Three Ways to Capsize a Boat - Chris Stewart [15]
A fumbling on the far side of the door, and there was Bob. “Well, if it isn’t our new skipper. Delighted to see you, Chris. Come and join us; we have a few friends over for luncheon.”
I dumped my bag on the cobbles of the patio, mussed up my hair a little with my hands and dusted myself down, then followed Bob through into the cool of the house and out onto the terrace. Here, beneath the dappled shade of a spreading fig, was set the table, a simple calico cloth and some fresh flowers, some glimmering glasses with cool white wine. By this time I was steeped in euphoria; the contrast between the grimness of Kalamaki and this lovely Mediterranean island was almost too much to take in.
“Chris, what perfect timing,” called Jane from her seat at the head of the table. She seemed not a jot altered by her hospital ordeal. “I shall not rise to greet you, dear boy,” she continued, beckoning me forward, “as my wretched new titanium bones dictate that I remain seated, but help yourself to a glass of wine and come and give an account of yourself. These are our good friends.”
There were not many friends: the Nomíkoses, an elderly Greek couple, expensively dressed and coiffed and just a shade reserved; I shook their hands. Next to them sat a much younger woman, slim with thick dark hair twisted into a knot at the nape of her neck. She looked up at me, her brown eyes alight with amused intelligence.
“And this,” enunciated Jane, “is Florica.”
Well, I liked the look of Florica. She had a casual grace that immediately put you at your ease and a dazzling smile. I kissed her on each cheek and sat down rather presumptuously beside her. A hint of lemon blossom wafted across as she turned to ask me how the fiasco with the boat was going. Her voice was low, her accent cosmopolitan.
Jane surveyed us with the satisfied expression of a benign aunt. “Let’s wait for Tim, my dears; then we can eat lunch and Chris can tell us about the unfortunate Crabber,” she said. Then added, “I think you’ll hit it off with Tim. He’s English, you know, and a writer and can turn his hand to absolutely anything. He’s so wonderfully clever.”
As if on cue the bell jangled.
A tall, tanned man stepped into the courtyard and greeted Jane and Bob with unaffected warmth; the Greeks he greeted politely in Greek. Then, pulling up a chair next to Florica, he extended a hand, almost as calloused as my own. “I was doing a little carpentry on the house,” he explained to the guests, “and I completely lost track of time; do forgive me if I’ve kept you waiting.”
You could easily forgive Tim. He had a keen sympathy and a look of such absorbed interest in whatever you happened to be saying that stories just spilled out. Soon I was recounting the desperate goings-on at Kalamaki Marina, the perfidy of Captain Bob, and the surprising erudition of the Nikoses. All of which Tim translated fluently for the Greeks while I watched, smiling at his gently incredulous tone and the habitual way that he blinked whenever he was about to voice a new thought. It was obvious from their looks and their body language that he and Florica were lovers, and I decided to myself that a friendship with this delightful couple would put the finishing touches to my idyllic summer.
The lunch of course helped. There were bright salads of divinely sweet tomatoes, with Kalamata olives and chunks of fresh feta cheese; a bowl of taramasalata—creamed roes and garlic and lemon and heaven knows what else was in it; and tzatziki, too, with rich yogurt, salt, and the crispest cucumber. There were tin jugs of cold retsina with condensation dribbling down the outside, for those who fancied that pungent resinous taste. For the more delicate palates a big bottle of cool Cambas white wine. Later came a