taxi sir, but I have much luggage. I will ensure Sir that the driver
returns for you. He will not be long. By the way, my name is Mr. Foria and I am
the agent on the island for Olympic Airways. Should you be deciding sir, at a
later date to partake of the services, I would be only too overjoyed to be of
service.” He handed Leo a card and swept away in the cab. He
returned defeated to the café. Alice Bloom’s cases had disappeared. The
lights were on and she was sitting at a table near the entrance. The slouch hat
was cocked over one eye, giving her a slightly deranged appearance. He murmured
to himself. He had experienced a personal guerilla war with Sarah in “Come
in out of the cold!” Her insistence reminded him of his mother. It was cold
and wet outside. He sat down opposite her at the table. “Your
initial – L – does it stand for loner?” “Lousy
at the moment,” he replied, “you can call me Galloway.” “You’re
going to the village?” she queried, and added quickly, “you don’t have to
worry. I’m stopping here for the night.” She
began to explain nervously about her life, as though he’d asked. She said that
she was from an artists’ colony near “I
was a fan of Millers once,” he murmured. “What
do you mean once?” She seemed more than glad to get her teeth into something
of substance. “I
guess I just grew out of him.” She
looked at him as though unbelieving that anyone could confess that they were
tired of an icon. He realised that he was displaying his age. He was tired and
the café light was a bare bulb. She studied him with the open curiosity, which
Americans substitute for intimacy. “You
on vacation here “I’m
a writer. I’m going to write a novel here.” “I
knew it…. I knew it,” she exploded. “Novelists are so enigmatic. They
enjoy their aloofness. They need their space to create.” “Oh
Christ,” he thought, “why did I do it? Why didn’t I say I was an
accountant on holidays?” He gave a perfunctory cough. “Do
you think so? I’ve always found writers rather boring in real life, boringly
straightforward. Ego and jealousy are disturbing creative combinations. I’d
sooner mix with property developers; you know where you stand with them.” “Is
the novel set in He
didn’t want to talk about She
was attractive in an animated, generous mouthed way. Her fashionable red-framed
glasses tried to reduce the impact of her almond shaped eyes. The large whites
gave her a Cleopatra look. Her most flamboyant feature was her clothes. Apart
from a fashionable leather jacket, they were pure Small
cameos of She
switched back to him, almost challenging him to match her outpourings. He told
her that his second project was to trace an uncle who had disappeared during
World War Two in During
this thoughtful pause in the conversation the door of the Tavern was nearly torn
off its hinges admitting a cold draught of air and a seemingly insane villager.
He was wearing a wild drooping moustache and water was flying from his sheepskin
coat. A lamb carcass was flung carelessly over his shoulder. He made a whirling
pirouette for the benefit of the fishermen drinking coffee in the corner and
threw the carcass with a thump on the nearby table. Its anus gaped cheerfully at
the guests. “You
ordered lamb my dear?” Leo asked When
the meal eventually arrived she played with it thoughtfully, then excused
herself and asked the proprietor where the toilet was. Returning pale faced
sometime later she remarked: “ * *
* The
taxi driver crouched behind the wheel in sulky silence, hurtling his rattling
car along a winding road still under construction. Sometimes it seemed to Leo
that the driver, from sheer impulse, fired the vehicle like a bullet towards the
open sea. The car seemed to remain suspended, its headlights probing for an
opening in the veil of rain, then, just as adroitly, spun back towards the white
world of the road. He clung tightly to the patched seat in the back trying to
choke back a deep animal cry of despair. He was so relieved to see the lights of
the main village that he could have cheered. As if by magic the number of houses
on each side of the road multiplied and the taxi slowed. “Where,
where?” shouted the driver. “Paraponiares,”
he shouted back “Petros and Maria Paraponiares.” The
driver shook his head and clicked his tongue in exasperation. Eventually he
braked outside a small, darkened building and with little interest in his
passenger, dropped the two pieces of luggage out of the boot onto the roadway. As
he paid the driver and approached the Paraponiares’ building it began to rain
again. He could see now that the building was flats, there were no private
houses around. Knowing now that he had been abandoned, he stumbled through the
night along the unlit streets of a foreign village, searching for a cousin he
had never met. He was just about to give up and search for an inn when he saw a
group of young Greek women approaching with a torch. They were teachers and knew
some English. “Ah!!
Australian Maria,” they chorused. They picked up his luggage and chattering
cheerfully led him down the road to her house. He
banged on the door of the house and Petros, Mary’s husband answered looking a
bit the worse for wear. He explained that he had crashed his car and in the
process had gone through the windscreen. On his forehead he wore a flaming red
wound to emphasise the accident. Maria, he said, had taken one of the children
to Leo
slept soundly that night, hardly noticing the décor of the one bedroom with
balcony. He woke early next morning to the traditional sounds of the Greek
village; the sad bray of donkeys, roosters calling urgently and the murmur of
conversation downstairs. The inn, he discovered later, was also the Kafenion for
local fisherman. It
was a sheer delight to have those few days to explore the village before he
began the warming up exercises for his novel. It seemed like cheating somehow to
force back the opening of the story and not allowing it to take over. This was a
new experience in a new culture and he was starved for change. The
inn was built on a ridge with one hundred and eighty-degree views of the rugged
treeless mountains of marble to the north. From the base of the valley, cubes of
houses like white-gowned pilgrims struggled up the face of the mountain, then
paused as if out of respect, before the round walls of the acropolis, which
housed the Byzantine monastery. Later
he discovered that from this castro, or castle, the observer had an
uninterrupted view to the Turkish coastline sixty kilometres away. On the
Eastern side of the mountain the ground fell away sharply to the subtle curve of
beach and the broad expanse of the dazzling blue To
the north also lay the beach suburb of Magazia with its scattered holiday houses
and open fields red with poppies. The coast to the south featured a dust white
road which swept along a rugged coastline before it darted inland from the
harbour. Before it turned abruptly there was a magnificent vista of the
grey-white mountain, Elpitha, whose sides plunged into the sea. The area was
renowned for its sea caves. South of Mt. Elpitha lay the bay Ormos Ahili where
Achilles was said to have departed for the Trojan wars. Every
night he arrived back at the inn physically weary from unaccustomed walking, but
emotionally satisfied by the magical beauty of Kaimos. His only regret was that
he had no one with whom to communicate his feelings. * *
* The
rain had moved away towards the Turkish coast during the night. When She
made up her mind to catch the bus to Chorio where Warmed
by the sun, her thoughts wandered in somewhat sybaritic contemplation of her
impressions of Leo Galloway. In certain moods he was distinguished, or distinqué
as her Aunt Georgina would have said. About ten years older and what her Mama
would have warned her about – the dreaded older man. She laughed to herself at
the cliché. His full beard was beginning to grey at the sides, but the rest was
a glossy black. His hair was streaked with a distinguished white moving down the
side levers. He had a small body with carefully suppressed energy; a
contemplation of the world fully focused on what you were saying, but choosing
your thoughts to play with in public. Charming when it was needed, but then
quickly aloof when he thought you were on the edge of discovering the key to his
energy, and him. She had met many writers while living on the Leo
Galloway was certainly different. He reminded her of an anecdote told by a
friend of first impressions of some South American Indians, of how they would
sit cross legged in meditation for half a day by the side of the road, never
uttering a word or flicking an eyeball. As
she was about to leave she saw the ancient priest walk through the arched
entrance and glance down at her with interest. He asked in French whether she
spoke that language and she told him a little. In reply he became excited and
rattled on in the language. She gathered a word or phrase here and there but
they were of little use. It seemed that he was praising her occupation as an
artist. He began to ask her a rapid stream of questions and she, having heard of
the reputation of the priest with women, politely said goodbye and mentioned the
bus she had to catch. This
reminded her that she needed to go the Olympic Airways agent in the village to
check on the accommodation she’d booked. The girl at the office didn’t speak
much English and through her Greek Alice gathered that the manager, Mr. Foria,
would be out of the office until later that afternoon. The girl knew nothing
about accommodation, so A
hundred feet away the sheer face of the cliff that supported the Byzantine
monastery gleamed with the gold of the late afternoon sun. It seemed like a
message of hope from God and if she had been inclined towards religion she may
have seen it as a significant sign. But she was an artist and the light was so
overwhelming that she promised herself that she would return at the same time
next day and sketch it from the street perspective. No,
she wouldn’t wait. She had to do it now. She took the sketchpad from her
haversack and was about to begin when she noticed the well-dressed elderly Greek
man entering the office. She didn’t hurry; after all she had waited most of
the day for him. She put in as much detail as she could, jotting down colours
and noting the time of day so that she could follow it up again. It was only
when she was certain she had enough detail that she strolled nonchalantly across
to the office. She introduced herself again to the office girl and was about to
enter Mr. Foria’s office when he took up his phone and put his hand to stop
her entering. She
took no notice but sat down in the chair opposite him. He swivelled his chair so
that his back was towards her and continued to talk, ignoring her. She had dealt
with this behaviour before so she stood up to leave the office. He ran after
her. The game was over. “Sorry,”
he said, “sorry, an important call. Accommodation, Maria said?” He scratched
through the files near his desk searching for her correspondence. “There
is no sign of the epistle here Madame. If we received your correspondence, we
certainly would have replied. Why did you come without booking accommodation?”
he accused. She
was stunned. She sat there not knowing what to do next. Images of her time to
come on Kaimos sped through her mind like bullets, moving gypsy-like from
accommodation to accommodation, without a base. “Look
Euphoria, let’s get one thing straight. I want accommodation for six months. I
applied early OK? So what’s the problem?” Mr. Foria seemed shocked. He sat
there gathering his aplomb before he said: “Not
possible. Not possible. The problem is that six months is a long time. People
who own houses rent them at high prices to the tourists during July and August.
They make much money in two months so why should they rent to you for six when
they can make their money in two?” She
exploded: “Look,
an Australian friend of mine has rented a house for six months. Why can’t
I?” “O
Afstralos? O Afstralos! Oh yes, but he belongs to the Paraponiares family.
They”, he concluded significantly, “are horiotaki – villagers.” She
raised her voice: “I
am an artist. I have much work to do. I must have a base. I’m not a tourist.
Right?” Mr.
Foria’s secretary brought him coffee with the reverence due to royalty. He
sipped it thoughtfully and with infuriating slowness, and studied “You
may not be a tourist Kiria, as such, but you have no connections with the
island.” She
got up to leave, and shouted: “Of
course I’m not a Greek you idiot! I’m an American artist.” “An
artist,” Foria murmured in Greek, “an artist. We have many artists come to
Kaimos. All want accommodation. But this is a small island of three thousand
people, two hundred and fifteen square kilometres in area with a two-month
tourist season. Then in winter” he became dreamy at the thought, “in “Oh
no,” muttered She
turned to leave. “Wait,
wait,” he called at her back. She hesitated out of desperation. He said
quickly, “I think I have just the place for you but it will be somewhere
between the tourist rate and the long term rate. I will let you know.” She
turned to go again. “My
Aunt,” he said, “she has a nice room at the edge of the village.” “Don’t
bother,” said “There
is an inn,” confided Mr. Foria, “but the owner is a madman.” “Mad?”
asked Mr.
Foria lowered his voice. “Mr. Kakos is a communist.” Click on the cart below to purchase this book:
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