The Sleepwalkers, page 6
The air was hot and moist, and the hill was scrubby, with ancient-looking roots poking out of the earth, and bits of old birdcage strewn around. I knew it was a birdcage because the little yellow perch was still attached to a rusting piece of wire. It was the only colorful thing up here.
On and on I went, higher and higher, sweating. I realized I hadn’t brought any water with me, and made myself slow down.
When I reached the top of the hill I sat and tried to think about my writing. I could see the coastline below me, and the next town just across the bay. Beyond that was the Turkish coast, with its rugged cliffs, and the wind farm that resembled a marching army of long-legged white birds. It looked as if it was nighttime there. Why was it so dark? Then there was a flash in the sky and I realized that there was a big storm going on. From up here it looked like war, or the end of the world. Every few moments the dark sky was illuminated yellow and white like the cracking of a giant bird’s egg. One would expect a lot of noise with a spectacle like that, but in fact it was completely silent. Was this the storm that was due to come here? It was enormous.
My mouth was dry. I wondered if I could still speak, and so I said the word parakalo a few times, up there on the hill on my own. I’d become a little obsessed with the word. I loved hearing Greek people say it, and it always seemed like a sort of reward for trying to speak their language.
Efharisto was the most difficult basic foreign word I’d ever had to learn. All that effort just to say thank you. Four syllables, and all that rasping on that middle H, which completely broke the rhythm of the word. It was not at all onomatopoeic, unless the effort required to say the word did have some actual tangible meaning; like, I am making such an effort to thank you by spitting out this uncomfortable word.
If you did manage to say it, the other person would say back parakalo, and that word had such a contrasting fluency, and such a pretty, birdsong feel, even more so than the happy lilts of both kalimera and kalispera. Parakalo was another four-syllable word—they all seemed to be—but it was one that Greek speakers seemed to like to draw out. Pa-ra-ka-LO, they would often say, leaving the stress until the last syllable, just when you thought there might not be any stress at all. But the second syllable could be stressed too. It meant you’re welcome, and also, please.
I realized then that I’d never said it out loud before. Why would a Greek person say thank you to me? I simply had no need of you’re welcome. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever said please, either. In English, please has an aggressive edge—“Would you bring me a bowl of melon, please?”—and we are far more likely to use thank you or sorry instead. “Sorry, would you mind bringing me a bowl of melon?” “Could I have a bowl of melon? Thank you.” Efharisto. I realized I said thank you all the time here in place of sorry, too, which I did not know how to say in Greek. That was why I heard parakalo so much. It followed me around, trailing in the wake of my efharistos.
I practiced saying parakalo again as I sat there watching the Turkish storm. I wanted to be able to say it to someone. Parakalo. My tongue felt massive in my mouth, and twisted, like one of the tulip stems. What on earth could I do to make Isabella or Kostas or a taxi driver or a waitress thank me, so I could chirp back parakalo? I was determined to find something. Now, every time the lightning flashed I replied. Parakalo, I said to the sky, and then the sea. Parakalo. You’re welcome. Please. I imagined Kostas walking up the hill then, sweaty from gardening, and me drawing him closer as he touched my arm the way Isabella had touched yours. Parakalo. Parakalo. Parakalo.
Then I thought I heard a scuffling noise behind me, followed by a bang, and then another one. I stood up and looked around. Over the brow of the hill was an old shepherd’s hut. The wooden door was banging in the wind, as though someone had just left without closing it properly. I used to feel afraid in situations like this, but lately I’ve noticed I simply feel numb instead, as if I’m encased in a skin that is not my own, and that can’t be pierced or penetrated. But anyway, there was no need to feel any fear, because there was no one there, at least not anymore. Nevertheless, I set off back down the hill, perhaps a little quicker than I’d usually walk.
Just before I reached the place where the path split—left for the road; right for the Villa Rosa—I heard another noise; it was the pat, pat, pat of a runner. I thought at first it was you, but the steps were lighter than yours. I turned and saw it was the dark-haired boy, the one with the glitter, although there was no glitter on him now. He was wearing acid-wash skinny denim shorts and no vest. He looked so bony, like someone had already eaten all his flesh, as well as any garnish he may have had. He caught my eye, only for a second, and I thought I saw fear again, as well as a sort of uncanny desperation, as he ran past. He was holding something that I first thought was a dead white bird, or wool from a sheep, but was actually a plastic packet of paper doilies.
When I got back to our rooms you were in your running clothes, looking worried.
“Where were you?” you said.
“I went for a walk,” I said back. “Are you OK?”
“A walk where? The beach?”
“No. Up the hill. I left you a note.”
“A note?”
“It’s there,” I said, pointing at your bedside table. “On your glasses case.”
I knew you’d put on your glasses when you got in. Your case was always a safe place to leave a note. You never noticed much about changes in your surroundings, so I had to be canny if I wanted to get your attention. And I knew how you hated it if I didn’t leave you a note. You preferred these to be real notes rather than texts, for reasons I had never fathomed.
“There wasn’t a note there,” you said.
Typical. You’d opened your glasses case without even seeing it, and the note had fluttered like a broken little wing onto the floor or under the bed. I began searching, but there was no note.
“I wish you’d remember,” you said.
“What?”
“I wish you’d just remember to leave me a note. You must have forgotten.”
“I didn’t forget,” I said. But perhaps I had, because there was no note anywhere. I searched the whole room. While I was searching, I noticed that something else had changed. The light in the room was different, and it wasn’t because of the clouds, or the pre-storm weather. What was it? What was it?
“The tulip paintings,” I said, getting up from my knees. I’d been having one last glance under the bed. “Look. They’ve gone. Isabella’s been in here and taken the paintings and taken your note too. I don’t know why she’d do that. I—”
“Will you stop blaming Isabella for everything,” you said. “It’s becoming really tiring.”
“Well, where are the tulip paintings, then?” I said.
There were light square patches on the walls where they’d been. These absences somehow looked even worse than the paintings had.
You sighed loudly. “Well, I don’t know. Did you take them down?”
“Me?”
“Yes. You kept going on about how much you hated them.”
“Right. I actually think I said one thing about them being awful paintings, which they are. I’m not going to take them off the walls, though. Are you insane?”
“No,” you said. “I’m not insane.”
Did you slightly stress the I’m in that sentence? So much is in the delivery, after all. It’s fascinating how different that sentence is if you stress the not, or the insane. One way makes me mad; one way makes you mad; one way makes neither of us mad. At this moment I honestly don’t know which way it was. But I think you did stress the I’m, just a little: just enough.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I said.
“Nothing. I’m not insane.”
“And you’re saying I am?”
“How does me not being insane make you insane?”
I sighed. “This is ridiculous.”
“I agree. So where are the paintings?”
“Maybe you should ask Isabella.”
You shook your head then. “I’m going to have my shower,” you said. “And maybe you can do something about your jealousy while I’m in there.”
“I fail to see why I should be jealous of a glorified maid who can’t even make an acceptable breakfast,” I said.
You slammed the bathroom door.
“Parakalo,” I said quietly. It didn’t come out quite right, though.
The Wi-Fi still wasn’t working. I went downstairs to see if I could find Isabella to ask her about it. I also thought I might inquire about where the paintings had gone, not because I cared, but so I could prove you wrong.
There was no sign of her, but someone had put up the trestle table where the sandwiches had been yesterday. Today there was a single block of feta cheese laid out with some sliced bread and more melon. The unripe melon must have been on special offer somewhere. Maybe it was a job lot. Nothing was covered, and there were flies buzzing around. I didn’t feel hungry. I wanted to phone someone, a friend.
Who were my friends? Did I even have any? The last few years had been like an intact birdcage. All my most important emails coming from producers and the media and a few fans. And you, me and Paul becoming so close that we didn’t need anyone else. The comedy value of Paul’s stream of ridiculous girlfriends was the only variety we seemed to require. But even if I did have someone to phone, there was no phone reception as well as no Wi-Fi.
I was going to take a piece of unripe melon but I suddenly had the feeling that it would contaminate me, that the sugars would swirl in my mouth and create bacteria and putrefy in my stomach. I imagined myself as an autopsy afterwards—after what, I don’t know—and I didn’t want there to be anything for them to find. I didn’t want them to say, “Her last meal was…” I wanted them to be as baffled about my last meal as I was about the tulip paintings. I could see Kostas standing by a lemon tree with his machete and I also wanted to be pure when I spoke to him. I approached him slowly, as if he was a game bird and I was a gun dog with a soft mouth, always a soft mouth.
“Kalimera,” I said when he noticed me.
“Kalimera,” he said back, nodding.
“Isabella?” I said. “Where is she?”
“Where she is?”
I nodded.
He shrugged. “She paint.” He mimed it and then smiled in an odd, cruel way.
“OK.”
“Inside.” He pointed.
“OK. Thanks. Efharisto.”
“Parakalo.”
He looked at my breasts again. I let him.
“The storm,” he said. “It come today. Big rain. Stay in room.”
“All right,” I said. “OK.” I said it in a light, girlish tone and then smiled.
“OK,” he repeated, using a similar light, girlish tone. I didn’t know if he was mimicking me to make me sound stupid or because he wanted to get the accent right, or for some other reason.
He picked up his machete then, quite suddenly, and pointed it at me. I could see the hazy sun reflect off the sharp tip. The machete moved toward me and the sunlight scattered all over the place like bits of bright shot.
“What are you…?” I began, but before I knew what had happened he had used the machete to flick a hornet from my chest. It fell to the ground, swollen and fat, its back half bright as a bullet, drunk on the end of summer and the glut of fruit. After a couple of seconds it heaved itself up like an over-laden zeppelin and flew away toward the pomegranate trees.
When I got back to the room you were out of the shower. Your hair was still wet and you were rubbing it with one of the fluffy white towels.
“What were you talking to Kostas about?” you said. So you’d been watching from the window.
“The storm,” I said. “It’s coming today.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in the storm,” you said.
“No, I know,” I said. “But earlier I could see it over Turkey. It’s huge.”
You scowled. “You saw what over where?”
“The storm. It was really intense. I could see it over Turkey, from the top of the hill. Dark clouds with lightning going through them. Big flashes.”
You didn’t reply. Perhaps you didn’t believe me.
“Kostas says we should stay in,” I said. “For the rest of the day.”
“What are we going to eat?” you said.
“There’s lots of food downstairs,” I said. “I’m going to get on with my writing.”
“Right,” you said. You wouldn’t catch my eye.
“What’s the matter?” I said.
You sighed. “Just… Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”
“OK.”
“Actually, though… All right. It does matter.”
“What?”
“What you said about Isabella before.”
“What did I say about Isabella before?”
“About her being a glorified maid.”
“She is a glorified maid. Why does that matter? Oh, wait. I see. You think my treatment of servants is vulgar because I say what you really think, what people like you and your mother really think.”
“What’s my mother got to do with this?”
“Good question.”
“I really just meant that with your background…”
“What?” I laughed then, even though it wasn’t at all funny. “Oh, I see. You’re saying I’m a glorified maid.”
You looked at me the way Kostas had looked at the hornet as it wriggled on the ground trying to right itself.
“Are you OK?” you said, with a heavy sigh.
“What?”
“Are you feeling all right? Has the sun got to you or something?”
“Sorry?”
I could feel myself making a face then. Isn’t it odd how during an argument people try to make themselves as ugly as possible? It’s not even conscious. Well, not usually. But right then I could feel my face twisting and crumpling like a piece of burning silk.
“You don’t seem quite yourself,” you said.
My heart jolted. Was this your lead-in to talking about the wedding?
“I’m absolutely fine,” I said.
“Well, can you please just try to be a bit nicer about Isabella? It’s upsetting me.”
“And it’s not upsetting you that she isn’t being very nice to me?”
You looked at me then with a horrible kind of pity, as if it were a shame that I was so mad I could not see the truth.
“She’s being perfectly normal to you,” you said.
“But I don’t—”
“Evelyn,” you interrupted. “You are seeing things that are not there.”
“Don’t,” I said. “Don’t do this. It’s not fair. You know it’s not—”
“You have become very paranoid,” you said slowly.
I bit my lip. “That’s what you really think?” I said. “Even after—”
“Sorry. I just think it’s time for us to…”
Were you going to say something else then? Were you going to drift into the swirling waters of the unsayable? I didn’t let you.
“Great,” I said. “You think I’m mad. As well as…” But I couldn’t say it either.
You wouldn’t catch my eye. “You are working quite hard.”
“Right.” I sighed. I looked around at all the bright white spaces where the tulip paintings used to be. They blurred in my eyes.
“Evie?”
“What?”
“Come on. Don’t cry.”
“Why not? This is our honeymoon! And you’ve decided not to believe what I say. I’m your wife. And Isabella is a hotel owner whom we’ve known for all of two days. I just don’t understand why you’re taking her side.”
“It’s not about sides.”
“It is! I mean, I wish it wasn’t, but it is. You need to take my side.”
“What if I think you’re wrong?”
“This is our honeymoon,” I said again. “For God’s sake. Give me the benefit of the doubt.”
“Quite a long honeymoon,” you said quietly.
“What does that mean?”
“Well, it was bound to get strained at some point, don’t you think?”
I sighed and closed my eyes. Why weren’t we saying it?
“Especially once Paul had gone,” you added pointedly.
“What’s Paul got to do with anything?”
“I’m going to go and see about the Wi-Fi,” you said. “And get some lunch.”
While you were gone I tried to write, but my hands were shaking. It didn’t help that I’d had no lunch, and I wasn’t sure where we were going to get dinner. Isabella seemed always to disappear in the afternoons, and there was no way of calling a taxi or booking a restaurant without her.
I walked around the room with my phone trying to get mobile reception. There had always been 4G down at the beach. But I could hear rumbles of thunder coming from that direction. Stay in room, Kostas had said. I started trying to write about the storm—not the one in real life, but one I might put into a play—but it kept coming out wrong, like a distorted reflection in a mirror. It had jagged machete lightning and clouds the color of ashes.
When you came back you looked more relaxed, almost happy. You were holding something in your hands that looked like a deck of cards but a slightly different shape.
“Any sign of the Wi-Fi?” I said.
“Isabella’s trying to fix it,” you said. “She’s getting Kostas to look at it. They say it’s because of the storm coming.”
You came over and kissed my head. “You OK?”
“Yep.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Isabella gave me these to show you.”
