He sat on the low stone wall, looking embarrassed as the people from the other cars watched.
‘You have to say cheese.’ Eléni pointed the camera in his direction.
‘Feta!’ His face broke into a wide grin and they both laughed.
Eléni asked one of the people nearby if he would take a photograph of them both.
‘Nai.’ The man invited them to stand in front of the wall with the view of the beautiful beach behind them. The warmth of Simos’s skin as he pulled her close made her tingle.
‘Smile,parakaló.’
The man handed the camera back to Eléni, who thanked him.
Once back in the car, Eléni and Simos chatted about what, if anything, she could remember about Fiscardo. One memory that surfaced immediately was of her playing with a tiny kitten.
She paused for a moment, trying to remember the kitten’s name. ‘Callista. Yes. That was her name. When I stroked her, she used to purr loudly. I used to purr back and she’d snuggle up to me.’
Eléni remembered being happy with Eugenia and Maia until Georgios returned.
‘Who washe?’ asked Simos.
‘Maia’s father and my aunt’s husband. I don’t know much about what happened, but we had to leave.’ She remembered a lot of shouting. Much more was coming back to her. She hadn’t thought about her life just after the earthquake before. ‘We moved into Fiscardo and Mamá worked in a taverna. The old man who owned it was kind and looked after me when she was working. He made me wooden toys, I remember. I still couldn’t talk, but I was happy and safe.’
As soon as she’d said the words, she regretted them. The orphanage had not been like that for Simos. She changed the subject and asked him how much further it was to Fiscardo.
‘Here’s the sign. This is the famous Fiscardo. If I’m right, there is a car park not far from the harbour.’
They walked from the car park to the quayside to have a coffee before knocking on the doors of the three Koulouris households. Eléni immediately recognised Taverna Zervas where she’d once lived, even though it had fallen into disrepair. The metal balcony that led from the bedroom she’d shared with her mother was now rusted and the wooden shutters of the windows and entrance door were rotten.
‘That’s it! The taverna where Mamá and I lived. I remember. The nice old man was called Michaíl.’
Simos read the plaque attached to the wall of the taverna.
Taverna Zervas. Famous for being the meeting place of Kefalonian partisans and communists during the Civil War, 1946–1949
‘It only ended four years before the earthquake.’ Eléni wondered what Michaíl’s role had been when he’d allowed his taverna to be used in that way.
‘In my studies, I read about the war. It split families. Everyone took sides. It’s a pity we can’t go there, for old time’s sake.’
They found another taverna a few doors down. While waiting for their coffees and baklavá to be served, Simos spread out a map of Fiscardo on the table. ‘Look, these are the houses where someone called Koulouris lived two years ago. I suggest we go to these first and then call on your aunt. Do you have her address?’
Eléni took out the piece of card and read it out to Simos.
‘There’s nothing of that name on the map. Can you remember anything about where it was?’
As she remembered playing with Callista, an image of a small beach came into her head. ‘Is there a beach or a cove nearby?’
Simos pointed to an inlet on the map just outside Fiscardo. ‘There’s one here. We could try there.’
They left the taverna and walked further up into the town. What struck Eléni was how very different the buildings were from modern Argostoli. The beautiful houses were rendered in various pastel colours ranging from pale pink to a delicate ochre shade under terracotta-tiled roofs. The windows were accompanied by painted shutters that protected them from the intense sunshine.
The first house they visited was along a side street. Simos knocked on a door that had once been a vibrant turquoise blue, but now peeled back to bleached wood in places. They waited before knocking again. No answer. They went to leave when the neighbouring door opened.
‘There’s no one there.’ An old lady dressed in black eyed them with suspicion.
‘We’d like to speak with Kýrios Kostas Koulouris. Do you know when he’ll be back?’
The woman placed her hand on her chest, looked up and then crossed herself. ‘He is with God,’ she said. ‘An accident. Even at his age, he was a fisherman and he died at sea. His son lives here now.’
