Faith
Ted had gone back to the room.
We’d been on Paros for three days. I had sent my parents a
post card of a Greek church at sunset. I had sent home to a few friends cards
of half-naked women with their hair slicked back and their bottoms wetly transparent.
The sights bled together. It was a religious experience.
Wake up to a cup of Greek coffee – half grinds and half water
– and a piece of greasy bland pastry, bake on the beach all day, stay out all
night; and do it all again the next day.
Time, space, and accountability had become irrelevant.
Experience was the key. It broadened the horizons and prevented the scope from
becoming too parochial.
I wrote on one card, “I’m hundreds of nautical miles from
anywhere with hundreds of the nicest strangers I’ve ever met.”
I was on the sea wall with two of them. We had known each
other for less than two days. On Paros that was long enough.
It was past three in the morning, and Chris had just turned
thirty. He and Carol were from England, and I was their “Bloody Yank” friend.
Chris looked lost whenever Carol and I were talking. He was
hard of hearing and relied on reading lips.
“Ted and I are leaving Paros tomorrow,” I told Carol.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You should go to Ios. That’s where we’re heading.”
“I want to go there, but Ted doesn’t.”
“Darling, you can do anything if it’s important enough to
you.”
Life was more complex than that. There was always something
to consider.”
The horizon was black and lifeless except for a flashing
green electronic buoy at the mouth of the harbor.
“How long have you known Chris?” I asked.
“Actually, we just met. We were both planning to go to
Greece. Some friends introduced us, and we decided to travel together and cut
costs. I feel we’ve struck it off quite nicely.”
A ferry had turned the corner near the buoy and made for port
– three stories, with its passengers moving about. It lit the sky like a coming
event.
“If anything, I’m more protective of him than he is of me,”
Carol added. “There’s times when he disappears. Chris’s sense of direction is
bad, and he gets lost.”
“Hah?” Chris asked.
“I said, you know you have a bloody bad sense of direction,
don’t you, darling?” Carol called to him.
I guess he did. He didn’t answer.
Carol looked at me and smirked. “I find myself shouting at
every person I come in contact with.”
The ferry approached on a collision course with the dock. On
both sides of the dock were moorings, semi-submerged battering rams, with thick
planking hitched to them. The ship turned in a slow wide sweep. The engines
reverse their polarity, the water bubbled beneath, and the boat continued to
slip backwards. There was a pause, the dock lifted, the sound muffled, and the
ferry stopped.
…the captain spoke in Greek, and then in English. Neither was
comprehensible, except for the last line, “Any passengers proceeding along to
Naxos should be prepared for immediate debarkation.”
The front ramp recoiled in slow electronic increments while
the passengers waited behind in the drowsy glow of the lower deck.
It took guts to arrive at this time. Or had it been dumb
luck?
Ted and I had arrived here from Athens at ten AM. The Greeks
had been there to meet our ferry, take our hands, and walk us through every
detail – at prices that made us blush.
The dock was now deserted. The Greeks hadn’t waited for the
late ferry; with their maps and photos and in the Pidgin English, “You need
room.”
Once the night air permeated the whitewashed plaster, the
town was one long sweep of blue. The houses had a uniformity about them like a
sub-division within a complex. The guest houses looked no different from the
residential ones, and the caretakers were home in bed.
One alley led to another alley; another alley to a third
alley; and by the third alley they’d be lost.
Remove the roofs, and the town unfolded like a nativity
pop-out book. In the middle of the town was a glowing Coke machine which
dispensed beer as well as soft drinks. We had found that out last night.
The concession machine was the red push pin that held the
pop-out town to its cork bulletin board.
…and I thought of a woman who had befriended us on the train
from Patras. She had said that Ted and I were “good travelers.”
I wore her praise like a badge.
The rules were clear: anxiety was the common enemy. A
situations wasn’t desperate until your mind distorted it. Change was the
foundation for true stability.
New experience was the momentary salve for the many ailments,
and boredom was lingering death. All the answers were on the horizon, and I
continued to mine the source. Call it faith.
We got up and left. Paros was refilling. The town was in
motion. Some come. Some go. It never ended.
Try and Catch it.
“Maybe we can remain out a little longer,” Carol said. “I’ve
got some vodka in my backpack and Chris could get his guitar…”
…and I could enter the maze again, and search for the Coke
machine that dispenses the holy ale.
The departing ferry was heading toward the buoy and the open
sea.
“…you should hear Chris sing, he’s quite wonderful.”
“Hah?”
“I said, you know you have a wonderful voice, don’t you,
darling?”
I guess he did. He didn’t answer her again.
# # # # #
The three of us sat on the landing that connected the
sidewalk to the beach. The water line was only a few feet from it.
Late night after the bars had closed, there was a continued
flow of people on the main street. A fluctuating audience had gathered on the
sidewalk above us.
One guy flopped on a bench directly over us hadn’t moved for
over fifteen minutes. He was either drunk or asleep or just off the ferry.
The later it became, the smaller the audience. Eventually, it
was just the three of us and our friend on the bench.
Carol looked shyer than she was. She was smiling at me, and I
knew.
“Chris, play some Bob,” Carol demanded. “Can you play some
Bob? Like you did last night.”
He smiled. He could and did play some Bob.
“Oh, to be stuck inside of Mobile
With the Memphis
blues again.”
“I told you he was wonderful,” Carol said.
I was holding her hand.
I looked up to see a musician who I’d seen earlier, and his
girlfriend was standing on the sidewalk over us. Carol saw them, too.
Chris hadn’t noticed them.
“It didn’t take her long to find someone,” Carol continued.
I didn’t want her to dwell on it. I rubbed her back. Her eyes
looked at me with drowsy contentment and she smiled crookedly. The irony struck
me as funny.
The ovation startled Chris. The musician asked if he could
have a turn, and Chris handed him his guitar.
There was no hesitation to the singer, and he played bravely.
Carol, quietly but concisely, undercut his bravado. “Chris’s
voice is better, don’t you think?”
Earlier, I had enjoyed the singer’s style, but tonight he was
drunk, and his presentation was lousy.
I didn’t answer her.
After the musician finished, he declared, “I have come to
Paros from Ireland to live forever.”
Chris was disappearing within a conversation again.
I told the musician that I’d seen him at a café.
“What did ya think?”
“I thought you were really good.”
His face glowed. His reaction was overblown. I couldn’t tell
if it was a put on.
“Don’t tell him that,” his girlfriend whispered. “His ego is
big enough.”
“I’m not paid by the café,” the Irish continued. “But the
people take care of me.”
He handed Chris back his guitar and lit a cigarette.
Carol wasted no time, “Do Bojangles, Chris. Will you play
Bojangles? For me?”
She was such a brat, but I liked the way her skin felt.
Chris played Mr. Bojangles while the Irish musician smoked
his cigarettes and tapped his feet.
“I don’t know why he listens,” Carol said. “I figure he likes
it when I’m a bitch.”
We kissed. I stroked the brown hair from near her temples.
The Australian girl watched us. What she saw was evident. It
was what they all came to Greece for – one suspended romantic interlude.
She and her boyfriend left. Chris wanted to leave, too. Carol
wouldn’t let him. He sang, and sometimes Carol and I made out. At other times I
held her while watching the sea. The sky was changing from black – black to
gray – black, and it was still overcast.
…and Chris had finished again. He sat up and said “I’m tired.
I’m going to bed.”
“Oh, Chris, don’t be a fuddy duddy all your life. You
promised you’d play until dawn, don’t you remember?”
He hadn’t promised her that.
“It’s your birthday,” she prodded, “and you did promise.”
He remained, and she seemed energized by it.
# # # # #
It wasn’t quite dawn when Chris left.
Nothing had moved in the streets for hours. Above us, the guy
on the bench was lifeless. It was growing brighter in sections, and with each
passing section we lost privacy.
I kissed the bridge of Carol’s nose. Then her closed eyelids.
They tasted of salt, and my teeth ground beach sand.
“What are you doing to me?” she asked.
“Nothinnng…What do
you think I’m doing?”
We made out hard and almost rolled off the landing. It felt
unnatural this late in the morning.”
“Come on, let’s go,” I said, taking Carol’s hand.
“Where?”
“You’ll see.”
I hadn’t decided yet, but I knew we couldn’t remain here.
We cut across the landing and nearly stepped on another
couple curled up in a sleeping bag on the opposite side. Oops, I’d missed them
totally…Some privacy.
Two dogs, one twice the size of the other, followed us, the
smaller dog lagging behind.
We walked for nearly twenty minutes among the hills that
overlooked the sea, foaming in the rocks below. We climbed some concrete steps.
I supported Carol when the path fell away sharply.
She made fun of my American accent and told me that her
mother had spent lots of money so that she could learn proper English.
I laughed at her.
“I didn’t realize that ‘bloody’ was such an integral part of
the English language.”
Her eyes were in love, and she smiled crookedly again.
“Bloody right it is.”
She had such a vain streak. She went on defending herself.
Insisting that she could speak properly if she chose to.
Several times, Carol confronted the dogs with a stormy
“ohey.”
The little dog would sit and look longingly. The bigger dog
ignored her.
Eventually, the little dog followed too.
“That seems to be working really well,” I said to her.
“I can’t help it if they don’t understand Greek.”
The path went inland, and we took a different track that
headed back toward the coast, by a donkey, eating, and a dog who chased until
his extra long leash snapped back his head, leaving him desperately flailing at
the air and baring his sharp yellow teeth.
“I hope he chokes,” I said.
The little dog sat on his haunches and looked hurt that we
were leaving him behind. The bigger dog remained bothersomely loyal.
…on a deserted beach we undid one another while the dog
settled at our feet.
Carol’s tan lines were yellow, the color of faded bruises.
Her eyes were filled with tension. She gritted her teeth, closed her eyes and I
lost sight of her.
By the time we finished, the tension had drained and Carol
got up to go swimming.
“Where are my knickers?” she asked, fishing through her
belongings.
“You don’t need them.”
“I want my knickers.”
She found them and slid them on, ignoring my unbiased advice.
“Cute yellow knickers.”
“I have many different colored knickers.”
It was chilly and deafeningly quiet in our inlet. Bright, but
overcast. I wondered how long it’d be before people started arriving.
Carol continued, “One guy at the club is always asking, “So,
Carol, what color knickers you got on today?”
One faceless guy who knew she had
different colors – a guy who didn’t exist.
She nonchalantly walked to the ocean. Stooping over in the
surf, she ran water up one arm and then the other.
A breeze curled back my hair. I was overtired. I longed for
this public beach to be closed. I wanted to sleep there all morning.
We were leaving Paros later that day.
In the distance Carol was bouncing in waist-deep water,
brown, topless and half-frozen.
In the further distance a fishing boat was heading to sea.
What a way to start a morning.
Carol came out after fifteen minutes, all goosebumps. She
wore a gilded chain which combined with the shimmer of the water beading upon
her brown skin to make her look like a sun goddess. Today, she was mine… “What color knickers you got on today,
Carol?” “Yellow,” I’d say “Now shoo.”
“There’s a lady watching us,” Carol said.
“I hope she’s enjoying herself.”
“She probably thinks we’re on our honeymoon.”
I was exhausted, and the words came tripping from my mouth.”
“Probably.”
Sure enough, off in the distance was a stick figure dressed
in black watching from her balcony with quiet disapproval.
I collapsed into the sand. So this was the honeymoon for our
half-marriage. Imagine. The lawyers would have a field day.
# # # # #
We dressed and headed back to town. The dog trailed us again.
I put my hand in her back pocket and squeezed her for sensation.
Carol was saying that the dog was following me, and I said
that he was following her. We were both punchy and giddy and bumped and
wisecracked along the trail.
I called her a brat; she made fun of my accent again.
“Come to Ios, darling,” she said. “We’ll make the most of the
few hours we have together.”
“I want to. God, how I want to. And I think I’ll be there.
But I can’t promise it.”
“Anyway, you’ll know where Chris and I will be, and I know
you can work it out if it means enough to you. I believe in you.”
When we separated, the dog followed her. I could imagine her
muttering beneath her breath, “Bloody stupid dog.”
Ted heard me come in. After ten minutes he sat up on his
elbow. He had had five hours sleep, and I hadn’t been to bed yet – who wanted
to go sailing?
I wanted to stay on Paros. I liked it here.
He asked some vague questions about the night before. I told
him about Chris’s concert and the musician we’d both seen at the café.
Then I crushed him. “Ted, I’m going to Ios.”
“I thought we hadn’t decided.”
“I’m going to Ios.”
He didn’t know what to say, and I rolled away and pretended
to try to sleep.
He was so angry with me that he rattled things around the
room. I didn’t say another word.
After fifteen minutes, he grew accustomed to the idea and
asked if I knew what time the ferry left Ios. Anything I wanted.
# # # # #
The seascape was psychedelic orange-black. The sun was low
and orange, and the non-distinct islands were ashen black.
The engines were puttering, and the ship was moving too
slowly. We had left Naxos, almost an hour ago it seemed, and I hoped Ios would
soon appear on the horizon. Ferry rides were slow, boring and relaxing. My eyes
were closing.
The heat which had baked us when we left Paros was gone. I
took out my warmest sweatshirt from my backpack and pulled it over my head. I
was still cold.
Ted was wearing a brown sweatshirt with a hood that came to a
point on top of his head. He looked ridiculous. He also looked cold, and I felt
responsible.
A tall, good looking woman was standing near the railing of
the bow. The wind cut off the ocean, and her red sweatshirt rattled and furled
in around her. She stared into nothing for several minutes.
Finally, I exchanged a look and a smile with her. She made me
feel less like the selfish bastard I was.
Her boyfriend returned with two coffees. I think they were
French or Dutch. We had little in common except in traveling we transcended
international limitations. We didn’t speak, but momentary glance said
everything there was to say.
I had to have faith that Ios was out there, somewhere, and
it’d be as good to me as Paros had been. Time and experience were slowly easing
my guilt.
I hoped we wouldn’t be arriving on Ios too late.
Initially published in Crazy Quilt June, 1992
