Gene Farmer
Anton broke the surface and gulped at the caustic air. Unable to keep his head clear of the water, he swallowed a saline mouthful, choked, and in the moment before sliding back into the sea's salty clinch, he registered the panorama, aware that this may be the last time he'd ever look upon such things. Caught somewhere between this final hopelessness and a rediscovered wonder, he regarded the scene in all its glory.
Beneath the cloudless canvas of sky, a blue, cerulean solid, he beheld the Libyan Sea, rippled and glittering, flashing pointillist bursts of pure blinding light. He discerned the craggy coastline, punctuated by flowering carob and juniper, dressed in the spring green and pearly foliage of olive trees and crowned with flourishes of bay laurel and, at the distant centre of this scene, Anton's eye was drawn to the flocked sunbathers, tiny like ants, oblivious, among them his friends.
Accepting the inevitable, a curious calm descended. Anton felt certain that he had been here before: not just to this beach, to these surroundings, nor any like it, but in this very situation. No, that cannot be possible, he thought, wondering at the human brain and its capacity to play tricks, even at a time like this. One last look, a final snatched breath, and Anton said a silent goodbye before he drifted beneath the surface like a toppled statue.
Tidal currents and the buffered pull of gravity drew Anton down through wafts of mellow warmth. Growing detached from the world, he yet remained alive to the aquatic vista that played out around him: to lustrous, flaxen coral dotted with spiny sea urchins and bright yellow sponges; to glistening shoals of sardines and anchovies illuminated like threads of tinsel by brilliant shafts of light fanning out from the ocean's surface; and to more fish, striped, mottled or solid, than he was able to name.
Now swathes of blue and green swarmed at the outer boundaries of his consciousness and were soon overwhelmed by an expanse of yellow and a rapidly contracting circumference of darkness. Vital functions failed, one by one, until all that remained was thought, heightened, concentrated and pure.
*
Anton is in the dark, watching scenes projected with near blinding luminescence onto a vast screen. As the light moderates, he can now begin to make out more of the detail in the scenes, which are fast moving and in a point-of-view that he knows is his own. But, while his presence in what he sees feels authentic, he recognises little of what is being played out. The footage starts to slow and settles to what feels like real-time and Anton finds himself in an unfamiliar kitchen, chopping herbs with a skilled nonchalance he does not recognise, while a vat of food bubbles over a hob. He understands that this is his kitchen, his home. Something tells him - perhaps the more detailed topography of his hands, or the accoutrements that surround him - that he is an older man, perhaps twice the age of the drowning Anton.
A woman is there, her skin olive and her hair dark as squid ink. The woman's eyes, her smile, hint at the possibility of bad things that are good. She has what he considers a bohemian demeanour and style. He knows her name is Arete, and that she is his wife. This pleases Anton. She comes upon him from behind, wrapping her arms around his waist and, on tiptoe, purrs into his ear.
"Mmm . . that smells good. What magic have you conjured up here?"
"It's just a pasticcio I'm throwing together," he says. Arete laughs. "Here," says Anton, offering up a spoonful of the rich sauce. "Who was that on the phone?"
"That was Yanni," she says, with more than a hint of sorrow. "He's not coming over to eat this evening. He's going out with Yiorgos and Manolis."
"Hey, don't worry," Anton says, pulling her close. "He'll come round tomorrow. He won't starve. We'll have a nice quiet dinner and then go over to Vasili's, maybe?"
"Yeah, maybe," she replies, smiling wickedly. "I'm not so worried about him getting enough to eat, but he should come to see his mama more. The real worry is those boys out on their bikes." At this, Anton allows himself a wry smile.
"They'll be okay. You know, he's a smart boy, he's not going to do anything stupid."
"You better be right, Adoni," she replies, with a flimsy smile. She gives him another peck on the cheek and leaves the kitchen.
Left alone, he ponders the conundrum of his son, about what he himself was like at the same age. All that fearless drive, the will to experience new things and, crucially, the time to do it. An irresistible craving for adventure, danger even, and a righteous rejection of the mundane. He wonders if you can bottle all that up without compromising the boy's growth, his imagination. Like caging a wild animal. He thinks back, recalling a time without responsibilities. The world, however small it seems now, was a prize pearl awaiting discovery. He recalls friends, beaches and journeys. He recollects one such summer day.
*
Warmed to the bone. Not just the unrelenting heat of this place, but the incandescence of the people. It is impossible to contemplate any life other than this, now, but here he was like he'd just died and gone to heaven. Take last night. "Come round to ours, we'll have a little food and drink," said Yiorgos. A little food and drink turned out to be nearly everyone Yiorgos knows seated at a long garden table in the deepening, shadowy umbrella of berry-laden mulberry trees and crooked fig. Aromatic dishes appeared magically and the balmy air itself grew thick with cigarette smoke and a retsina-fuelled cacophonous laughter deep into the night. How many times Anton tried to leave, but was not permitted.
"It's late, I have to go," he would say.
"Sure you can go Adoni, just come, sit a little longer, take one more drink. This is my uncle's raki. You must try it." Resistance was fruitless, impossible.
When finally he's allowed to go, Katerina says that they are all going to the Lion Beach tomorrow. "Spiros will sacrifice a lamb by the river. Come. Bring Xristo."
"I'd love to, but I've got a job to finish tomorrow," he replies. And such nonsense is met with the shrug, a gesture at once disappointed yet unmoved: it says I know you will come along, but if not, what can I do if you are a fool? Without knowing, Anton has already made up his mind to join them. He embraces his hosts and leaves.
The next day he calls on Xristo early and explains the plan, which is to go up to the customer's house, blitz the walls with one last coat of paint, store the tools and head off as soon as they can. And so, by mid-morning, with nothing more than a towel, a bottle of water and something by Kazantzakis stowed in his holdall, they've unleashed their bikes onto shimmering, marble slick, southbound roads. Xristo leads at a ferocious clip, Anton follows like a heat seeking missile.
With barely time to take in the great mountains off to the west, they pass Ampezoulos, leave behind the Psiloritis foothills, and are greeted by a hot, humid, gusty sirocco funnelling across the Messara plain. At a crossroads near Kastelli an old lady, on hearing their approach, scuttles out to the front of her remote house and waves them down. Dressed in black, with a round, leathery, toothless face, she looks as old as the mountains. Her high-pitched voice penetrates their helmets even before they have removed them.
"Coca-Cola! Coca Cola!" she shrieks. Anton and Xristo dismount and give the old lady some drachmae. She disappears into the house and returns with two condensation-beaded bottles, a bowl of salad and a basket of bread, before leading them to a shaded table around the side. They sit down to eat and drink while she stands nearby, looking on, saying nothing, just smiling at them like an old grandmother with her brood. As they leave, the old lady says something that Anton cannot quite understand. Xristo, eyes closed and head tilted emphatically, tells her that yes, they love this journey and, of course, they will definitely stop by again. Back at their bikes Anton asks what she had said.
Xristo shrugs and laughs. "She said she was pleased to see you again and that you're always welcome."
"Me? But I've never seen her before, never stopped here."
"Yes, but why upset the old dear? The poor relic is half blind, probably demented, she thinks she knows you. It makes her happy? Indulge her. Ella, pamé!"
They press on south across the Kofinas. Here is where the fun starts as the road becomes a silky, undulating ribbon, one minute gift-wrapping the mountains, the next unravelling, a bestowal in itself. In defiance of the laws of physics they dive into each bend, knee down, catapulting out towards the next corner. Too much throttle and the rear wheel slides out. Time and again they step into the eye of the storm, calm, Zen-like: no reaction, just hold your bodyweight low, visualize the point of exit and, trusting the beast, let it find its own line out the danger.
Don't misunderstand: Anton is no boy racer, but there's a freedom in this that he lives for, this quest for virtuosity, mastery, never far from oblivion. Freedom or death! Is this as close as we can get to how the bird in the sky or the fish in the sea feels? They are young and as immortal as the mountains; what bad can happen to them?
For no reason, other than to dwell a moment in this knowledge, Anton sits up, slows down and pulls into a gravelly layby at the apex of a hairpin bend. A metal shrine on rusted, spindly legs, topped with a cross, is framed against a wide-open view that extends down to the vast sea. He walks over to it and, peering through the glass fronted doors, sees painted saintly icons, their gold leaf glowing softly in the shadowy interior, plastic flowers, a necklace of fish teeth and a polaroid picture of a slim youth holding aloft a good sized octopus. The face of the person in the photo is faded, but the impression is of a young man; Anton is hit by the poignancy of the story it tells. Inside, there is a lamp, the flame of which has gone out. He strikes a match to relight it, but the flame will not take and after a few tries he gives up and instead contemplates the scenery.
Grove upon grove emerges from the shimmering heat haze and there are grapevines as far as the eye can see. The breeze is a thick herby waft, like an oven door left open and he closes his eyes, tunes into the ratchet, pulsating throb of cicada. How fertile and bustling is this land, he thinks. Alive. Fit for prophets, Jesus even. Did his feet walk this ground, connect to it, to its people? Why not? Anton feels this too in the here and now, feels at one with it; not so much as at the centre of everything, but in and of everything. His heart is full, and he thinks he knows what God is, what love is. He pockets the moment - a chance prayer to the enduring universe - gets back in the saddle and pushes onwards to the beach.
*
By the time Anton arrives at the beach, Katerina, Yiorgos, everyone is already there, relaxing on towels, yakking. Xristo is drinking a beer, smoking. Spiros is cooking the lamb and Soula is making a gargantuan salad. He greets them all then runs straight into the sea to cool down and clean himself of the journey's sweat and grime. When he emerges from the waves the food is being dished and the drinks served. Everybody feasts.
After a siesta Anton and Xristo go back into the sea. They swim out and away from the shore for a minute or two, comparing their nautical prowess, perhaps, and stop for breath, bobbing on the waves.
"This is the life. What if you could just do this every day?" Anton muses.
"But you could, you know?"
"Yeah? But what about working, for a start?"
"Sure, ré. But why let that stop you doing these things, whenever you want to?"
"True, but they do get in the way. If you won the lottery you wouldn't have to worry."
"Or what about if we found treasure? They say that around the other side of those rocks, over there, is a suitcase full of money where a yacht was wrecked years ago."
"Treasure? Cool. Come on, let's go and see. I'll race you."
After swimming out and beyond the promontory, they are neither surprised, nor disappointed, to see no hidden beach, no abandoned treasure, just another rock face descending into the bay.
"To be expected, my friend," says Xristo. "If it was so easy to get to, then it would have been found already, no? But what about the next place, beyond those rocks further out there?"
And so it went, the two of them clearing one outcrop after another to find no abandoned suitcase of money, no beached chest, until the ruse wore thin. Without realising it, perhaps twenty minutes have passed and they are growing tired, though they will not openly admit it to one another.
Turning back beneath the looming headland, like a giant lion's head looking out to sea, they are gobsmacked at the distance to shore, at how tiny the people on the beach appear. The wind has risen and the waves swell and fall like a giant watery see-saw. Anton starts to swim, ploughing heavy limbs through the undulating surface. They have not been swimming for long when Xristo realises that they're getting nowhere.
"Let's swim over towards the rocks, the current will be less there," he shouts.
And yes, swimming closer to the shoreline is easier; within a minute they are but a stone's throw of the rocks, but the sea's surge only serves to lift, then drop them, towards the bluff, tossing them like spent flotsam. Anton swims back out, away from the headland, and begins, again, to head for shore, his muscles growing heavier and stiffer with each desperate, and increasingly feeble, stroke. He must now fight harder just to keep his head above the surface and is taking on more water than air. It is a fruitless battle. He looks around for Xristo, but his friend is already gone.
