The Angry Hills - Leon Uris [29]
Staring down at him was a somber picture of Christ and a flickering candle burned beneath the picture. Transfixed, he looked at the picture several moments, then his eyes wandered to a half dozen ikons surrounding the picture.
He glanced around at the walls and stopped again and again to gaze at pictures of men with bushy beards or olive-skinned women with startlingly big black eyes. Scattered around the room were rudely built chairs and tables with a large loom in the center.
The brightness made a blur of everything and his eyes began to water. He felt numb. In an instant his mind flooded with recollections and he bolted up, then groaned, overcome by dizziness, and flopped back on the bed—a six-foot-wide bed built over an oven.
He heard a rustle at the other end of the room and sensed the presence of another person.
A handsome tanned girl of twenty stood over him. She had huge black eyes and a heavy bosom, and her jet-black hair fell softly onto a pair of smooth brown shoulders. He could see the separation of her breasts inside a low-cut blouse trimmed in fancy embroidery as she leaned over him. She wore a multi-colored skirt with a wide belt that reached clear up to her short bolero jacket.
“Help me up—I’ve got to get to Athens....”
“Calispera,” the girl whispered and ran from the room like a startled fawn.
Mike tried to struggle up but the slightest movement brought stabbing pains all over. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted his clothes on a chair near the bed. He reached out and worked through the pockets until he felt a pistol which he placed beneath his pillow.
In a few moments the girl returned with two men. One was a giant and wore a heavy black cassock. It was almost impossible to make out his features through the brush of beard. He wore a long braid down his back and a high triangular black hat on his head.
The second man was short and stocky and bald except for a horseshoe fringe of hair. He sported an enormous, neatly waxed, handlebar mustache and wore a ballerina skirt with long white stockings banded in black around the knees. He had on a white blouse and a small cap falling away into a long tassel, and on his feet were pointed slippers with bright red pompons.
The ballerina man grinned at Mike and began jabbering in a strange Greek dialect. He wheeled about suddenly and issued a series of commands to an older woman who had just edged shyly into the doorway.
Another moment found the room filled with many men all looking at Mike with great curiosity. Then came several women carrying plates brimming with food—chicken, rice, olives, wine, a millstone-shaped loaf of bread.
The ballerina man drew a chair up next to the bed and poured himself a tall glass of wine and motioned Mike to eat.
Mike struggled to a sitting position, still speechless and staring about him, puzzled, a bit leery, mostly curious. The girl rushed to the bedside and adjusted the pillows behind his back.
Utter silence fell on the room as Mike examined the dishes before him. Everyone leaned forward. Mike’s belly rumbled with hunger but he was unable to eat more than a few bites before he felt bloated. He shook his head and shoved the plates away. A wail arose throughout the room. The ballerina man argued passionately for him to eat but Mike tried to explain with gestures that he couldn’t.
Then, the ballerina man abruptly ordered everyone but the girl from the room.
He turned to Mike and announced with much gusto in broken English, “I am Christos Yalouris, and this is my niece, from Dernica, by name—Eleftheria. My niece, Eleftheria, takes care of my aged mother in Dernica but I, Christos, personally sent for her to attend you. And what is your name?”
Mike’s hand reached up and felt the bandages binding his head. His fingers traced a large scab which ran from his forehead to his jaw. “Athens... I’ve got to get to Athens...”
Christos shook his head slowly. “You have been very sick.”
“I’m—I’m sorry.... Forgive me. My name is Jay—Jay Linden,” Mike said. “Where—where am I?