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A Malodorous Return to Kondokali
They might have liked to travel to Greece by train through Zagreb and Belgrade, for it was the most direct route; however, the recent civil war in the Balkans had rendered that option impossible, as many bridges and connections had been destroyed during the fighting. So the unlikely companions went first to Vienna, then to Venice, Italy. From Venice, they took an overnight train to the Adriatic port of Brindisi. There they boarded a ferryboat for the ten-hour overnight crossing to Corfu.
Approaching Kerkyra at dawn, the twin fortresses, each in its own rite normally visible long before docking, were obscured by dense fog. Such an advance differed markedly in tone from Doran’s first arrival on the island, as ten years ago he’d approached Corfu at dusk, in the midst of a strident Ionian light that had brought him close to tears. Likewise, the melodrama of Gisela’s first landing at Kerkyra contrasted this morning’s placid afflux. She recalled being herded along with other disembarking passengers into the ship’s hold, where the temperature was unbearable, and the aroma of several hundred crates packed tight with live stinking chickens loaded on flatbed trucks had nearly made her swoon. This morning they were in port and secured before they’d ever laid eyes on dry land, and the only drama was that of trying to determine their bearings in the soupy atmosphere once on the pier.
“I have a telephone number,” Gisela told Doran.
Doran looked at her curiously. “You kept Modestos’ number?” he wanted to know.
“Not for Takis,” she explained. “For Spiro.”
“Still carrying a torch?” he baited.
“Hardly. We wrote for a time. I always meant to continue the correspondence, but you know how that goes.”
“Even if we telephone, it’s doubtful they will remember us,” Doran conjectured.
“I don’t know about you,” she teased, “but I’d like to think I cast a stronger impression than that.”
“Ring them if you like,” Doran conceded.
From a pay telephone Gisela dialed the number of the Thromos household, but she received no answer. No matter, she thought. She was well accustomed to unplanned arrivals.
Hauling many more bags than was customary for normal tourists, they moved up the pier until Doran spied the Hotel Atlantis. By this familiar landmark he knew the way to the center of town. Crossing Zivatsianou Street in front of the harbor, they moved up a tributary boulevard leading to San Rocco Square in the center of New Town. There they boarded a bus that took them out of the city proper, along Corfu’s major northbound highway, and around Gouvia Bay. Within fifteen minutes they reached the outskirts of Kondokali village.
The sights were familiar as they began the trek up Christopher Street, leading to the commercial center. Lined with tall Cyprus trees, the lane remained shady and cool as the sun burned away the morning fog. Simple houses painted pink or ochre hid behind lush Mediterranean vegetation, and a welcoming committee composed of three unleashed dogs fell in step to escort them into the village.
Past the tavernas and nautical shops they walked, past the bakery, the barbershop, and a butcher’s shop displaying strings of sausages, three skinned hares, a bovine carcass on a meat hook, and the dismembered head of a pig, (to Gisela it seemed to be smiling), sporting comical, oversized yellow sunglasses. Red bougainvillea adorned the whitewashed walls of the primary school, and a fountain splashed clear water over its three tiers in front of the Navigator’s Bar. From the belfry of the Orthodox Church rang ten chimes, (the bell actually sounded more like a Chinese gong), and the marble sidewalks gleamed in the silvery sunlight. Yet many of the tourist shops were boarded up, Doran noticed. And considering the season, that seemed odd indeed.
“Pension Aphrodite is one hundred meters ahead. Perhaps we’ll find Modestos there,” Gisela speculated.
“If he’s not there now, he’ll turn up sooner or later.”
“Right!”
“If we have to wait for him,” Doran proposed, “we can have breakfast at Restaurant Pericles.”
“Good idea. I’m starving!”
But as they came closer to the neighborhood of their fondly remembered dhomatia, a rather putrid odor permeated the normally sweet air. “What’s that smell?” Gisela rankled.
Doran winced as he caught a whiff of the offending odor. “Sewage,” he remarked.
“It’s horrible!” Gisela complained.
“Greek plumbing is notoriously bad,” Doran remembered.
They walked a little further up Christopher Street, past the closed-up Onari Nightclub, and then turned up the narrow lane that led to Pension Aphrodite.
There they caught first sight of their old friend Modestos Thromos. Beneath the leafy grape arbor in the dhomatia’s walled-in garden, he stood. In his hands he held a plumber’s wrench and several remnants of rusted-out pipe. A vexed and confounded expression shone in place of his typical, good-natured smile.
Seeing Doran and Gisela at the gate, Modestos was more than happy for the opportunity to abandon his cause. Moving toward them, he beamed, “My friends, my friends! Why did you not telephone me? I would have met you at the port.” And still clutching the bits and pieces of his plumbing catastrophe, he leaned forward to kiss each of them on the cheek. Then, looking down at the degraded elements in his rust-stained hands, and shaking his head in utter disgust, the Greek ruminated, “Now I have big problem. Po, po, po!”
So much for the notion that they would not be remembered, Doran conceded. Indeed, Takis welcomed them as if they were long-absent cousins. “Why do you stay away from Kerkyra so long?” he implored.
“Yes, it’s been too long,” Doran agreed. “How are you, my friend?”
“Growing old,” Modestos resigned with a chuckle. Modestos took him by the arm and led him to an excavated sewer pipe. “Smell!
Smell!” he implored.
“Sewer gas,” Doran determined. “We smelled it as we walked through the village.”
“Too many lines coming into the main one,” Takis determined. “Big problem! Too much shit!”
“Perhaps a wider pipe is needed,” Doran conjectured.
“Yes! But my government won’t fix,” said Takis. He laid down the rusted pipes and turned up his palms. “Big problem, big problem…”
Yet, in spite of the sewer gas leak, the dhomatia’s garden was every bit as lovely as Doran remembered it: the flagstone patio, the whitewashed staircase with its old-style balustrade, the profuse bougainvillea climbers. Perhaps Modestos measured time by the graying of his temples, or by the stiffness in his joints, but these surroundings, both natural and man-made, seemed more or less timeless to Doran, and he was quick to acknowledge Gisela’s wisdom in initiating their return to Corfu. Because here prevailed the inherent and unmistakable feeling that no matter what might go wrong, a good life, an elemental life, was not compromised.
“Where is your sister?” Takis demanded of Gisela.
“She’s in Holland,” Gisela answered.
“Why does she not come with you?” Takis implored.
“She is working,” Gisela answered.
“I remember that one,” said Modestos referring to Alarice. “Always reading book. Very quiet.”
“That’s my sister,” said Gisela.
“Too much serious, that one!” determined Modestos. “Not like you, eh?” He grinned broadly at Gisela, and she somehow knew that his recollection of her time with Spiro was behind the smile.
“No, not like me,” she conceded with a touch of embarrassment.
“As you like,” said Takis as he washed his hands under an outdoor spigot. “Anyway, how long will you stay here? Maybe all summer long, eh?”
“Actually,” said Doran, “we were hoping you might know of an apartment for us to rent long term.”
Takis’ eyebrow rose in consideration. “Long term? How long?”
“Hard to say,” Doran postured. “Maybe one year. Maybe longer.”
“You like to stay one year? Okay. Maybe you like to rent my mother’s old apartment?”
Doran and Gisela looked at one another in silent recognition of what they presumed to be good fortune. For surely Aphrodite’s apartment was the best of all the flats in the complex. Quite pleased, Doran said, “That might be perfect.”
“Come have a look,” said Modestos. “If you like the apartment, I make you a good price. You are my friends!”
And you are a good man, Modestos, thought Doran to himself.
So up the stone steps they marched to view the apartment where Aphrodite Thromos had lived until her death at age ninety-three. Standing on the small covered balcony, Modestos turned the key in the lock and motioned his guests inside. The old-style, double doors opened onto a long narrow alcove. The walls were painted yellow, and a long runner with a modern design in primary colors covered the floor. At the end of the antechamber was an antique credenza with a matching writing desk. Above the desk was a colorful theatrical poster showcasing the celebrated Greek actor, Thumios Karakatsanis, in The Death of Aristophane. Smiling, Modestos conveyed his pride in the apartment. “Step inside,” he invited. “See the rest of the apartment. I think you will like it.”
Beyond the alcove lay a spacious rose-colored room with a parquet floor and a high, pine-paneled ceiling. A stained glass divider defined separate sleeping and sitting areas. In the parlor, a large rug of Greek design covered the parquet tiles, and two easy chairs, a TV, a small stereo, and an empty bookcase made the living area seem at once intimate and homey. The bedroom area was furnished with twin beds, an armoire, and a mirrored dressing table. On the wall above the beds hung a large framed picture of the Three Graces at leisure in a beatific mythological setting. Modestos pulled back the curtains, opened the window, and pushed back the shutters. A vivid, chromium light poured into the room.
“Very bright!” Gisela commented.
Takis was inclined to reminiscence. “As you know,” he said, “my mother, God rest her soul, lived in this apartment for many years.”
He crossed himself with two fingers and cleared his throat before continuing. “Yet in all the years she lived here, never once did she open the shutters to the light of day. After her death, I opened all the windows to let in the sun. It took one full year for her sadness and grief to disappear!”
Though Modestos alluded to Aphrodite’s sorrow, Gisela could not help wondering if his true reference was not to his own particular melancholy, or apprehension, or uneasiness. Or to a well-concealed insecurity. As far as Gisela was concerned, the Greek was an open book filled with enigmas. His personality literally overflowed with good-natured intensity and enthusiasm for life. Invariably, it drew others to him as a bee is drawn to pollen. Yet sometimes that same intensity made her want to take cover. An indigo border around his sunny, pre-eminent aura intimated something withheld. Whatever the source of her caution, it remained undefined, and she was above all inclined to accept his gracious hospitality. For perhaps the modicum of reticence she felt originated in her own personality, not his. After all, it was she who came from a society modeled on reservation, and sympathy notwithstanding, she could not help but acknowledge the veritable chasm of cultural awareness between Northern Europeans and Greeks.
Together they inspected the fitted kitchen. Floral print wallpaper brightened the room’s aspect, and a semi-circular table was placed in front of the window, which looked down upon the grape arbor that sheltered the walled-in garden from the southern sun. Upon a marble countertop, a two-burner, propane stove was provided for cooking. The refrigerator was small but adequate. Modestos flipped on a switch that activated the hot water heater and showed them the fuse box.
The large bathroom located just off the kitchen, he explained to them, was multi-functional. It was equipped with a particularly large basin to facilitate not only personal grooming, but clothes laundering as well. A drying rack occupied the space opposite the wide-open shower stall.
“As you know, there is a small problem with the plumbing,” said Modestos. “But, if I’m lucky, I will have it repaired in no time at all.”
Doran was amused at how fast a ‘big problem’ had become a trifle, but optimism, he knew, was Modestos’ nature. Hopefully, plumbing was one of his acquired skills. He glanced at Gisela to ascertain her initial opinion of the apartment, and she returned his inquiry with a confirming smile. “Yes, the rooms are very nice,” Doran complimented. “How much per month, Takis?”
“For you, my friend, only sixty thousand drachmas per month. Not so much to pay, eh?”
Doran mentally computed the conversion. “No, Takis, not so much.”
“Then you are welcome to stay as long as you like. And if you need something, Takis will help you!”
Plainly remembering Modestos’ unbridled hospitality from his previous visit, Doran knew that the promise was not a hollow one. And prompted by the Greek’s unqualified offer of help, he briefly considered a particularly imminent personal dilemma: his American passport was due to expire soon. Without a valid passport, life in Europe would be difficult, and he sincerely hoped that Modestos would be able to guide him through the bureaucratic maze he anticipated. Though that problem was better dealt with in the future. Now he was concerned only with unpacking his belongings, settling into the apartment, and finding a meal. If indeed his appetite could survive the malodorous environment of Kondokali Village.
