‘And too fussy!’ she teased. ‘We should be baptising a child of his by now. But he won’t even look at the girls.’
‘Fotini . . .’ protested Antonis good-naturedly. ‘That’s not true. I just haven’t found the right one yet, that’s all.’
‘You’re waiting for her, aren’t you?’ said Giorgos supportively. ‘Marry in a day and you’ll regret it for life.’
A few minutes passed with Giorgos asking the younger man all sorts of questions about his work on the estate. It was a demanding job but clearly one that suited Antonis. He had fought with huge bravery for the resistance during the German occupation and returned with extraordinary powers of endurance and physical strength. Manual labour was almost effortless for him and, as Giorgos observed, made him seem more god-like than ever.
Manolis sauntered across to chat with them. Over the past few years, he and Antonis had become best friends. Antonis had been wary of him at first, but the two men had eventually found that they had much in common, not least a great passion for music. They often played together, Antonis on his thiáboli, a wooden flute, and Manolis on his lyra.
Giorgos congratulated Manolis on being the nonós. Like everyone who saw them together, he was always struck by the similarity between Andreas and his cousin. At just under two metres, the two men were both taller than the average Cretan. They had the same thick brown hair and high cheekbones. The only physical difference was that Andreas was slightly heavier about the jawline, but it was their contrasting demeanour that allowed even a stranger to tell them apart. Manolis had deep creases around his eyes, the result of constant smiling and laughter, whereas Andreas was dour, his seriousness showing even in the hunch of his shoulders.
The musicians were striking up now, and the first tune was for the stately siganós, an eight-step dance that everyone could join. On Anna’s terrace there was an area big enough for a hundred people to form a circle, and this was what they began to do. Once the space was filled, a second circle was formed inside the first, and then another, until there were four concentric rings. There were ten musicians: two bowing on lyra, three strumming on laoúto, two on guitar, one on a fiddle, one drumming on a tabor and one on mandolin. They made a full and rich sound. Everyone knew the complex step pattern even for the next dance, with its fifteen beats, and small children who had been running amok until now slotted between the adults and confidently blended into the ebb and flow of the movements, never putting a foot wrong, as though they had learned these dances in the womb.
Giorgos felt it was a good time for him to leave. After observing the dancing for a short while, he exchanged a few formal words with Anna’s in-laws, then slipped away unnoticed to make his way home.
At one point, encouraged by Antonis, Manolis went to his truck to fetch his lyra. He took a seat, held the delicate three-stringed instrument in his left hand and drew the bow across the strings with his right. It looked so small in his large hands, but out of it he conjured an immense sound, skilfully sustaining the melody against the insistent strumming of the laoúto. The notes came tumbling out, faster and faster, and for an hour or more he played without pause.
There was no end to the musicians’ stamina. The music flowed over the guests as if it was seeking escape into the hills around them. Manolis gazed into the middle distance. Though his seat was at the end of the row, he was at the heart of the music and the centre of attention.
A well-known singer joined them around ten o’clock. It was the moment that ignited the evening and brought the spirit of kéfi, of almost frenzied celebration, to the occasion.
Later, Manolis danced the solo zeibékiko. The audience gathered to admire his display of acrobatic turns and pirouettes, and it was clear that he was showing off rather than expressing the anguish that the dance usually conveyed.
Andreas spent most of the evening moving between groups of guests to thank them for being there and for their gifts for Sofia. From time to time he caught a glimpse of his wife and noticed that she was smiling. It was the first time in almost a year that he had seen her looking happy and relaxed. At last, he thought, she is back to her old self.
Once the dancing began, he lost track of her, but occasionally he spotted a flash of red. As the great circle revolved, he could see her face more clearly. She seemed enraptured, held captive by the spirit of the dance.
It took many days to recover from such a gléndi. Autumn was coming and there was much work to be done on the estate, but all the workers were a little sluggish.
‘The boss only has himself to blame,’ Antonis commented to Manolis. ‘There was more raki than water.’
‘I think we drank every drop there was,’ laughed Manolis. ‘It’ll be time to make this year’s supply soon.’
The grape harvest was starting in a few weeks and would eventually be followed by the distillation process, which would create the firewater that fuelled so much merrymaking on the island.
The two friends were at the kafeneío in Plaka. The day’s work was over and Manolis had gone there to rehang his lyra on the wall behind the bar. This was where it lived. He often played it spontaneously and by popular demand from his friends in Plaka.
‘She is my only love,’ he often joked.
Dancing next to Manolis at the baptism had fired Anna’s longing to be with him again. His lithe figure and the energy with which he danced and played his lyra filled her with lust. She set about constructing an opportunity for them to be alone, and two days later her desire was fulfilled in all ways.
The nursemaid who cared for Sofia throughout the day had taken her for a long walk. The child was a restless creature, even more so during the days following the baptism, and only the motion and vibration of her pram lulled her to sleep.
Anna was unrestrained in her pleasure that afternoon. The day was hot and the windows wide and Manolis clamped his hand over her mouth to muffle her groans. In ecstasy, and in the spirit of near-violence that sometimes characterised their lovemaking, she bit down on his fingers.
‘Anna!’
He moaned with pleasure as she let out a final uncontained gasp.
For a while they both lay still, the sheets damp and twisted beneath them.
Manolis played with a strand of Anna’s dark hair that lay fanned out across the pillows and wound it round his finger.
She turned her head towards him.
‘I can’t live without you,’ she whispered, only just loudly enough for him to hear.
‘You don’t have to, agápi mou,’ he said quietly.
Chapter Two
OVER THE FOLLOWING year, Anna and Manolis fell into a pattern of seeing each other several times a week. As godfather, Manolis now had even more reason than usual to call in at the house. Sofia created the ideal pretext, though he always timed his lunchtime visits with the child being taken out for a walk. He also had the advantage of knowing when Andreas had to visit customers in Sitia or Iraklion.
Anna lived for the present. At the very most she thought two or three days ahead, or to when Manolis’s next visit was going to be. She did not want to be bothered by thoughts of the following month or year. All she knew was that she had never felt happier than now.
One morning she was sitting contentedly flicking through a magazine as the housekeeper, Kyría Vasilakis, polished the furniture around the edges of the room. Anna was humming. The glossy pages featured fashions for autumn, and her dressmaker was scheduled to come that afternoon to measure her for some new gowns. There was a shape with a cinched-in waist and exaggeratedly full skirt coming into vogue, and she knew that it would flatter her, especially now that her figure was filling out again. The dressmaker would be bringing fabric swatches, and Anna had already planned to order three in the same style.