The Water and the Wine Read online

  It is the 1960s and a group of young writers and artists gather on the Greek island of Hydra. Leonard Cohen is at the start of his career and in love with Marianne, who is also muse to her ex-husband, Axel. Australian authors George Johnston and Charmian Clift write, drink and fight. It is a hedonistic time of love, sex and new ideas. As the island hums with excitement, Jack and Frieda Silver join the community, hoping to mend their broken marriage. However, Greece is overtaken by a military junta and the artistic idyll is threatened.

  In this fictionalised account of real events, Tamar Hodes explores the destructive side of creativity and the price that we pay for our dreams.

  This book is a work of fiction based on historical fact. Names, characters, events and places are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  For all the maids, nannies, and countless others, often neglected, who make it possible for artists to pursue their dreams.

  On an island, eventually, you are bound to meet yourself.

  Charmian Clift, Peel Me a Lotus

  i

  Like its artistic inhabitants, Hydra was creative. It painted the earth with purple orchids, wrote itself into the history books and even made its own music: the hum of chatter in the air; the clink of coffee cups at the harbour café, and the light bells on the donkeys as they ambled along the cobbles. Cocks crowed their rough chorus and the single bell chapel at the Monastery of the Virgin’s Assumption added its tinny percussion on the hour.

  Leaving the boat, the Silver family felt as caught in the island’s magic as the shiny fish wriggling in the yellow nets. Frieda held Esther’s hand but Gideon walked on ahead. Jack, tall and bearded, thanked the boatman, Mikalis, and his good-looking, shirtless son, Spyros, who had tied the rope to keep the boat steady. The family took their luggage and followed signs to Douskos’ Taverna, where wicker tables and chairs were arranged beneath a dark pine. A thin wisteria threaded itself through the tree, releasing its subtle scent into the spring air.

  Jack shook hands with the owner of the bar, greeting him with Kaliméra, and handed over a piece of paper. The publishers had given him an advance for his book and arranged the family’s accommodation. Douskos was swarthy and dark, stockily built, his white shirt and trousers immaculate. His wife, Polixenes, was sweeping away dead leaves, broken glass and candle wax from the previous night’s revels.

  Douskos gestured for the family to sit and ordered drinks for them, while he went outside. Then the family saw her for the first time: The Gardenia Dwarf. A tiny old lady, her body and head cloaked in black, a white bloom just discernible, tucked behind her ear. Like her daughter, she was sweeping the stone floor, but the large broom looked unwieldy. She mumbled something which the Silver family did not understand.

  They finished their drinks and went outside where three donkeys were waiting, flat wooden saddles on their backs for carrying loads, the ‘mule boys’ sullenly at their sides. The cobbles beneath them bubbled in the sun. Douskos looked expectantly at Jack for some coins; once received, he vanished.

  Frieda, short, her long dark hair plaited and wound round her head and Gideon, thin, with wiry glasses, travelled on one donkey: Jack and Esther, small, slightly podgy, mounted the second, and the luggage was strapped to the third.

  Slowly, they climbed the hill to Kala Pigadia, passing a skinny, bearded man picking up litter from the side of the path. A goat chewed wild rosemary in his gummy jaws. The donkeys were slow and hesitant, the boys hitting them with sticks when they almost halted. Esther didn’t like this treatment of them and snuggled up to her father for comfort.

  ‘It’s alright, sweetie,’ he said.

  It was the second time that day that she had cried. On the ferry boat from Piraeus, a man had come on board, handcuffed to guards. His clothes were tatty and his face unshaven.

  ‘He’s a prisoner,’ Jack told Esther.

  She was unsettled by the sad expression on the man’s face and the way he hung his head in shame. She was eating pistachios that her mother had given her, cracking open the brown shells to release the yellow-green nuts. When she tried to feed the prisoner one, he took it. He was like a bird bending his head, and Esther kept on feeding him, the guards letting her. When they stopped at the island of Poros, the man was yanked off the boat. He caught Esther’s eye as he left and she started to cry – until her dad told her a story about Peter the butterfly who lived in his beard but who flew off on his adventures around the world.

  The trek across the island was uncomfortable, the donkeys swaying as they ambled, the saddle hard beneath Esther’s cotton dress, but eventually they arrived. They gasped when they saw their house. White-washed and gleaming, it perched upon a hill. It had a blue door with a bronze lion’s head knocker and shutters, which cast broad stripes upon the walls. As they later discovered, there was little electricity (an hour in the morning and an hour in the evening) and no running water, but there was a well in the courtyard as well as some manic chickens and a goat to provide the family with eggs and milk.

  The large balcony wrapped itself around the house like a sash. Terracotta troughs of red geraniums perched precariously on its ledge. On one side it looked out onto the harbour – where half-melon boats bobbed slightly in the occasional breeze – then to the sea beyond, where leather-skinned fishermen drew in their catch. On the other, they could see red-rooved houses clinging to the hillside as if they had grown from it; on the Kamina ridge was an old windmill with a house attached.

  Gideon and Esther ran excitedly around their new home. It was simply furnished but bigger than any house they had lived in before. The children fought over which bedroom to claim but finally settled it with Gideon taking the bigger, with room for his rocks and stones, and Esther’s having a wonderful view over the town. She unpacked the few clothes she had, together with some books and dollies, which she arranged tidily at the end of her bed.

  On the balcony, Frieda served the meal that had been left for them: a Greek salad and warm pitta. They liked tearing it, dipping its spongy pieces into hummus and tzatziki. Grapes gleamed in the bowl, glassy globes bursting with juice. The April sun was warm and gentle, casting a glow over the food, making it shine.

  ‘So what are your first impressions of Hydra?’ asked Jack.

  ‘I love it.’ Esther was often effusive. Gideon remained quiet as if reserving judgement.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ said Frieda, looking out dreamily over the harbour. ‘I think we will be very happy here.’

  Jack drew his chair nearer. ‘I’ll tell you the story of Hydra.’

  ‘I thought hydra meant water,’ Gideon said.

  ‘Yes, it does as it is surrounded by water but there is also the Greek legend. Hydra was a snake-monster with many heads.’

  ‘Ugh,’ said Esther.

  ‘It lived near the Fountain of Amymone. The peasants could not go to fetch water because they were afraid of the monster, but no-one could kill it. Every time a head was chopped off, two new ones grew in its place. Hercules, the great hero, was called in to destroy it and he asked his nephew Iolaus to help him. Each time Hercules cut off a head, Iolaus sealed the wound and so they killed the snake-monster.’

  ‘Good,’ said Gideon.

  ‘Hooray!’ said Esther.

  ‘And that’s why “Hydra” refers to a situation which is problematic and needs clever solutions.’

  Jack and Frieda exchanged a silent glance.

  Just as they were wondering about taking a walk to the quayside, there was a knock at the door. A large woman stood there, dressed in a pale lemon overall, her dark hair tightly coerced into a bun.

  ‘Evgeniya!’ she pointed to herself, and Jack nodded knowingly. Yes, she came with the house. She stepped forward
and hugged Esther who lost herself in the large folds and contours of the maid’s comforting body. Evgeniya immediately started clearing away the dishes and helping as if she had known the family all her life.

  A while later, the door was knocked again. Frieda opened it to a beautiful young woman carrying a baby. Frieda led her onto the balcony and introduced the family. Marianne, a Norwegian, lived on the island with her husband, Axel, and her baby, Axel Joachim. Both mother and son had bleached-blonde hair and shiny blue eyes. She put the baby on the balcony to play with his toy giraffe and drew some almond biscuits from her bag.

  ‘These are to welcome you,’ she said shyly.

  ‘How kind,’ said Frieda.

  Evgeniya brought coffee in tiny gold cups and Gideon had juice. Esther tried the goat’s milk but could not stomach it. They all shared the biscuits. Esther brought out some wooden animal figures and Axel Joachim played with them. Gideon arranged his collection of rocks on the balcony and scrubbed them with an old toothbrush and foamy water until they gleamed.

  ‘Are there many artists on the island?’ Frieda asked Marianne.

  ‘Yes, a fair number and it’s growing all the time. My husband is a writer. That is when he is not distracted by his lovers. The present one’s Patricia.’

  Jack and Frieda looked awkwardly at each other.

  ‘I’m also a writer,’ Jack said. ‘I have a commission to write a book about the Jewish-Arab conflict.’

  ‘That’s interesting. I would love to write but I find it so hard. Trying to express myself truthfully when I am not sure what my feelings are.’

  Esther bounced Axel Joachim on her knee. He was chuckling, the wooden giraffe in his mouth.

  ‘Among others, we have Charmian Clift on the island and her husband George Johnston. They are from Australia and are both writers. Feisty people! Plus, we have Norman; he’s a sculptor. He makes amazing structures from litter he finds on the ground.’

  ‘Oh yes, I think we saw him on our way here.’

  ‘That’s him. John Dragoumis, who has shell-shock from the war: he does beautiful charcoal drawings, and then there’s Carl, another painter.’

  ‘I’m also a painter,’ said Frieda. Just saying the words excited her. On the kibbutz, she’d had to fit her art between caring for the chickens and picking oranges, but here, this would be her identity.

  ‘What do you like to paint?’ Marianne drained the last of her coffee. Her skin glowed in the soft light.

  ‘Flowers, fishermen, harbours, anything. I’m hoping to rent a cheap studio on the island.’

  ‘Ask Douskos. He knows everything and everyone, especially when some drachmas cross his palm.’

  They all laughed.

  ‘Yes. We met him today,’ said Jack.

  ‘And The Gardenia Dwarf? That is his widowed mother-in-law. She lives a few roads from here. She grows beautiful gardenias, shiny like no flower you have seen. The scent of her garden is so sweet. She will sell you a bloom for a few coins.’

  Frieda’s face lit up. ‘How lovely.’

  ‘Most evenings, we meet at Douskos’ Taverna and drink ouzo and talk about art and life. You must join us. We never arrange to gather. We just turn up and there are always interesting people there.’

  ‘It sounds wonderful. We’ll come along,’ Jack said.

  ‘Do you take your baby with you?’

  ‘Sometimes, or we have a maid, Maria, who watches him. Most people leave their children asleep in bed and check on them every now and then. It’s very safe here. Come and join us any time. I must go now. Axel Joachim needs his nap.’

  She scooped up her beautiful boy and left.

  As they were unpacking, Frieda said: ‘She was so beautiful. Why would her husband take lovers when he has a wife like that?’

  ‘We are in an artists’ colony,’ said Jack. ‘You have to forget all your bourgeois conventions now and embrace the free culture here. We aren’t in South Africa any more. There are no boundaries on Hydra. I thought we wanted that?’

  ‘We do but it frightens me. Letting go of the rules. Being free. And, anyway, I don’t remember your background being so bohemian.’

  ‘It wasn’t but yours was…’

  ‘Mine was… what?’

  ‘Very conventional. of course, you’re going to find it hard to adjust to the creativity, the openness here.’

  ‘You’re so patronising, Jack, the way you speak to me. My parents were in business, the same as yours. Groceries, shoes, what’s the difference?’ She stormed off, unhappy at how they always used each other’s backgrounds as weapons.

  But as the afternoon progressed, a serenity fell on the family home. There were no more arguments, either between Gideon and Esther or between their parents. What they did not know was that the biscuits contained more than ground almonds. Marianne had used an extra ingredient which she often added to her cooking: hashish.

  That night, Jack and Frieda made love for the first time in months: cautiously, trying to draw the other close, in an attempt to start again. Their lovemaking was always unsatisfactory: him too eager, her too unwilling to say what she wanted and shutting herself to his demands. But at least they were together, feeling slightly optimistic, marking what they hoped would be a new beginning.

  ii

  The following morning, the sun varnished the island in a warm, honey glaze and the eucalyptus’ smooth leaves shimmered seductively. Marianne, in a striped, pleated skirt, cotton shirt and simple sandals, had left Axel Joachim with Maria and gone to collect her mail from the post office in the Katsikas brothers’ store. It was also the day for the Athens News to arrive and she needed groceries: olive oil, rice, feta, a string of onions, potatoes, candles.

  She swung her deep basket as she walked, thinking of Axel and their lives and wondering in which direction they should go. Every time they tried to live and love, it fell apart. She wondered how long she could stay with him when his heart was with Patricia, and she worried what effect their dysfunctional marriage would have on their child. She thought about her own childhood: problems with money, problems with health and problems in her parents’ marriage. She had dreamed of so much more for her own son.

  The island had sprung into full beauty as if the flowers had been poised beneath the skin of the earth, waiting for their cue. And when that signal had come, they had burst forth, uncontrollably: the blood-red tulips dotting their random beauty across the ground; the camellias, white and pink, like sugared candy sweetening the air; the gorse bushes, their yellow flowers an antidote to their prickly leaves, and the air, benign.

  Inside the shop, Marianne marvelled at the range of products that Nick and Antony Katsikas had in stock: sacks of ground almonds and flour sagged shapelessly on the stone floor as if they had no intention of ever moving; boxes of dried fruit; barrels of retsina stacked sideways to form a pyramid; octopus tentacles and sheep testicles hanging up to dry; tins of tomatoes and bags of sugar along with household items: baskets, brooms and pots. There was also fresh vegetables: potatoes, aubergines and onions, smug and fat in their papery skins.

  As she paid for her goods, framed through the doorway of the store into the yard behind she saw Charmian and George seated at a table. They waved to her.

  ‘Hey, Marianne. Come and drink with us.’

  Charmian embraced Marianne as she approached and George drew out a chair for her. He looked thinner than when she had last seen him. As usual, he had a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other. His hair looked lank and greasy and he had not shaved. Charmian looked as elegant as ever in a wide-brimmed straw hat and a long white kaftan but Marianne noticed that the hem was edged with dirt. She was drinking whisky. Opposite her was a man Marianne had not seen before.

  She sat down, releasing her heavy basket, and feeling her cheeks redden.

  The sun lit the stranger’s tanned face and dark hair and he looked casual, in chinos and a linen shirt with rolled-up sleeves, and yet it seemed as if he had always lived on Hydra, was comfortable
here.

  The stranger felt his body tingle as he saw the beautiful woman, her flaxen hair tied back into a ponytail with an elastic band, her satin skin catching the light, the simplicity of her and yet her otherworldliness as if she had arisen, like a mermaid, from the sea. He found it hard to move his eyes from her.

  ‘This is Leonard,’ said Charmian. ‘Isn’t he a delight? He’s staying with us until he finds his own place.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Leonard, in a husky, growly voice. ‘Come and share the sun and wine with us.’

  Marianne remembered her beloved Momo’s words: ‘You will meet a man who speaks with a golden tongue.’ Maybe this was him.

  ‘Where have you come from?’ asked Marianne.

  ‘Originally Montreal. I was in London and couldn’t bear the rain so I travelled here.’

  ‘You just packed your bags and left?’

  ‘When I went into the Bank of Greece to cash a cheque, the teller looked tanned. I asked him where he had been and he said, “Greece, it’s springtime there,” and so I came.’

  Marianne laughed at his impulsiveness. ‘So suddenly?’

  ‘Of course. What is life for if it isn’t living for the moment?’ Leonard’s voice was velvet gravel and deep. Marianne felt her body burn as if he had lit a fire inside her.

  Leonard felt it too. He had noticed her wheeling her son (the same bleached hair, the beautiful eyes catching the Greek light, the same delicate half-smile) in a pushchair around the island and wondered who she was.

  ‘Len’s a writer and singer,’ said George proudly, coughing and smoking at the same time.

  ‘Put that fucking fag out before you kill yourself, George!’ barked his wife. ‘No-one wants to hear that racket.’

  ‘Go hang yourself, Charm!’ he yelled back.

  Marianne smiled. She had become used to their fights. She and Leonard exchanged glances as if to say: here we go, again.