The Officer and the Spy, page 3
‘So you keep telling us.’
‘Krista —’
‘Makes her own choices.’
‘Yes,’ Henri snapped, voice rising, ‘so you need to make smarter ones. I… ’ He broke off at a sound from Lotte’s room. The creak of her bed, and a slow sigh.
Did she sigh like that, Otto wondered, when her father talked about his day at work?
‘Look at me,’ said Henri, quieter now. ‘Turn around.’
Otto didn’t move. Nor did the lizard.
‘Be nice to Lotte today,’ Henri said, at length.
‘I always am.’
‘Do it better.’
‘Is that an order?’
‘If it must be,’ said Henri, ‘then, yes.’
They weren’t late to Sofia’s, for all Yorgos’s certainty that they would be, and the protracted drive – which was somehow always longer, and more beautiful, than Eleni could ever recall. Beauty and pain were alike in that respect, she decided, as they left the coast behind and climbed into the mountains: never sharper than in the moment of experience. With every turn of Yorgos’s wheel, the cliffs, lush with pine and cypress trees, enveloped them, reminding her, effortlessly, of their splendour: streams that glinted at the bottom of plummeting ravines; peaks that soared up and up, bruising the beating sky. Churches sugared the rock faces, white paintwork reflecting the hot sun – so bright it made Eleni’s eyes water, even with her shades on (another Landport’s purchase). Occasionally, they passed through a village, and the locals – herding goats, drinking coffee in the sleepy shade of kafeterias – raised their hands in stiff greeting, stern but hospitable, always, to strangers. They dressed timelessly: the men in black breeches, cummerbunds of deep red, and embroidered waistcoats; the women in high-necked dresses and headscarves. Eleni for herself wore no headscarf, but had chosen a long-sleeved dress for the day, in spite of the heat. Chania was one thing – they’d just about moved into the twentieth century there – but here, up in the mountains… no; they weren’t ready for her shorts here.
She wasn’t sure they were ready for her sunshades either.
‘What’s wrong with your eyes?’ asked Sofia, when they finally reached her pretty, stone house, and she greeted them at the door.
‘Nothing,’ said Eleni, removing her glasses. ‘See?’
Sofia took her by the shoulders, examining her. Tiny, with white hair rolled in a chignon, gravity-defying cheekbones, and worry lines that, she said, had been etched by a lifetime of Vassilis, she had a broad face that was kind and strong, brooking no nonsense.
‘Good,’ she said, squashing Eleni in a talc-scented embrace, ‘you have such beautiful eyes. Better something happened to your ears.’
‘Better neither,’ said Yorgos.
‘Better what?’ said Katerina, wife of middle Vassili, joining them, pulling Eleni from Sofia’s arms and into her own tight hold. ‘Better here, with us, yes, Eleni-mou?’
‘Yes,’ said Eleni, muffled by her bosom.
They spent that afternoon like they’d spent countless others, out in the vine-latticed garden, squashed in at the table with its wine barrels for legs. The three Vassilis – all moustaches, and cheek pinches, and jokes about how they hoped Eleni hadn’t turned too quiet, too English, over the winter – had roasted a goat, Sofia and Katerina had prepared platters of salads, and cheeses, and there was much, much wine.
There was arguing too, that was par for the course; a bit about politics, but mainly Little Vassili – who was two years older than Eleni, well over six feet, and had, it transpired, just that week enlisted in the Cretan division of the Greek army.
‘You want to fight?’ Yorgos asked him.
‘I want to stand on my own feet,’ he said.
‘Well,’ said Yorgos, with a grudging turn of his lips.
‘No,’ said Katerina, ‘don’t encourage him. It’s too dangerous… ’
‘It’s safe, Mama,’ said Little Vassili, reaching for a hunk of bread.
‘It is the army,’ Eleni felt compelled to chime in. ‘I’ve heard they use these things called… now, what’s the word?’ She pulled a musing face. ‘Guns, is it…?’
‘Eleni-mou, go back to being quiet.’
‘No.’
‘Anyway—’ he bit into his bread ‘—there’s no one to shoot, in Crete.’
‘Then stay here,’ his father said. ‘Crush grapes. We have plenty of those.’
‘I don’t want to make wine.’
‘What’s wrong with making wine?’
‘What’s wrong with the army?’
And so they continued, voices rising, shouting over one another, until Sofia smacked the table, ordering them all to be quiet, behave, she would not have the day ruined. ‘We’ll talk about this another time, yes?’
Silently, like chastised schoolchildren, they all nodded.
Obediently, no one did say another word on the matter. Uncle Vassili relayed a tale about a donkey who’d recently broken into the wine cellar, making itself drunk (‘Walked like this,’ he said, demonstrating, black eyes twinkling in his swarthy face), and, within no time at all, it was as though the row had never occurred. It was one of the things Eleni loved most about everyone; how swiftly they could switch from anger to happiness, no brooding in-between.
For herself, she was sure Little Vassili would be safe, for all her tease about guns. The island had been peaceful for years – neither of them had even been born when Crete had last had to fight, for independence from the Ottomans. And he’d been dreaming with her forever of the adventures he might have, if he could only escape the mountains. More than anything, she was excited for him. As the sun rose higher, bouncing off the tomato plants, perfuming the charcoaled air with sweetness, she forgot all about his parents’ worry; she thought only of the beating heat, the sight of her papou with his head thrown back in laughter, and each piece of news that was shared: of friends’ marriages, engagements, new babies.
Everyone wanted to hear about her winter too, of course, and Timothy; his summer tour of the nearby Libyan Sea.
‘Will we see him, here?’ Sofia asked.
‘I doubt it,’ said Eleni. ‘You know he never comes.’
‘Well, there was that once,’ said Katerina, and off they went, reminiscing about Timothy’s only trip to the island with Eleni, back when she’d been about to turn twelve, more than a decade after he’d first sent her from England, couriered to her papou with a nanny, like a babe with a stork. He’d remained at the villa for a fortnight, where he’d uttered not a word of his memories from the war, when his ship had been docked in Souda for repair, and he’d met Eleni’s mama; most of the time, he’d read journals on a deckchair whilst Eleni had swum. One morning though, he’d taken her fishing, she was fairly sure at Yorgos’s suggestion, but the hours they’d spent on their rented boat, silently casting out, had nonetheless stuck in her mind. He’d shown her how to bait her hook, putting his arms around her to help her reel it in. They’d caught nothing but seaweed. ‘We’ve left the fish happy, I think, Eleni,’ he’d said, and she’d laughed, loving it when he had too. He’d let her steer the boat back, showing her how to guide the prow into the waves, both of them dodging the spray.
She’d loved that as well.
And the next day, they’d come up here, to the mountains.
‘Do you remember when Sofia got him dancing?’ said Katerina, eyes streaming.
‘Oh, don’t,’ said Eleni, covering her face with her hands, seeing him again, stiffly copying Sofia’s movements, in one of the short-sleeved shirts he’d bought especially for the trip. ‘Poor Dad… ’
‘Maybe that’s why he never came again,’ said Katerina, wiping her tears. ‘We blame you, Sofia.’
‘Blame Little Vassili,’ said Sofia. ‘He was the one who spilt wine all over him.’
‘Ah, he didn’t mind,’ said Yorgos. ‘It was Petra not being here he couldn’t bear.’ He moved his glass, rotating it between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Until he came, I’m sure he’d managed to believe she somehow still was.’
It wasn’t the first time he’d said such a thing.
It always felt horribly sad though, when he did.
Eleni reached across the table, squeezing his hand.
He smiled, squeezing hers back.
‘Well, I’m still blaming Little Vassili,’ said Sofia at length, dispelling the grief. ‘Now come—’ she surveyed the table‘—Petra’s probably looking down on us thinking there’s too much food left. Everyone, eat.’
Everyone did.
None of them moved for hours, other than to top up the wine. As dusk fell, the sun dipping behind the peaks, Katerina fetched orange pie for dessert, Eleni and Little Vassili lit the garden’s lanterns – stumbling, after all the wine – and Katerina’s parents and the neighbours arrived, bringing more cheek-pinching, and carafes of their own krassi. Inevitably, Katerina’s father got out his bouzouki too, and Sofia kicked off the dancing Timothy had fallen prey to, dragging everyone up until they were all on their feet, arms slung over each other, crouching low, springing high, so many opa-a’s rolling into the valley, the mountains soaring around them, silent and watchful, like indulgent gods.
‘I’m broken,’ Eleni said to Yorgos when, at last, they were back in the motor, speeding through the blackness to the coast. The temperature had dipped again. The mountain air was crisp on her hot face, her skin shivery beneath the dress she’d spent most of the day melting in. Wrapping herself in the blanket Yorgos had brought, she rested her head on his shoulder. ‘How old is Sofia again?’
‘Always twenty.’
His deep voice reverberated beneath her. She felt her heavy eyes close.
‘I hope the kitten’s all right.’
‘I hope he’s gone.’
‘No,’ she said, unconsciousness stealing over her, ‘you don’t.’
She slept the entire way home. A deep, swallowing sleep, in which her father was once again dancing, out on the mountainside, and she was stepping backwards, then falling uncontrollably down, reaching in vain for Timothy, still dancing, until she wasn’t, because Yorgos was shaking her awake outside the villa, a lit oil lamp in hand.
‘We’re here, Eleni-mou. Come. Your cat is still on his throne.’
He offered her the lamp.
Shakily, dozily, heart pummelling from her dreamt terror, she took it, and, bidding him goodnight, eased herself from the motor, then padded out to the terrace, where the kitten was indeed purring on his blanket, lost in happier slumber, deaf to the cicadas’ chorus.
The saucers of food she’d left him were empty. She smiled, picturing him hungrily tucking in.
‘Papou wants to call you Tipota,’ she said, crouching to stroke him. ‘What do you think?’
He moved in his sleep, pushing his head against her palm.
‘Really?’ she said. ‘You like that name, too?’
With another stroke, she yawned and, feeling her calves protest from the dancing, so long in the motor, stood to return inside and fall at last into her own bed.
Faintly, she became aware of the cello’s music.
The melody carried on the cool night, across from Nikos’s villa.
Holding the lamp, she moved to the terrace edge, listening.
Below her, the moon’s beam carved through the sea. Far out, a lone fishing boat bobbed at anchor.
The music went on, serene, smooth; so different to the bouzouki that, until that moment, had been ringing in her ears, her muscles.
Whoever was playing did it expertly.
Patriotically, too.
Eleni wasn’t usually one for being able to name composers. Unlike the parents of her school friends, Timothy hadn’t spent his evenings drilling her on recordings so that she might one day hold her own at a dinner party; he’d taught her Morse. But she recognized Bach, and that this was the first of his Cello Suites. Mr Hodgson at the hotel had used to play a recording on the lobby gramophone all the time. It had sounded crackly there, repetitive and impersonal.
Here, in the still night, it was beautiful.
She closed her tired eyes. Behind her lids, she pictured the bow moving over the strings. She felt each of its strokes, deep within her.
Was it Otto playing?
Or her? That woman with the child’s voice, who’d called to him from the rocks.
A sister?
Hearing again the flirtatious tinkling of her laugh, she reluctantly decided, probably not.
She’d thought no more of either of them, in the noisy distraction of the day. Now, though…
Now, they filled her mind.
Whether they were out together, alone so late at night.
Or if it was somebody else playing. Another member of this Linder family from Berlin.
The cello stopped, giving her no answers.
She waited for it to start again.
The waves rippled, the cat purred, but no more music came.
When it became clear that none was going to, she turned again, and, still hearing the echo of the cello in the night’s dark silence, went inside.
‘Remembering wartime Greece.’ Transcript of research interview undertaken by M. Middleton (M.M.) with subject seventeen (#17), at British Broadcasting House, 4 June 1974
M.M:
What was she like, Eleni Adams?
#17:
I can’t think how to begin answering that.
M.M:
She wasn’t straightforward?
#17:
Who is?
M.M:
Not Eleni Adams?
#17:
[Coughs] No, no, not her. She was a… [frowns] What are those animals called, that change?
M.M:
Butterflies?
#17:
No, God no. Too fragile. No, the ones that shift colour, to confuse predators. You know, camouflage…
M.M:
Chameleons?
#17:
Yes, that’s it. Chameleons. That was her. She was able to… morph, instantly. One would see her, hear her, and not question that she was Greek. Not even with her [gestures at head] curls. Obviously, there are Cretans with fair hair. And she had the right expressions, the gesticulations. Entirely… authentic. And then, just like that, she’d break into English, and the Greekness it… well, it fell away from her. It was incredible. [Reaches for water] I remember the first time I saw it happen, back in thirty-six. At that café she worked at, with… with…
M.M:
[Consults notes] Dimitri?
#17:
Yes, of course. Dimitri. [Sighs] She was with him, wearing these white shorts. You should have seen her. She could have been on a poster. That hair, such dark skin, blue eyes that took up her whole face, and legs, legs that, well… [Stares at glass] I don’t think she’d yet realized the effect she had on men. She came to. It was what made her so dangerous. An assassin dressed up as a goddess. But then [frowns] I believe she was still as innocent as she looked. Then.
M.M:
She was nineteen, yes?
#17:
Not even. God [drinks more] nineteen thirty-six. It was a different world. There was… hope in it. Trust, in the future. Not for everyone. But for a lot of people.
M.M:
For you?
#17:
I don’t know. Maybe. Jesse Owens won four gold medals at the Berlin Olympics that August, and people cheered. That was still possible. Then the Spanish Civil War came. The next year, Hitler took over the German army…
M.M:
And Eleni?
#17:
Eleni?
M.M:
You were talking about the first time you saw her morph.
#17:
Morph?
M.M:
Into an English girl.
#17:
Ah, yes. Remind me what I was saying?
M.M:
She was with Dimitri…
#17:
So she was. Yes, yes. [Stares at glass] They were dancing together, actually. Right by the harbour’s edge. She was talking away, every inch the Cretan, and then, she stopped, spoke in English. [Long silence] Oh, hello. That was all she said. But just like that, she was pure… Pure… Vivian Leigh. It was as though an artist had taken a paintbrush to her portrait and reworked it. Her father was an officer in the Royal Navy. You know that. She was… cut glass. Apart from… [stops]
M.M:
Apart from?
#17:
Apart from her laugh. There was nothing stiff, or precise about her laugh. It was… unconstrained. [Takes several breaths] She laughed with her heart. Her whole being.
M.M:
A good laugh?
#17:
[Nods]
M.M:
You liked it?
#17:
[Silence]
M.M:
Yes?
#17:
Yes. [Brushes eyes] I should have stayed away from her.
M.M:
But you didn’t.
#17:
By the time I realized I should have, she already meant too much.
Chapter Three
It wasn’t Otto that Eleni had heard on the cello.
It wasn’t Lotte either.
Lotte, whose pale skin had burnt that afternoon, in the restless hours they’d all spent baking on the rocks, was upstairs, in her room beside Otto’s – sleeping, just as Otto’s parents, Henri and Brigit, were sleeping – when those first chords rent the night.
No, it was eighteen-year-old Marianne who played.
Otto heard her himself, on his way back from another swim, out to where he’d seen a fishing boat anchored. He knew it was Marianne, from the moment her bow touched the strings. He’d listened to her play too often to doubt it. His mother, Brigit, had taught her. He and his younger sister, Krista, had used to get into trouble as children, for disrupting their lessons.
